“Does that mean you’ll do it?”
I stared out the windshield. “I don’t know, but at least it means I can do it.”
We came within sight of a big red brick building that could only have been a nineteenth-century prison or orphanage. Clean, plain grounds. A tower above the main floors. Foreboding. Grim. I never get blasé about the first moment of seeing a prison, any prison. There is always that flash of claustrophobia, that instant of depression, before reality shoves through and reminds me I’m just a visitor. At those moments, and even when I know that certain lives, lived certain ways, could probably only end up in such places, I want to know, What were you thinking? How could you have been so stupid?”
We went through the preliminary security, got our hands stamped with ultraviolet ink, entered a code to get through gate one, went through a turnstile, presented our visitor’s passes, and then went through four more iron-barred, clanging gates to get to the visiting room. This being North Dakota, the room was different in one respect from other prison visiting rooms I had seen. There were the usual vending machines and toys for children, but this one also had display cases of Native American arts and crafts made by the inmates and offered for sale. I saw some beautiful beaded jewelry.
Security was provided by an officer on a raised platform in the room and also, Cannistre told me, by two other officers in a control room where they were operating and monitoring two 360-degree cameras. The cameras’ “eyes” were smoked glass balls in the ceiling and it was impossible to tell which way they were pointed at any time.
Cannistre went to stand near the officer on the raised platform.
I chose one of the twenty round oak tables in the room, one in a far corner away from the children’s toys, and sat down to await the arrival of “my” inmate. Women alone and with children began to come in, along with a smattering of obvious lawyers. Then it was the inmates’ turn. Their shoes sounded heavily on the gleaming white linoleum floor. Soon the room filled with the quiet murmuring of adults and with children’s noises.
I had time to think about the killers I have known and to wonder how he had come to be hung in their gallery. It’s... weird... talking face-to-face to people who you know have done hideous things. Sometimes it takes an act of will to remember that, because there they are sitting across from you, laughing, talking, crying (a few of them), drinking sodas, looking like any other human being except for the prison haircut, pallor, and clothing. No horns. No twitching tail. No bloody fangs. Sometimes they’re likable. Sometimes they’re pitiful. Their annoyances sound as petty as anybody else’s — too much light, not enough light, too much noise, too quiet, they hate the food, they’re broke, their woman done them wrong, whatever. And all the while the knowledge of what they did hangs between us like an invisible movie on an invisible screen. Sometimes I think I can hear the soundtrack. I hear faint distant screaming, the whispers of somebody dying.
My last few books had killers who were definitely short on charisma. I was overdue for a “charmer” like Ted Bundy.
It arrived in spades and then some.
He was so good-looking in such an unusual way that it was startling. Having seen earlier photos of him I could tell that prison had sapped and faded some of his appeal, but it was still impressive. He sat down, or rather... kind of gracefully, athletically swung himself down into the chair across the table from me... and grinned around the gum he was chewing.
Darren Betch was not Native American, but you’d have sworn he was.
Whatever his true heritage, it had given him a big strong physique, black hair, smooth olive skin, generous lips, and a strong nose. In North Dakota, home to large reservations, he could easily be mistaken for belonging to a tribe if he wanted to, which apparently he did. It had come as a surprise to the other people who attended the big TGIF parties when they found out that the big handsome guy with the beaded shirt and the long braid wasn’t any more Indian than they were.
“Why did he do that?” I had asked the detective.
“It helped him get girls who might not otherwise have gone with him, Marie. These were nice girls. A little wild, maybe, but basically decent girls. In the end, that’s what killed them. They couldn’t say no to Darren, because they thought he was Indian, and they were afraid of looking prejudiced. He knew that. He used it. I told you, he is one cunning son of a bitch.”
It was an ironic, appalling theory, and easy to believe when I saw him.
Even now, in the prison, he wore his long black hair in a classic, handsome Indian braid. If I hadn’t known it wasn’t true, I would have sworn he had braves and chiefs in his genealogy. He clasped his hands in front of him on the table and shoved forward so he was leaning toward me with his knuckles just over the halfway line between us. He was suddenly so close that I smelled the cinnamon in his gum. His khaki shirt sleeves were rolled up, showing off football-player forearms. He had eyes the color of pecan pie, soft brown and caramel with flecks of gold.
He wasted no time.
Locking eyes with me, he said, “May I call you Marie?”
Looking right back at him, I said pleasantly and firmly, “No.”
Then, immediately, I bent over to pick up my notebook and pen from the floor where I had placed them on purpose. It was a ploy to avoid shaking hands with him. I hardly ever do that at this stage with a potential book subject. I won’t refuse the handshake if they make the move, but normally I can arrange the distance between us, or shift my eye contact, so that it’s not going to happen. It’s strange, but most of these guys seem to understand that strangers don’t want to shake hands with them. There’s something too... accepting... about it, as if it confers approval. I usually wait for the handshake until it can mean something else, something unambiguous like goodbye, or thanks for your time.
I was also careful not to shift my own posture, not to scoot back or stiffen when he edged so close to me, and definitely not to respond to the flirtatiousness in his beautiful eyes. It was crucial that I not allow him to control my movements by the aggressive friendliness and sensuality of his. Crucial, but not easy. I could manipulate interviews with the best of them, but he had the advantage of being both manipulative and a sociopath. Sort of like the difference between amateurs and pros.
“Thank you for meeting me, Mr. Betch.”
He gave me a slow crooked smile. “Call me Darren.”
I smiled back at him, a cool-eyed smile I keep in my repertoire and don’t much like to have to use. In a relaxed tone of voice that was only possible by virtue of my other experiences with men who have killed women, I said, “I understand you’re familiar with my work.”
I was being even more cautious than I usually am with these guys, because the first words out of his mouth — “May I call you Marie?” — screamed control freak. This was the kind of guy who wouldn’t take no for an answer and who kept after you until you got in his car, let him in your house, gave him the access that killed you. Before he even said hello to me he was taking the reins of the conversation, or trying to. It was going to be fascinating to watch him persist, which he would. Oh, he would. On the pad of paper in my lap I began making hash marks with my pen. One slash for every time he brought up my name. There was one mark on my pad already and we weren’t even one minute into the interview.
“You’re the best,” he told me, with that smile. “I love your work.”
I wondered if he thought I was going to tell him that I loved his, too.
“Thank you.”