“You know, the lady you’re married to,” Jack said pointing to a photo of them sitting on one of the cabinets.
“She’s out right now,” Gillam said.
“That’s odd. Your carport has room for two vehicles,” Jack said. “Looks like both are here.”
“A friend picked her up to go shopping.”
“I see. What friend?”
“Just someone from work. I never met her.”
“She have a cell phone?” Pappas asked.
“Sure.”
“Give her a call,” Pappas suggested. “Make sure everything’s copacetic.”
“I don’t need to call her. She’s fine. And I’ve had just about enough of this. I’d like you all to leave now.”
The color had risen in Gillam’s face, and the calm he was trying to project was beginning to show cracks. You could tell it from the rising timbre of his voice. Max Blaylock saw it as well. His hand was now marginally closer to his gun.
No one spoke for several seconds. The sheriff decided to give it one more try.
“Tony, you’ll need to come with us to my office. If it was my wife, I’d call and let her know so she doesn’t come home to an empty house. Women worry about things like that.”
Gillam stood there silently.
“How about that cell phone number?” Pappas asked.
Gillam shook his head in the negative.
Max Blaylock took a deep breath. “Tony Gillam, you are under arrest for tampering with evidence in a criminal investigation, obstruction of justice, and the destruction of government property.”
He spun Gillam around and snapped the cuffs on his wrists as he read him his Miranda rights. Gillam put up no resistance. He appeared drained.
While the sheriff was patting him down for weapons, he came across Gillam’s cell phone. He examined it and found a button on the keypad that brought up the address book. The first number on the list simply said, “Moira.” Blaylock looked at Gillam as he dialed it.
A sharp trilling sound came from the bedroom.
Pappas shook his head, went in, and returned carrying a phone in a pink case.
“Looks like your wife forgot this,” he said.
Chapter 76
The man in the ski mask came slowly down the steps carrying a medium brown cardboard box. He placed it on the floor at the side of the operating table. His eyes remained fixed on Beth, who stood watching him from behind her cell door.
“I apologize for your accommodations and meeting the way we did,” he said.
Beth stared at him.
“You’re still upset,” the Soul Eater said. “I understand. Really, I do.”
“Go to hell.”
“There’s no need to be rude, Beth. Believe it or not, I’ve grown quite fond of you.”
“Is that so?”
“It is. Truly. Not to worry, though, I imagine Clever Jack will be along to rescue you in due course.”
“Too bad for you then,” Beth said.
“Not really,” the Soul Eater said. “His fate, and unfortunately yours, are both sealed. I want you to know I’ve been extremely fair. All he needs to do is put the clues together. You nearly managed and that wasn’t easy. Congratulations.”
“I didn’t nearly manage to figure out who you are,” Beth said. “I did. It was right there on the videos.”
“Ah, the security tapes. We were concerned about them. I figured as much when I saw your notes and the e-mail. No such thing as a perfect crime, eh?”
“You look ridiculous in that ski mask,” Beth said. “Why don’t you take it off?”
Ridiculous? Everyone was so rude to him lately. First that coarse woman at Underground Atlanta and now Beth.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“If you plan on killing me, what’s the point in hiding your face?”
She had a point. What difference did it make if she saw him? He doubted that she’d guessed who he was, but it might be fun to see her reaction. He reached up, pulled the mask off, and said, “Boo.”
Beth shook her head and looked bored.
Disappointed, the Soul Eater waited a moment longer. When nothing more was forthcoming, he supplemented his last comment. “So you figured out who I was and didn’t bother to tell anyone. That, my dear, is ridiculous.”
“Willing to bet your life on it?”
Her question brought him up short. She was bluffing. Had to be. Otherwise, the cops would have stormed the place by now. No, his plan was intact. Jack would work out the puzzle and come for her, which was exactly what they wanted. Howard was rarely wrong about such things. Revenge was a powerful motivator. That, and the rather predictable desire to protect the female of the species.
“Nice try, Beth. Really,” he said. “You’re an extremely resourceful and interesting woman.”
“Your funeral,” Beth said with a shrug. “You have a chance to get away. I’d take it if I were you.”
“Thank you. But I have no worries on that score.”
Beth inquired, “You know what a green light means?”
“Green light?”
“It’s police slang for a kill order. Basically, shoot first and ask questions later. When the cops arrive, they’ll blow you away without a second thought. Either that or I’ll kill you myself when I get out.”
“And you plan to do that how?” the Soul Eater asked.
“Come closer,” Beth said. “And I’ll whisper in your ear.”
The killer frowned and studied her face. Even in the basement’s dim light, her eyes were as hard as two emeralds. The way she was looking at him actually made him nervous. By rights, it should be the other way around. How much did she know? Hard to say exactly. Perhaps it would be better to put a bullet in her head and have done with it. No, no, no, stick with the plan. He and Howard had worked everything out in detail months earlier. Neither Clever Jack nor the woman would survive. That much was certain.
“Trying to provoke me won’t work,” he said.
“Why not?”
Annoyed, the Soul Eater flicked a dismissive hand at her and turned his attention to whatever was in the cardboard box.
“Question,” Beth said. “Does your jaw still hurt from where Donna Camp kicked you?”
He looked at her and started to reply but then stopped. She really was fascinating, much more so than his normal victims, but engaging in a verbal fencing match was silly. He decided to change the subject.
“I know you can’t understand why I’m doing this,” he said.
A few seconds ticked by as she digested his statement.
“It may come as a shock,” Beth said, “but I don’t have to.”
“What do you mean?”
“Leave me out of it. Explain the way your sick little brain works to your lawyer or maybe a priest.”
“Honestly, Beth, that’s a very provincial attitude. Don’t you think?”
He wants to talk. This is what she was supposed to do. But the truth was, she really didn’t care. It was enough to know a dog is rabid to understand the danger it posed to everyone around. She considered trying to form a bond. Some kidnapping victims who made an attachment managed to stop themselves from becoming dehumanized by their captors and thus harder to kill. She rejected the idea just as quickly as her anger and frustration boiled over. Considering the bodies in the next room, whatever he was looking for wasn’t a friend.
“Provincial or not, tell it to someone else,” Beth said, knowing her words would have the opposite effect.
“The odd thing,” said the Soul Eater, ignoring her, “is that I come from a perfectly normal middle-class family. My mother wasn’t promiscuous. My father wasn’t a drunk. He didn’t beat me. I wasn’t raped as a child or shunned by my friends. No one ran over my puppy. In short, there were no traumatic events that changed the way I looked at the world. I thought studying psychology would give me some insight into why, ah . . . I do what I do. Apparently, it didn’t. So I sought out Howard, the quintessential sociopath. It took me two yea
rs to secure a position at Mayfield.”
“So?”
The Soul Eater grew pensive and folded his arms across his chest. He glanced around the room, not focusing on anything in particular. “I mean, it’s strange, isn’t it? Nothing at all happened, yet I turned out this way.”
“Disease exists,” Beth said. “Explanations about its origins are interesting, but they don’t change the fact that it’s here.”
“Disease,” he repeated quietly. “No, I suppose not.” He took a slow breath and then paused again to line up a scalpel on the operating table. “Why don’t you have something to drink? There are a few good Pinot Noirs in there. Maybe even a Cabernet.”
“No, thank you,” Beth said.
“It may make dealing with what happens later . . . easier.” He shrugged. “Your choice. Try to make yourself comfortable. It won’t be long now.”
With that, he glanced at the four bodies lying silently in their coffins, then smiled to himself at some private joke. And without another word, he turned and climbed back up the stairs.
*
After the door closed, Beth listened to the sound of his retreating footsteps. When she was sure he was gone, she returned to the cot and lifted a corner of the mattress. The makeshift rope she’d fashioned from strips of cloth was there. She attached her shoe to one end of it for weight and moved back to the cell door, sticking her arm through. A surge of pain from her broken collarbone shot through her body. She clenched her teeth, ignored it, and fixed her eyes on the operating instruments. If she could just get one, she might be able to pick the lock. Certainly defend herself when he came for her. And come he would. There was no doubt in her mind on that score. The man was quite insane.
What would Jack do under the circumstances? Probably build a bomb with the wine bottles.
She had no idea how to make a bomb, but she did remember a game she used to play as a child with her sister. Dropping one end of the rope so the shoe was at the bottom, Beth began to swing it back and forth. Not unlike her childhood game at all. Only this time it was for life and death.
Chapter 77
The sheriff’s office was located in the basement of the courthouse. It contained a total of three cells, only two of which had ever been in use at the same time, according to Max Blaylock. A small lobby separated their work area from the public. Beyond that was Blaylock’s office. While the town of Jordan only employed two deputies, he explained, the third desk was for a part-time clerk who came in on weekends to file and do typing. Avilles and Barbara Tucker, who Jack had met at the Donneley farm, looked up when they brought Tony Gillam in.
Avilles informed the sheriff, “I called Detective Childers like you asked and let him know you were bringing in a suspect. He said he’ll be here as soon as they finish at the Curry house. He didn’t sound happy.”
“Tough business,” Blaylock said without sincerity.
“His partner doesn’t want us to question the suspect unless they’re present.”
“Is that so?”
“Just what he said, Max.”
“Did he say please?”
“No, sir, he didn’t.”
“Then it don’t count.”
Blaylock turned to Tony Gillam and tried again to convince him to cooperate.
“Son, you can do yourself a lot of good. Why don’t you level with us and tell us why you screwed around with them security discs?”
Gillam’s face was pale. He just shook his head as he had before and offered no response.
Jack didn’t think he would change his mind. On the ride in, he and Pappas had discussed what Gillam had to gain by his actions. Neither thought he was the killer. He was too short and he was right-handed. The fact that his DNA didn’t match the samples from the killer meant nothing, since he was in charge of forwarding the samples to the GBI for processing. It would have been an easy matter to switch his own out for someone else’s.
“You think Curry bought him off?” Pappas asked.
“It’s possible,” Jack said. “Guess we’ll know more after we examine his accounts. He certainly wasn’t living like a king.”
“You really believe they were working together?”
Jack shook his head. “This isn’t very scientific, but Gillam feels wrong to me. He isn’t someone I’d pick for a crazed killer.”
“Me either.”
There was no doubt Gillam and whoever had taken Ron Curry’s place were linked together. No doubt at all. A lot would depend on what Ben Furman came up with—and Tony Gillam, assuming he could be convinced to cooperate. He took the copy of the newspaper article he’d made out of his briefcase and studied the image of Albert Lemon for a full minute. He could have kicked himself for not seeing it sooner. He had the first half of his answer. Jack shook his head and leaned across the desk and asked Barbara Tucker if he could borrow her computer. When he was done, he asked the sheriff if he could have a few minutes alone with Gillam.
Blaylock shrugged and motioned for him to go ahead.
Folding the newspaper article lengthwise, he placed it in the breast pocket of his jacket and headed back to the cells.
Minus his belt and shoelaces, Tony Gillam was sitting on the cot in his cell, head down, elbows on his knees. He glanced up at the sound of a key turning in the lock. Jack nodded his thanks to the deputy, entered the cell, and sat on a small metal bench directly across from him.
“I don’t have anything to say, Dr. Kale.”
“I know. And I think I know why. You don’t need to say anything, Tony. Just listen . . . and look.” Jack opened the newspaper article and placed it on the cot next to Gillam. “This is an artist’s rendition of Albert Lemon, Atlanta’s first serial killer. Take a close look at the face. You’ve seen it before.”
Gillam started to reply, but Jack held up his hand. “It might be more accurate to say it looks familiar to you. It did to me, too, until I made the connection a little while ago.”
Gillam examined the illustration again. It took a moment before the realization dawned on him. His eyes widened.
“I thought so,” Jack said. “Your wife’s name is Moira, isn’t it?”
Unable to pull his eyes away from the drawing, Gillam nodded.
“How long has she been missing, Tony?”
Gillam’s answer also made sense and coincided with the fake Ron Curry’s arrival at Meadbrook. It simply confirmed the conclusion Jack had already reached.
“We don’t have much time, so I’m going to be blunt with you. There’s a chance that your Moira is still alive. I know you’ve been clinging to that hope, but I have to tell you I don’t think she is. I’m terribly sorry to say it, but that’s the truth. Neither Albert Lemon nor Howard Pell ever returned any of their victims. The copycat’s following the path they laid out. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
When Gillam finally pulled his eyes away from the article and looked at Jack, they were red. “Yes.” The answer came out as a whisper.
“And you went along with them hoping to save her life.”
“They sent me her finger.”
The words struck at Jack’s stomach, and he closed his eyes for a moment.
“I hope I’m wrong, truly I do. And I hope we can find some way to save her. The bottom line is that Beth Sturgis is alive, at least I pray she is. Like you, I keep going back and forth believing and not believing. If there’s even the slightest chance to help either of them, I need your help.
“A jury may understand a desperate husband trying to save his wife. I promise you, if push comes to shove, I’ll testify to that. Right now, you have an opportunity to help me save Beth’s life. If you’re the kind of man I believe you are, you’ll take it. Say no, and I’ll walk out of here and it will be the last time we speak.”
Jack waited.
“What is it you want?”
“Tell me everything you know about these people. Don’t leave anything out, Tony.”
Gillam related the phone call he received the night his wife
didn’t come home. That was followed by a visit to his house the following morning by a man bearing an article of her clothing and her cell phone. They were threatening to send Moira back in pieces if he didn’t cooperate. Their plan was simple: work with them for several days and allow the imposter to take the real Ron Curry’s place and falsify the security records and tapes.
“You believed they wanted to break Howard Pell out of Mayfield?” Jack said.
“Right.”
“Is that it?”
“On the second night, I followed him, thinking he would lead me to my wife. But he didn’t. He went to the Curry house and changed cars, then went to a motel. The room was registered to someone named Mathias Lemon. The name meant nothing to me until a few minutes ago. I went back for my gun, but I screwed up. He was gone by the time I returned.”
“And you never thought to call the police?”
“I received her finger the next morning. Do you understand that?”
Fifteen minutes later, Jack returned to the lobby, where Dave Childers, James Spruell, Pappas, and the sheriff were waiting.
“Did you get your confession, Kale?” Spruell asked.
“No.”
“I didn’t think so. Even if you did, it wouldn’t be worth spit. The sheriff told us Gillam already invoked Miranda. You had no right to speak with him.”
Jack nodded slowly. Spruell turned away in disgust.
Childers asked, “Has he lawyered up yet?”
“He mentioned a lawyer at his house but never specifically asked for one,” Blaylock said.
“But you did Mirandize him?” Spruell said.
“Of course.”
“Was it videotaped?” Spruell asked.
“Nothing fancy here, Detective. I just read him his rights.”
“The reason we do things fancy, Sheriff, is we don’t want to screw up an arrest. Did you at least have him sign the Miranda card?”
“Nope. We all heard him answer.”
Spruell shrugged. “I guess it is what it is. Look, I’m not trying to be a jerk, Sheriff. We simply don’t want a killer walking on a technicality.”
“He’s not the killer,” Jack said. “Alton Cairo is.”
Once Shadows Fall Page 33