“Your playacting alter ego.”
“Think about it,” I say. “Why would I shower before killing two people? Why would I shower if I was going to get covered in blood anyway?”
“Because you showered after you killed them, not before,” Landry says. “Tell me again why you killed Jo.”
“I didn’t kill Jo. She was helping me.” I look at his Kiss the Cook cap and I wonder what state of mind he was in when he bought it. It’s hard to imagine him out shopping, just cruising the mall and walking into a clothes shop and finding that hat on a shelf. Did he make pleasant conversation with the sales girl while she rang up the sale and put the hat in a bag? Did they flirt? Talk about the weather? Did he wear it out of the store? Did he know then that one day he would wear it while taking another man’s life? Or was it a gift? He’s not wearing a wedding ring, but aren’t cops with tough-guy attitudes often divorced? Maybe he has children, maybe the hat is a father’s day present.
Luciana is starting to fade, following Kathy back to the world where they live now. She’s wearing the robe she died in, but the towel she had wrapped around her hair when she woke me is gone. The night was winding down and since we weren’t going to the police it was time to go home. Since they would end up dead in their own houses the first thing I needed to do was separate them. I sat wearily on the arm of the couch-Monday morning was draining me. It was at that moment I learned Kathy was married.
“You were jealous, weren’t you?” Luciana says.
“How many victims?” Landry repeats.
“I wasn’t jealous,” I say, but I was and Luciana knows it. Jealous that Kathy was married. It was stupid. At least she was married to a man who would help us. I had killed a man and I needed representation. I didn’t want to be the next Benjamin Hyatt. I didn’t want to be the next guy the country felt sorry for, then read about in the newspapers having been beaten in jail. In the end we agreed to get together in the morning. I grabbed my bloodstained clothes and I left, taking Kathy with me.
“We should have stayed together,” Luciana says. “But he was dead. You told us he was dead.”
I look away. I can’t face her. She’s right. I told them he was dead and he wasn’t.
“Jealous? Are you on something, Feldman? Is that the problem?”
“Among other things,” I say, and Luciana fades away and life, as it is out here at gunpoint, returns to normal.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Landry is confused. It’s like Feldman is having a conversation with somebody who isn’t here. Feldman understands this is a trial-is he trying some sort of insanity defense? Perhaps he’s not trying one-perhaps he really is just that insane. Would it make a difference?
It would. If Feldman wasn’t in control, if there really is something in his brain that isn’t wired up right, then the guy cannot be held accountable. If he had arrested him and not brought him out here instead, then over the following days they would look into his life and see if there was any history of being mentally unstable.
That’s not what is going on here. Feldman is in control of his actions. Of course he is. He’s a psychopath. Only that word doesn’t come close to describing Feldman. He doesn’t know what word does. It would probably take a combination of words. A string of them. Long-lettered terms that only doctors with diplomas would know how to pronounce. Landry has never dealt with anybody so messed up, and in a way this actually helps. It helps that with each sentence that comes out of Feldman’s mouth Landry knows his decision to bring the man out here is the right one. Hell, it’s even cost-effective.
He adjusts the gun across his knees, shrugs his shoulders back to offset the beginning cramp, and shifts further into the chair. Not much longer to go. So far the only thing that Feldman has said that may be remotely true is what he said about his wife. There was something in his words that frightened Landry. Something that suggested perhaps she has been helping. If that’s the case, then she’ll have called the police by now. It means there’s no going back. Not that it matters. He’s a dead man anyway.
“You just said you weren’t jealous. Weren’t jealous of who? Jo?”
“I liked Kathy, that’s all. Is that a crime?”
“The way you liked her it sure as hell was. Why’d you kill Luciana in the bathroom?” he asks, catching himself using the victim’s first name. How long has he been doing that? It means he’s personalized them; it means this has become more than just a case. But why the hell not? If he’s going to kill a man it ought to be over somebody with a first name. They deserve to be personalized. They deserve justice. Revenge? Do they deserve revenge? Of course they do. That’s why he’s out here.
Is it? You’re not out here for yourself?
He decides not to answer that.
“Why not the bedroom? You said she’d already showered, so why take her back in there?”
“I don’t know why,” Feldman says, and Landry has heard that same answer before from dozens of men unable to explain why they killed dozens of women.
“She was still alive, Feldman, when you rammed that stake into her heart.” He leans forward and tightens his grip on the shotgun. “We know that because of the blood splatter. Her heart pumped all that blood out into the bathtub.”
“Answer me this,” Feldman says. “The phone call to the police. How did the phone get outside if I burst into her house when they arrived home?”
“Because Luciana made it outside. You took the phone off her and broke it before dragging her back inside.”
“Yeah? She made it all the way out there and didn’t scream for help?”
“You got to her before she could.”
“Why would I snap the keys off in the ignition of the van?”
“You broke the keys because the van was stolen and you had use of the victim’s car.”
“Come on, that doesn’t even make sense. What would be the point? Even if I was using the victim’s car, what reason would I have to break off the key?”
“Because it was an accident.”
“An accident? Do you know anybody who’s ever accidently done that?” Feldman shakes his head. “You have all the answers, don’t you. Doesn’t matter that they don’t make sense. The craziest thing of all is that you think I’m the crazy one.”
Landry jumps to his feet, frustrated that a man like this can label him anything, let alone crazy. He moves quickly across the room, wanting to strike him hard with the shotgun, but when he takes aim and Feldman twists away he realizes this sick son of a bitch probably isn’t that far off in his assessment. Of course he’s crazy. No sane police detective would have brought a suspect out here with the pretense of a trial. He lowers the gun and steps back. Feldman turns toward him and opens his eyes, his body relaxing with relief.
“The cars don’t make sense,” Feldman says. “How can my car have been there, Luciana’s disappear, and me also having used the van? How can I have stolen Luciana’s car, and driven mine away at the same time?”
“Because your car wasn’t there.”
“It was. I was driving it.”
“No. You left your car near your wife’s house. You then stole a van. You drove to Luciana’s house and for some reason you snapped the keys in the ignition. You then stole her car. You drove to Kathy’s house and killed her. Then you drove back to your car and swapped them back over. Then you abducted your wife.” He sucks in another breath of cigarette smoke. Good, sweet smoke. Help me get through this. “Why did you keep her breast?”
“I’m innocent,” Feldman says.
The pieces all fit together nicely without worrying about Feldman being innocent. The stake in Feldman’s home. The severed breast. The bloody clothes. The letter he wrote. The cuts and bruises on his skin. His ramblings during their interview. His lying at the start of the evening. The bloodstained notepad with his name on it. Kidnapping his wife. What more does he need?