The Kill

Qui

“I had to tell him. I’m in love with him.”

“He just needs time. He’s angry, but he’ll get over it.”

She shook her head. “It’s not his anger that I’m worried about. I hurt him badly, and I don’t think he’ll ever forgive me.”

Qui

She shook her head. “I’ll be fine.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Go home.” She looked at her friend, blinked back the tears. “I have nothing else.”

Zack paced the interrogation room, waiting for Driscoll to be brought in.

He’d skipped riding with Peterson to the substation, tagging along with one of the deputies. He needed to push Olivia from his mind. Otherwise he wouldn’t be able to finish his job.

Damn, her betrayal hurt. Out of all the people he’d met, he’d never have pegged her as a liar.

The first day or two, he sensed she was holding back something. When she told him about her sister, he believed that was it. He hadn’t expected more lies, additional revelations.

He slammed his fist on the table and sat, taking deep breaths. Focus, Travis. You have a killer coming in five minutes and you need to do this right.

He had a list of questions for Driscoll, and he needed to get his mind wrapped around the case, not around the woman he’d mistakenly fallen in love with. The woman who would bear the scars of a killer on her body.

But he’d bare the scars of their brief relationship on his heart.

He took a deep breath and focused on Driscoll. He wanted answers to his questions, but didn’t hold out hope that this monster would cooperate. Still, the question why burned in him, not that any answer would be satisfying. But he had to try to understand.

He wanted to know how Driscoll had picked his first victim.

He wanted to know how he selected the cities he stalked.

He needed to know why he marked each victim with Angel.

The door opened and Qui

It wasn’t like he’d have to see Peterson after this case was wrapped up.

The sheriff came in with a deputy escorting Chris Driscoll, who was in wrist and ankle chains. He moved slowly from the beating, not just because of the restraints. The deputy secured the killer by cuffing his leg chains to the hook on the floor and forcing him to sit in a chair.

Driscoll looked like an average, physically fit middle-aged guy. Except for his black eye, bruised jaw, and the bandage that covered his cheek.

Zack felt no remorse for bashing the killer’s face in. Though he deserved it, Zack was relieved he hadn’t killed him. Washington had the death penalty, but Zack hoped Driscoll didn’t make it the average ten years it took for death-row prisoners to be killed.

Child predators didn’t fare well in prison.

The only thing about Driscoll’s otherwise average appearance that stood out was his eyes: a clear, icy blue. In his eyes, Zack saw the killer. But he could see how another might see kindness in his face.

The sheriff had read Driscoll his rights when he was first arrested, then stayed with him while the doctor from the local clinic came over to bandage his injuries. Driscoll hadn’t asked for an attorney then, nor when he was formally booked, but Qui

“Go to hell,” Driscoll said, his expression unchanged.

“We have everything we need to put you on death row, Mr. Driscoll,” Qui

Driscoll said nothing.

Zack and Qui

“We know how you set up Brian Hall thirty-four years ago,” Zack said.

Driscoll stared straight ahead, but Zack detected a hint of satisfaction in his static grin.

“Pretty smart of you. You and he were in Vietnam together, fought side by side. He wouldn’t think his good pal would set him up.”

Driscoll shook his head. “Hall’s an idiot. He was never my friend.”

Zack didn’t disagree with that statement, but said, “He knows. He led us to you. He’s out of prison and knows you set him up.”

Driscoll shrugged.

“We’ve tracked down thirty-one victims in ten states,” Qui

Driscoll remained silent and unmoving.

“It would show the judge you have remorse if you help ease the minds of families who don’t know the fate of their children.”

Again, silence.

Zack slammed his fist on the table, then took a deep breath. He wanted to strangle Driscoll into talking, but that wouldn’t do anyone any good.

Besides, based on the evidence Doug Cohn extracted from Driscoll’s cottage, there appeared to be a total of thirty-two victims. An FBI profiler Qui

The profiler had a wild theory about Angel’s murder based on the trial transcript and the fact that Driscoll kept her hair, a fact that was left out of the police report but Qui

Zack glanced at Qui

“We know about Angel.”

At the mention of her name, Driscoll tensed.

“You know nothing about her. Don’t say her name.”

“We know your stepfather raped her.”

“Bruce was not my stepfather. He never married my mother. His blood does not run through my veins. His name is not my name.” Driscoll’s fists clenched and unclenched.

“He hurt her, didn’t he?”

Silence.

“You couldn’t protect her.”

The chains that bound Driscoll’s feet rattled.

“Maybe you tried to protect her. You were older. A teenager. But he still raped her. Bruce raped Angel like you rape girls who look like her.”

Driscoll grunted, his face pained.

“You wanted to touch her.”

“No.”

“You hated Bruce for hurting her because you wanted her for yourself.”

“I am not Bruce!”

Qui

Qui

Qui

Driscoll whimpered, turned his head from the photographs.

“This knife also killed Angel.”

Qui

It was a close-up of Angel’s face, her eyes glassy and unseeing, blood splatters almost black in the aged gray-toned photograph, seeming to split her face in half.

Tears streamed down the killer’s face.

“You know this knife killed Angel because you stabbed her to death.”

Driscoll shook his head. “Bruce killed her. He killed my mother, then killed Angel.”