“I came to understand that it was our duty to bring others to the full light of God by ensuring they understood that God accepts only absolutes in His truth. Be truthful about all, be factually contrite, ask Him to forgive, and He will cleanse the sin from you. Admit to nine sins of ten, hold back the one, and you will burn forever.
“We have devoted our lives to this work. It has been difficult. Thou shalt not kill, one of God’s most basic dictates. But all those we killed had confessed to their sins, and all save one were truly contrite. How else could we know about them? We only took souls who had admitted their sins to a priest in holy confession. They were martyrs, all but one, pierced in the side as Christ on the cross, and the contrite now sit at the right hand of the Lord.” He pauses. “The child is the exception, of course. I have no doubt that she is burning as I speak. She died to illuminate the other half of the sacred agreement: contrition. Because of these deaths, millions more will understand that they are not alone, that we all have shameful things inside us. We all have a darker side we must admit to if we’re to experience the fullness of the love of God. And oh, how wonderful that love is. God is many things, but most of all, God is love.”
The first visible hint of insanity reveals itself. It’s subtle. A certain shine to the eyes, a higher pitch to the voice. But it’s there. Behind it will be the truth of what he’s doing and done and why. Shame at the circumstances that caused their birth, betrayal by those they trusted, all of it wrapped in the religion in which they were raised. I don’t care how flowery the phrases are, how carefully thought out the rationalizations; serial murder is sublimated rage. There are no exceptions.
I consider, again, the fact that the victims were all women and realize that Callie had been correct when she spoke about the Madonna and the whore. Michael Murphy blamed his aunt/mother more than he blamed his father, and the women he murdered had paid the price.
“That stage of our work is done. We’re ready now, to move forward, to take the next step on the path God has laid for us. Come find us. We are ready. We will go willingly, and will not fight back.”
Fade to black.
“Isn’t that nice of them?” Callie says, scorn in her voice. “Poor babies, boo-hoo for them. Daddy was an asshole, join the club.”
I tend to agree with her sentiments; we all do. Life is rough, even cruel and unjust. That’s no excuse for turning on your fellow man. The nature versus nurture argument has raged for years, and will rage for more. I think there is truth in the need for a good environment. Our future is informed by what we experience as children. Statistics bear this out too often to be discounted.
Approximately one-third of the abused go on to become abusers. But what about the other two-thirds? All those abused, mistreated, beaten, and betrayed, who went on to lead normal lives? Haunted forever by their experiences, maybe even permanently damaged, but—and here’s the point—still decent? For every victim of molestation who goes on to offend against children as an adult, we can find examples of victims who went on to become kind and loving parents. What is the difference between the two? Are some of us just born able to carry bigger burdens than others?
Michael and Frances had been dealt a bad hand, true, but it was hardly crippling. Not even close to the worst I’d ever heard. The fact that they’d managed to spin their misfortune into a rationalization for twenty years of murder is, for me, more a testament to their weakness and their guilt than a reason to sympathize.
“I don’t really care why,” I say. “I just want to put them in jail.”
“I can get behind that,” Alan agrees.
In the end, this is the simplicity that saves us. Looking for reasons why, trying to get down to that deep, dark bedrock, is just a serpent eating its own tail. In the end, you won’t find truth, you’ll just devour yourself. At some point we have to stop trying to understand why and accept that our only job is to remove them from society. It’s easier with some than others.
“Let’s get a current address,” I say, “and give them their wish.”
AN HOUR HAS PASSED SINCE the discoveries began to come so fast and furious. AD Jones is in our offices, along with my team and the FBI SWAT.
The head of our SWAT is Sam Brady, Callie’s fiancé. Brady is in his mid-forties and he’s a tall, lanky man, standing around six-four, with close-cropped hair and a face that can be as grim as his profession calls for. I’ve seen other sides to him and have come to know a man at peace with who he is. He loves Callie quietly, but he loves her deeply and he seems to bring this approach to everything in his life. He’s solid and all man and utterly unintimidated by Callie.
Brady has watched the last video clip of the Preacher.
“I don’t recommend going in hot,” he says. “I’m not the expert, but it seems to me that they want to be taken into custody. Need it, even.”
“I agree,” I say, “but I’m not confident enough about it to go knock on the front door. I think we should set up a perimeter and talk them out via phones or bullhorns. If they want to come quietly, we’ll let them. If not…” I shrug. “Tear gas time.”
He considers this and nods. “I’ll get my team geared up. Give us twenty minutes.”
“We’ll meet you in the parking lot.”
I AM CHECKING MY WEAPON and readying my mind. We all are.
“Hey,” Alan says, ratcheting back the slide on his weapon, “if you know the death penalty is on the table and you plead guilty—is that suicide?”
“I think in their case they’re confident that it’s martyrdom.”
He holsters his weapon and sighs. “Yeah. So, do you think they meant it about coming quietly?”
“I think so. But you can never be sure at the end.”
Suicide, by self or by cop, is an oft-preferred solution for a criminal when the jig’s up. Most accepted from the beginning that they would die if discovered.
“Seems strange they have a house in the Valley,” he muses. “Probably drove by it once or twice and never knew.”
James’s cell phone rings. He answers, listens, and frowns.
“What’s that?” he asks. His face goes white. “Send it to me now.”
“What is it?” I ask.
“Bitch,” he breathes, but it has an odd sound to it. More desperate than insulting.
“James?”
He looks at me.
“Kirby got there first. Now they’ve got her.”
40
KIRBY APPEARS ON CAMERA, NAKED AND TIED TO A CHAIR. Michael Murphy stands next to her. He’s furious.
“I told you we’d surrender peacefully! I didn’t expect any of you to agree with our actions, but I did expect you to uphold the law.” He takes a deep breath. “I am very, very disappointed.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, shuuuuuuuut uuuuuuuuup,” Kirby says, rolling her eyes.
“Stupid fucking kid,” Brady murmurs. “Can never learn to keep her mouth shut.” I’d called him back once we knew what we were looking at.
Michael steps in front of her. All we can see is his back and her legs.
“You’re in no position to take the Lord’s name in vain,” he says.
“Bite me, bozo,” Kirby replies, “and your God can bite it too. Hard.”
I brace myself, expecting him to slap her, but he draws his arm back and hits her in the face with his closed fist. The smack of flesh against flesh cracks through the computer speakers and Kirby goes over backward in her chair.
“Motherfucker,” I whisper.
The camera had been stationary. It begins to move now, jiggling a bit with the motion. Frances must have picked it up. It zooms in on Kirby’s face. She’s lying against a hardwood floor, blonde hair sprayed out around her. Her eyes are having trouble focusing. Her lips have been split open in two places and blood runs freely down her chin and left cheek. She shakes her head to clear it and laughs.
“You hit like a girl.”
“Oh, Kirby,” Callie says. “Stupid girl. Shut up now.”
&n
bsp; She won’t, I think. This is who she is.
Michael grabs her by her hair and uses it to heft the full weight of her body, to bring her back into a sitting position. Kirby turns her head to the right and spits to clear the blood from her mouth. She turns back to the camera and we all see those cold, awful killer’s eyes.
“I’m going to kill you and your sister,” she says. “Just wanted you to know that. And no one sent me here. One of the people you murdered was an old friend of mine.” She grins. Her teeth are red with her blood. “Thought I’d return the favor.”
“Murder is a sin,” Michael scolds her. “We killed for God’s purpose. If you kill us for vengeance, you’ll go to hell.”
Really? I think. What about Ambrose, the man you murdered for his identity? God’s purpose?
It’s a useless question; his answer would be yes, of course.
Kirby shrugs. “So sue me. I’m good at it.” Another torn-lipped, red-toothed grin. “You’ll see.”
“You really came here on your own?” Michael asks.
“I’m a solo act, asshole, and I always have been.”
“Unfortunate for you,” he says, “that you missed the backup security camera. We were waiting for you when you came through the door.”
“Yeah, well. Nobody’s perfect. You should have killed me, though. Tasers are for pussies.”
“Knocked you down fast enough,” Frances snarls.
Kirby smiles. “Down, but not dead, dummy. Bad move on your part.”
“What’s your name?” Michael asks.
“Since we’re on a religious bender, why don’t you call me…Eve.” She chuckles. “I always liked her style, you know? Eat that apple. Yummy.”
“Very well. Are you Catholic, Eve?”
She rolls her eyes.
“Supreme beings are for suckers. I believe in guns, good beer, masturbation when I don’t have a man, and a nice hard cock when I do.” She winks. “Know what I mean?”
“Blasphemous bitch,” he observes.
“Why, thank you, asshole.”
“Why don’t you stop calling me that, Eve. My name is Michael.”
“Nah. Asshole is just fine.”
He sighs. “I can see getting you to confess is going to be a lot of work, Eve.”
“Ohhhh, torture? Coolio.”
“Why isn’t this clip ending?” I ask.
“This isn’t a clip,” James says. “This is live.”
“Sam?” I ask, turning to him. “We need to get over there now. This is your show. What’s the game plan with something like this?”
He examines the video feed. “Looks to me like they’re in the living room.” He grabs the house plans from a desk. “There’s only two ways in. Front door and back.” He cups his chin, thinking. “Flash-bangs through the front windows, and we breach through the front and back doors. Go in hard, take them down while they’re still reeling. Simple is the best way. Get more complicated and you increase the possibility of screwing the pooch.” He nods to the computer. “They’ve been kind enough to provide us with ongoing video surveillance. We’ll use it. Bring a laptop with wireless capabilities and execute at the most opportune moment.”
Sounds good to me. I glance at AD Jones. “Sir?”
“Do it. Shoot to kill if necessary. And figure out a way to make sure this video never gets seen. The last thing we need on a high profile case like this is association with a killer like Kirby Mitchell.”
“I have a high speed connection via a cellular network on my laptop,” Callie says. “I just need the URL for this feed.”
“I’ll provide that,” James says.
Brady nods. “I’ll meet you in the parking lot.”
“Before I’m done,” Michael says to Kirby, “you’ll experience the wonder of confession to God. You’ll learn what it’s like to be purged of lies. Truth is a light, Eve, a light like no other.”
“Bring it on, asshole. But can you stop hitting me in the face, at least? Girl’s got to be able to get a date, you know?”
“Let’s get moving,” I say. “If she keeps talking like that, she might not have much time.”
41
“START SMALL, EVE. THAT’S THE BEST WAY, SOMETIMES. BEGIN with the small things and work up to the most shameful. Do you think you can do that?”
We’re all in the same car. Alan is driving, following Brady and his team in their van. I have the laptop.
Kirby smiles.
“Sure. I got one for you.”
“Yes?” He sounds pleased, maybe a little surprised that she’s agreed so easily.
“The first blow job I ever gave.”
Michael nods. “Lust, oral sex. Very good. Go on.”
“Well, it was this really cute guy, hunkalicious, you know? I’d heard he had a big old cock, and while I’d seen pictures of them, I’d never seen them in the flesh, so to speak. Turgid, you know?”
“Yes, yes, continue.” He doesn’t seem to appreciate Kirby’s use of the descriptive.
“Anyway, I told him I wanted to see that big ol’ hot dog, and hey—coincidence—he wanted to show it to me.” She rolls her eyes. “Guys are funny that way. He had a car, so I snuck out that night and I met him out front and we drove to a parking lot near the beach. I told him to whip that sucker out, pun intended. Turns out someone had added a few inches. I mean, it wasn’t small, but I’ve sucked bigger, you know.”
“Get to the point, please.”
“It was kind of cute. Wearing its little army helmet, all washed up and shiny and standing at attention. ‘Sergeant Cock reporting for duty, ma’am!’” She giggles.
“This slut is wasting your time,” Frances says from behind the camera.
“Hey, it’s my sin, right? As long as I end up telling the whole truth, it shouldn’t matter how I tell it.”
Michael nods. “Fair enough, Eve. Go on.”
“Okay. So I decided it was time to play turkey—you know: gobble gobble gobble! I opened wide and put the train in the tunnel. That’s when he started screaming.”
There’s a moment of silence. Michael frowns. “Why was he screaming?”
Kirby heaves an exaggerated sigh. “Hey, I was only twelve. He was sixteen, and hot. I was nervous. I was really worried about bad breath, so I gargled with mint freshener for like an hour beforehand. Then I chewed up a bunch of breath mints right before I started…you know.” She clucks her tongue and looks regretful. “Poor guy. Almost blistered his wee-wee. He started screaming and yanked my head off. From experience, things have to be pretty bad for a guy to do that. He jumped out of the car and was running around in circles saying, ‘It burns, it burns, it burns!’ That, right there, that’s the real sin.”
“What, exactly?”
“That I gave a bad blow job.” She bats her eyes sweetly. “Will the Big Guy forgive me? I never did it again, and I’m a much better cocksucker now, I promise.”
“Oh, Kirby,” I say. “Why can’t you just shut up and play along?”
I half-expect Michael to fly into a rage. He just shakes his head in regret.
“I’m sorry you’ve decided to be difficult,” he says, “but perhaps your journey will help others understand the folly of holding on to sin. Because in the end, you will confess, Eve. You might have no eyes, your nipples may have been cut off, perhaps your kneecaps will be broken, but one way or another, you will confess.”
Kirby yawns. “Here’s a tip on torture for you, asshole. It’s a lot scarier when you just do it as opposed to talking about it beforehand.”
“If you insist. We’ll start small, as I had suggested you start with your sins.”
He steps out of the camera lens. I can hear his footsteps on the hardwood floor. Frances continues to focus on Kirby.
“You’ll break, you know,” Frances says.
Kirby blows a kiss into the camera. She moves her eyebrows up and down. “Hey…we’ve got a camera going…a hot naked babe…” She spreads her legs. “I’m ready for my close-up, director. Wa
nt to join me?”
“Jezebel!” Frances hisses.
“Hey, I have a friend named Jezebel, so be nice.”
“I think she really is insane,” Callie says.
“Either that or she has a death wish,” I reply.
“Fearlessness is a common trait in sociopaths,” James says. “Look, he’s back.”
Michael Murphy is carrying a rod, approximately three feet long, with a copper tip and an insulated handle. A wire runs from the base of the rod and out of frame. He shows it to Kirby.
“Do you know what this is?”
“Looks like a picana to me. Popular for use in electric torture in South America and other sorta-civilized places. What’s yours run—about sixteen thousand volts?”
“Thirty thousand. Technology has evolved. Since you’re familiar with it, you know what it is capable of. I ask you again to confess a sin, a real sin, with true contrition in your heart.”
“Hey, I did what you asked. I really did feel bad about giving a bad blow job. A girl has to have standards.”
Michael sighs. “Frances, can you put the camera on a tripod, please? I need your assistance here.”
“Yes, Brother.”
The sounds of the camera jiggling and Frances doing as he’s asked ensue. She appears in frame a moment later.
“Many people think application of the picana to the outside of the body, such as the breasts or genitals, is sufficient. It’s painful, I agree, but I’ve found internal application to be far more effective.”
“Me too,” Kirby agrees. “So—where? In my mouth, my ass, or my punani?”
“A little ways down your throat,” he says. “Try not to breathe in your own vomit. You’d die.”
I see a twitch appear at the corner of Kirby’s left eye. It’s the first sign of a crack in her facade up to this point.
“Hold her head,” Michael says to Frances.