James Patterson: Confessions of a Murder Suspect

“You have a problem with your parents?” Hayes asked.

“I’m twenty-four. I’ve flown the coop.” Matthew didn’t even try to disguise the fact that he had no use for Malcolm and Maud.

“We’ll check out your alibi soon enough,” Caputo snapped. “But listen: We all know you could have left your girlfriend in the Village, killed your parents, and gone back to bed before your twinkie even knew you were gone.”

It was just short of an accusation, obviously meant to provoke a reaction from Matthew. But my big brother didn’t bite. Instead, he turned to Hugo and said, “I’m going to tuck you into bed, Buddy.”

Caputo hadn’t gotten anything from Matty, but he’d forced me to face my own suspicions. My brother hated our parents. He was a 215-pound professional football player, a cunning brute.

Was he also a killer?

CONFESSION

I have pretty bad associations with the Heisman. My therapist, Dr. Keyes, has done a lot to help me forget that night, but every now and then, a memory will pierce my mind’s eye.

It was after the celebration, after we’d returned to the apartment from dinner at Le Cirque. Malcolm and Matty had both had more than a few drinks at that point, and Malcolm said, “So, let me hold the Angel family Heisman now, son.” He latched on to the trophy, like Matty should hand it over. “Remember, you owe everything to us,” he went on. “Your speed, your strength, your endurance. Your career. Your money.”

That did not go over well with Matty. To say the least.

“I didn’t ask for what you gave me,” he said through clenched teeth. He slammed his fist on the glass dining table and I jumped as a crack appeared, sure his fist was going to get sliced to ribbons. Matty was so angry I don’t think he would have even noticed. “You created each and every one of us to live out one of your freakish childhood fantasies ! We’re Malcolm’s puppets. Maud’s baby dolls. Malcolm and Maud’s precious little trophies .”

And that’s when he hurled the Heisman trophy through the living room window, less than two inches above my head.

He could have killed someone walking down below. He could have killed me . Would he have regretted it?

They didn’t call us sociopaths for nothing.

8

Now that I’ve told you that memory, I’ve got to get it out of my head, and quick. That’s one thing you should know about me: My head is a strange—and maybe a little dangerous—place to be for too long. So I’m just going to give you little bits and pieces at a time. Because I want you to like me; I need a friend. Someone willing to be right here with me and feel the horror of the night my parents died. Can you do that for me?

I could feel the floorboards shaking as Matthew stormed out of the room, but Sergeant Caputo wasn’t intimidated. He barked at the rest of us, still sitting around the fireplace, “Who was the last person to see Mr. and Mrs. Angel alive?”

It was a fair question, and I considered the possibilities. Samantha, my mother’s live-in assistant, went off-duty at six. She hadn’t been invited to the dinner that had been served in our dining room at eight, for my parents’ guest, the ambassador from the Kingdom of Bhutan.

Hugo had also been excluded from our dinner with the ambassador and had gone to his bedroom at seven.

Harry and I had been at the table for the entire spectacle, and when it was over, Harry had gone to his room and, as usual, locked the door.

My parents had shown the ambassador to the elevator, and when I last saw them, in the study an hour later, they were in perfect form. Maud was poised elegantly on the edge of her favorite leather chair, and I saw that she had changed out of her silk pantsuit and into one of her favorite embroidered Tunisian tunics. My father was sitting in his own leather chair, sipping his customary glass of scotch. Neither of them looked even the slightest bit agitated.

In answer to Caputo’s question, Samantha, who had taken over Hugo’s seat in the Pork Chair, said, “I saw them last. Maud texted me about some documents in need of signatures, so I reported to her at eleven thirty.” Her voice wobbled the smallest bit when she said Maud’s name, but hearing her familiar, gentle voice calmed me slightly.

“How did she seem to you?”

“Perfectly Maud,” said Samantha.

“What does that mean?” Caputo followed up. He wasn’t about to use his imagination.

Samantha brushed a loose lock of sandy hair out of her eyes and stared at Caputo. “It means exactly that. Perfect. Not a hair out of place, not a worry line to be found. Calm. Collected. Ready to take on whatever came next.”

Caputo dismissed this and barreled ahead. “Who stands to profit from the deaths of these people?”

Samantha deflected the question. “Please remember that I’m having a hard time right now,” she said, the wobble returning to her voice. “I loved these people and am still in shock that they’ve been ripped from our lives forever.”

I thought I understood what Caputo was doing. When murder suspects are stressed, they sometimes make mistakes and tell the cops a story that might later become evidence against them.

Caputo asked again, “Miss Peck. Who stood to profit from the deaths of Mr. and Mrs. Angel?”

“I couldn’t say.”

“Can’t say or won’t say?”

“I don’t know ,” Samantha said. “I can’t imagine someone could want them dead. They may have had some… unorthodox quirks, but they were good people.”

Between coughing fits, Caputo grilled her on her whereabouts that evening and got information on the friend Samantha had gone to dinner with at Carmine’s Trattoria on the West Side. He asked about her relationships with all of us, to which she responded succinctly that while Maud was her employer, each of us kids was like family to her. She had been a part of our lives for years, initially as the photographer who took our family portraits—she’d taken hundreds of beautiful photographs of the family over the years, many of which were hung around the apartment, equal to the Leibovitz portraits we owned—and then, after proving her ability to be totally discreet and loyal, as Maud’s personal secretary. I couldn’t remember a time when she wasn’t with us, and as she told Caputo, she would do anything for us.

When Caputo was finished jotting down everything Samantha had to say, he turned his narrow, peevish eyes to Harry.

Harry was openmouthed and breathing thickly, leaning against me, sitting as close as if we were still nestled together in the womb.

“How come you’re the only Angel kid who seems upset?” Caputo said to Harry.

“I’m… damaged,” he said, quoting what Malcolm had said to him many times. “My emotions are getting the best of me. I’m sorry.”

“Do you want to tell me something, Harrington?” Caputo said, putting his face inches from Harry’s nose. “What do you want to tell me?”

“What do you want me to say? I hurt all over,” Harry cried, “inside and out. This is absolutely the worst thing that has ever happened to me!” I put my arms around Harry and he burst into tears against my chest.

Nice-guy Hayes took it upon himself to step in with a smile and a “there, there” for Harry. I could tell without a doubt that he was about to give us the good-cop routine.