4th of July

Chapter 130

KEITH WORE THE SAME coldly furious expression he’d shown me when I’d put my gun to his neck. I didn’t know this Keith.

But I needed to.

“You’re totally wrong about me, both of you,” he said. “And even if you’re playing me, that’s fine. I’m sick of the whole deal. Nobody cares.”

When Keith said “Nobody cares,” I sat back hard in my chair. The Cabot kids had spray-painted the same words on the wall where they’d killed their victims. And so had the killer of John Doe #24, ten years ago.

“What do you mean, ‘Nobody cares’?”

Keith fixed me with his hard blue eyes. “You’re the smart one, right? You figure it out.”

“Don’t mess with me, Keith. I do care. And I’m really listening.”

As the video camera recorded his confession, it was a cop’s dream come true. Keith gave it all up: the names, the dates, the minutiae only the killer could possibly know.

He talked about using different knives, different belts, described every murder, including how he’d tricked Ben O’Malley.

“Yeah, I clubbed him with a rock before cutting his throat. I threw the knife over the side of the road.”

Keith laid out the details in an orderly fashion, like so many cards in a game of solitaire, and they were convincing enough to convict him many times over. But it was still hard for me to believe that he’d done these bloody crimes alone.

“You killed Joe and Annemarie Sarducci by yourself? Without a fight? What are you, Spider-Man?”

“You’re starting to catch on, Lindsay.” He lurched forward in his seat, scraping the chair against the floor, sticking his face too close to mine.

“I charmed them into submission,” he said. “And you better believe it. I worked alone. Spin that for the DA. Yeah, I’m Spider-Man.”

“But why? What did these people ever do to you?”

Keith shook his head as if he pitied me. “You couldn’t understand, Lindsay.”

“Try me.”

“No,” he said. “I’m through talking.”

And that was it. He ran his hands through his blond hair, guzzled down the last of his Classic Coke, and smiled pleasantly, as if he were taking a curtain call.

I wanted to punch his face until he didn’t look so smug anymore. All those people slaughtered, and it made no sense at all.

Why wouldn’t he say why he’d done it?

Still, it was a great day for the good guys. Keith Howard was booked, printed, photographed, slapped back into cuffs, and taken to a holding cell pending his transport and arraignment in San Francisco.

I stopped by Chief Stark’s office on my way out.

“What’s wrong, Boxer? Where’s your party hat?”

“It’s bothering me, Chief. He’s protecting other people, I’m sure of it.”

“That’s your theory. Guess what? I believe the guy. He’s said he’s smarter than we think, and I’m gonna give him credit for being the big, bright bulb he claims to be.”

I gave the chief a tired smile.

“Shit, Boxer. He confessed. Be happy. This goose is cooked. Let me be the first to congratulate you, Lieutenant. Great catch. Great interview. It’s over now. Thank God, it’s finally over.”