About Olivia Fisher, and Rosemary Gaynor, and, most recently, Lorraine Plummer. There was a murder in Cleveland, too. Once I had the details on that, I’d be getting in touch with the Cleveland police so they could move that one to the solved column.
Angus explained to us how he was saving unborn children from a life of misery.
“I screwed up with Rosemary Gaynor,” he said. “I didn’t realize she already had a child.”
“And it wasn’t her child,” I pointed out. “Rosemary Gaynor couldn’t have children.”
He grimaced, looking like a kid who’d gotten only an A when he was expecting an A-plus.
Chief Finderman didn’t say a word through the whole thing. Bad enough that one of her own was a serial killer. This was the man she’d moved up to detective status. I didn’t envy her when she went before the cameras on this one.
“I want your thoughts on something,” Angus said at one point.
“About what?” I asked.
“Well, it’s about Victor Rooney and the poisoning of the water. I want to know if you think that’s my fault.”
“I don’t think my opinion on that matters, Angus,” I said.
“No, really, I’d like to know. I value your opinion.”
“Why don’t you tell me if you think it’s your fault?”
“At first, I thought maybe it was. But I think Victor has to own it. It was his decision. Regardless of what I did, or those other people who did nothing, he made the choice to do what he did.”
“I see.”
“You don’t agree?” he asked.
“Like I said, my opinion doesn’t matter here,” I told him. “But let me ask you this. If you hadn’t killed Olivia Fisher, would more than a hundred people have died in Promise Falls this weekend?”
Angus Carlson gave that some thought. “I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“Thank you for your kindness toward Gale,” he said.
“Sure.”
Angus shook his head slowly and sighed. “Given that what’s done is done, I hope it’s a boy.”
Finderman and I left Angus in the interrogation room to confer.
“What a mess,” she said. “And please don’t say it is what it is.” “That’s not one of my sayings,” I said, steering her toward the coffee machine. “But it’s kind of apt.”
“God, Barry. One of our own.”
“It’ll be bad,” I said. “We just have to ride it out.”
“I’m the one who has to ride it out. You found a killer. I promoted one.”
“You think we might try to find a silver lining here?” I said, grabbing two mugs, glancing into them to ensure that they were at least remotely clean. “We caught a serial killer. We’ve solved three homicides. And maybe another one or two for the folks in Cleveland. Did you notice, when I asked him about his mother’s death, how uncomfortable he got? I think they should be taking another look at that, too.”
It was difficult for Finderman to see an upside at the moment, but she tried. “In the course of one day you’ve found the guy who poisoned the town’s water, and exposed a multiple murderer. Christ, they’ll be making a movie about you.”
“You heard anything about Rooney?” I asked, pouring coffee into the two mugs. I held up the container of cream, but she shook her head. I handed her a mug.
“He’s in the ICU,” Rhonda said. “That fire truck hit him good. But he’s far from a goner. They think he might regain consciousness before too long.” She took a sip of the coffee. “I’m always amazed that this is not terrible.”
I nodded. “Let’s hope he’ll be as forthcoming as Carlson was about why he did what he did.”
Rhonda turned her back to the wall and let it hold her up. “I’m beat, but you look about a hundred times worse.”
I smiled. “Yeah. I’m tired.”
“I heard you had some trouble at Rooney’s house. When the paramedics came. You had some chest pain.”
I waved a hand. “It was nothing. I was running. It only lasted a second.”
“Promise me you’ll get yourself checked out.”
“I will.” I paused. “I did. Saw the doctor a couple of days ago. She said-get this-I need to lose some weight.”
“Ridiculous,” the chief said, doing a good job of keeping a straight face.
“Tell me about it. Maureen’s been trying to kill me with vegetables.”
“Wear a wire,” Rhonda said. “We record her telling you to eat them all up, we swoop in, we arrest her.”
I was too weary to laugh. “I’m sorry about the other thing.” She didn’t pretend not to know what I was talking about. “It happens.”
“I was talking to Maureen. It was a private conversation. Trevor heard it, told Finley. Finley had something on Trevor-nothing huge, but enough-and put the squeeze on him.”
“It’s not that it came out,” Rhonda said. “It’s that you believed I fucked up.”
I nodded. “I thought so at the time, but it was frustration. In the last month, since the shit started hitting the fan by the bucketful, I’ve made more fuckups than I can count.” I paused. “Maybe I’m done.”
“No.”
“It’s twenty years.”
“Seriously?”
“May’ ninety-five, I came on. Slightly younger, and a whole lot thinner.”
“I didn’t know. We should do something. Some kind of party.”
“I think I’ll celebrate with sleep,” I said.
“Can you stay awake long enough for another press conference? One you’ll actually show up to?”
I nodded. “Yes. But there’s something I have to do first.”
Her eyebrows went up slightly. “Go on.”
“I don’t want Walden Fisher to learn about it on the news. I don’t want him turning on the radio and finding out we’ve got the guy who killed his daughter. He needs to hear it in person before everyone else does.”
Rhonda Finderman nodded. “Okay.”
“I’m gonna head over that way now. Then I’ll make a call to Lorraine Plummer’s parents, and I guess Bill Gaynor deserves a heads-up as well, even if he is in jail.”
“I’ll tell him,” Rhonda said. “And I’ll get the paperwork going on the official charges against Carlson.”
I nodded a thank-you. I poured the rest of my coffee into the sink and left the building. I thought I was going to make a clean getaway, but Randall Finley was standing by my car.
“I thought these were your wheels,” he said. “I was just going to come in and look for you.”
“Hi, Randy.”
“Is it true?” he asked.
“Is what true?”
“Rumors are going around that you’ve got someone. In those murders. Of the women.”
“There’ll be a presser later today.”
“And I already heard about Victor Rooney. God, Barry, you’re having some kind of day. It was you, right? In both cases? You figured it out?”
There wasn’t the usual forced enthusiasm in his voice, which I attributed to grief. I was detecting what sounded like genuine admiration, but I was too tired to appreciate it.
“It’s been a day full of developments,” I conceded. “But there’s still a lot to nail down.”
“I meant what I said earlier. You should be the chief. You’re the man for the job.”
“We have a chief,” I said. “And she’s doing just fine. I haven’t forgotten the shit you pulled.” But there was no anger in my voice. “Besides, I don’t know what this has to do with you anymore.”
“I’ve reconsidered,” Finley said.
“You’ve what?”
“I’m still running. After a suitable period,” he said, and lowered his head in memory of the dead, “I’ll be back at it.”
“Why the change of heart?”
“What else am I going to do, Barry? Just sit around and put water into bottles? I’ll go out of my mind. I have to do more than that. I have to make a difference.”
He said it with such a straight face, I felt he believed it.