Allison Brennan - The Kill

“We were in the same unit for six months. He was a machine. Neat freak. Don’t fucking touch his stuff. That’s why he set me up. I touched his precious stuff . He said if I touched his stuff again he’d kill me. I didn’t believe him; everyone talks tough in the jungle, you know? All talk, no action. Except when we engaged Charlie; then we acted.”

“You think he didn’t like you because you touched his belongings?”

“He was wound real tight, but everyone had their own ways, you know? But it’s him. He got out four weeks after me. I told him, come by, we can share a pad, I’d get him in good with the warehouse. He did see me, but didn’t want to room. I found him a studio in my building. I tried to get him to lighten up. He was three years in Vietnam; I think it messed with his mind. But a guy I knew there, my sarge, said Driscoll was always like that. Cool most of the time, then wham ! Something would set him off and he’d be ready to kill you for no fucking reason.”

“Why do you think it’s him and not someone else?” Though there was no doubt in Zack’s mind that something had triggered Hall’s memory of Driscoll and his belief that Driscoll framed him.

“ ’Cause I didn’t keep in touch with any of the other guys. A bunch of them got themselves killed, a couple reenlisted, most went home. Driscoll didn’t have a home to go to.”

“Why not?”

“ ’Cause he was a ward of the court, or something. Foster system. Some guy his ma was living with killed her or something.”

He was in the system. Zack had to get his records, but juvie records weren’t easy and they wouldn’t come quickly.

“Where was he from?”

Hall shrugged. “All over, he’d said. That Bruce was a sick bastard. That’s probably where Driscoll got it from.”

“Bruce?”

Hall paused. “He talked about Bruce all the time, and how he was going to kill him when he got out of the Army, and no one would know it was him. One of the guys asked who Bruce was, you know, like did he steal his girl or something? He said Bruce was in prison for killing his mother.”

“Can you remember anything else about Bruce? Where they might have lived? Where Driscoll’s mother was killed?”

Hall shook his head to every question. “Wish I could help, but I don’t know. Driscoll got all uptight whenever he talked about it, so we didn’t push him, you know? Except Driscoll did say once that Bruce was in San Quentin. Yeah, San Quentin.”

Hall didn’t have any other information about Bruce or Driscoll’s activities. He’d never heard from Driscoll while he was in prison, or since he’d been released.

As Hall was getting ready to go, Zack asked one last question. “Does ‘angel’ mean anything to you?”

“Angel? You mean Driscoll’s sister? Shit, man, we just didn’t talk about her. When one of the guys in the unit found a picture under his pillow, we all thought it was weird. The kid was like nine or ten, you know? Driscoll went off about Angel this, Angel that, and we figured out she was his sister. We asked what happened and all he said was she was dead and to fuck off.” Hall rolled his eyes.

“And he has a tattoo like yours, correct?”

“Exactly like mine. I should know-he took me to the same guy who did his over in Saigon.”

Chris Driscoll was The Slayer. No doubt in Zack’s mind.

“When was the last time you saw him?”

Hall paused, thinking. “That day at the bar. He came in, had a beer with us, left. I never saw him again after that.” Hall stared at Zack. “You’re going to find him, right? He’ll go to prison for framing me, right?”

“He’ll go to prison for killing thirty children,” Zack said, his voice surprisingly calm.

“Right.” Hall nodded. “I got it.”

Zack used Perdue’s office to call Chief Pierson and tell him everything they’d learned. “We need an APB out on Chris Driscoll. We need his military records, his last known address, any living relatives. Maybe the Feds can help us out getting his juvie records. I’m thinking California. His stepfather is in prison in California for murder; Hall thinks he killed Driscoll’s mother. And I need to have a face-to-face with his stepfather, Bruce. His last name might be Driscoll, but we can’t count on it. He was probably arrested in the late sixties.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Pierson said. “He could be dead, he’d probably be in his seventies by now. Are you going to stay down there tonight?”

“Not if I can help it. I have a feeling Driscoll is going to act. From the patterns Doug, Olivia, and I identified, he moves quickly at the end of his killing spree.” Zack glanced at his watch. “It’s eleven o’clock. San Quentin is only an hour or so away, just north of San Francisco. We’ll drive, then head back down to the airport. Our flight leaves at three-fifteen, I should be back there two hours later.”

“I’ll call the prison and set up visitation for you.”

“If the guy is dead, I want to talk to anyone who knew him-the warden, any guard he might have talked to, a prisoner who buddied up with him.”

“I’ll call you within the hour.”

Zack hung up and looked around for Olivia. They were outside the San Mateo County Courthouse in Redwood City. Olivia stood under an oak and stared at a line of rose trees off to the side of the main steps. He didn’t think she was seeing anything; she appeared lost in her own thoughts.

He hadn’t had a chance to talk to her after interviewing Hall. He walked up, touched her shoulders. “Liv? How are you holding up?”

“I’m okay.”

He didn’t doubt she would be, but this experience was still painful for her. “I’m waiting for Pierson to call back and see if we can get into San Quentin and talk to Driscoll’s stepfather. They might have had contact over the years.”

When Olivia didn’t say anything, Zack continued. “We have an APB on Driscoll and Pierson is getting the Feds to jump on any military benefits this guy has. He probably has a pension, or medical benefits at the minimum. Even killers need a doctor once in a while.”

“I don’t think he cares. He’s too methodical to get trapped in the system. He’s probably not using his own name. And you know as well as I do how easy it is to establish a new identity, if you know what you’re doing.”

“Pierson is trying to track down a photo. It’ll be old, but we can get a forensic artist to extrapolate what he might look like today.”

“Good. I want to see the pictures. Before and after.”

“Are you sure?”

She turned to face him, her face a mask but her voice tinged with emotion. “Of course I’m sure. I need to see it. Do you think I can’t handle it? I’m not going to fall apart here.”

“I didn’t think you would. I just want to spare you.”

She looked like she wanted to argue with him; her jaw worked, then she closed her eyes. “I have to see his face,” she whispered. “Maybe that’s why I came to Seattle in the first place. For thirty-four years I pictured Brian Hall as the man who destroyed my family. I want to see who was really responsible.”

He pulled her to him, holding her close. She tensed, then relaxed in his embrace. Would she ever be comfortable with his touch? Then her arms wrapped around his back and she held him tightly, a wealth of trust in that one small gesture. Not something she gave lightly, he realized, as he kissed the top of her head.

Then she stepped back. “Thank you, Zack. For understanding. And for letting me do what I have to do.”

Furious, Brian stormed out of the courthouse. His damn attorney said it would be at least another month before his restitution came through. Probably three. But “definitely by January.”