Allison Brennan - The Kill

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 Quinn Peterson walked in. Zack tensed, but nodded to the Fed. He would put his animosity aside for the Driscoll interview.

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 Quinn as a federal officer had to extend the same rights.

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

“We have everything we need to put you on death row, Mr. Driscoll,” Quinn said. “So this interview is really just for us to get to know each other, have some questions answered, before they lock you up.”

Driscoll said nothing.

Zack and Quinn exchanged glances, and Quinn nodded. Driscoll wasn’t going to cooperate, but they didn’t need him to. What they wanted was an explanation.

“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,” Quinn said. “Have we missed anyone?”

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 Quinn had talked to out in Virginia felt that the first lock of hair Driscoll kept was of his half sister, Angel. It appeared Olivia’s preliminary work had in fact identified all thirty-one other victims.

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 Quinn Peterson had dug up through the original autopsy report.

Zack glanced at Quinn, who nodded.

“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!”

Quinn tapped his finger once on the table in a prearranged signal. “No, you’re not Bruce Carmichael,” Quinn said. “Bruce killed your mother. Stabbed her to death. With this knife.”

Quinn put the sealed evidence bag in front of Driscoll. The killer’s hands were restrained, but his shoulders jerked as if trying to reach it. Quinn had moved heaven and earth to get the evidence from Angel Carmichael’s murder flown in from Los Angeles this morning. He’d had another agent drive it up to the Cascades substation.

Quinn laid pictures one by one in front of Driscoll. They were crime-scene photos of Angel’s murder. The black-and-white photos of the child’s death disturbed Zack, reminding him that no matter what Chris Driscoll had suffered at the hands of Bruce Carmichael, nothing justified his actions now or then.

Driscoll whimpered, turned his head from the photographs.

“This knife also killed Angel.”

Quinn tapped the knife. Driscoll’s fingers moved, as if aching to hold the weapon. Quinn picked it up, turned it over and over in his hands, then laid it on top of one of the photos.

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.”

“Were you with Bruce when he killed your mother?”

Driscoll shook his head again. “He picked me up from school. He already had Angel. He picked me up and we drove for days. He said Mama was dead. An accident… “ His voice trailed off.

“How did you find out he killed your mother?”

“Angel.”

Again, silence.

“Angel knew?” Zack prompted.

“She was there.” His voice was a whisper.

“Angel saw Bruce kill your mother?”

Driscoll’s voice took on a childlike, asexual quality as he voiced his sister’s words: “ ‘I told Mama that Daddy was touching me down there and I didn’t like it. Mama packed a suitcase and we were going to leave, but Daddy came home and saw. He saw and he got a big knife in the kitchen and hurt Mama. He hurt her and there was blood and she was dead.’ ”

“Bruce killed your mother and took you and Angel away from New Jersey. You ended up in Los Angeles.”

“We lived in nine states. Nine states in three years. Angel… she wanted a real home. Real homes don’t exist, I told her. I was her home. I would take care of her.”

“But you couldn’t.”

Driscoll’s chained hands slammed into the table. “I was going to kill him!” he shouted at the top of his lungs.

The placid face twisted in monstrous rage, his eyes wild and glassy.

Every cop in the room froze, ready to jump on Driscoll if he tried anything. He didn’t move.

Zack asked, “Why didn’t you kill Bruce?”

Driscoll’s eyes locked on Zack’s. “That’s what she said.”

“Angel?”

“The bitch. The bitch in the car. Before she fucked everything up and tricked me.”