Most Wanted

Chapter Eighteen

Christine composed herself as the door opened on the other side of the booth, and Zachary Jeffcoat was admitted to the secured side, his arms handcuffed behind his back. He was tall, blond, and so handsome that he looked as out of place in the orange jumpsuit as an actor in a soap opera, a blond romantic lead miscast in the role of a felon.

Jeffcoat was tall and well-built, with broad shoulders and muscular biceps, shown by the short sleeves of his jumpsuit, but Christine zeroed in immediately on his face, visualizing the donor’s adult photo. His eyes were wide-set, round, and blue, he had a straight nose, vaguely upturned, and a smallish mouth with thin lips, and his hair was a fine, ashy blond.

She had the instantly horrifying impression that Jeffcoat looked like Donor 3319, or at least his adult photo, but she resisted the conclusion with every fiber of her being. It bewildered her to see him in person, especially because her emotions roiled within her. She felt fear and confusion, at the same time as an intense, undeniable curiosity to know the truth. The very notion that she could be in the same room with the father of the baby she was carrying sent her into a tailspin.

Christine broke into a sweat, made worse in the hot room, and she felt her heartbeat accelerate. Her face burned, her thoughts raced. She wondered if her baby would look like Jeffcoat, if he was her donor, or if their baby would look like her, or what the combination would be, the amalgam of features and traits that made up a human being.

Jeffcoat looked up, meeting her eye for a split second before the corrections officer turned him around to uncuff him, and Christine recognized the look as the one from the CNN video, just before Jeffcoat had been put into the cruiser. A jolt electrified her system as she realized that Jeffcoat was a serial killer. It appalled her to think that he could be the father of her baby, and she felt like crying, screaming, raging, and suing everybody she could. But she told herself she had to get a grip on her emotions. She would only have twenty-five minutes with him, under prison rules, since she wasn’t his attorney. She had to find out the truth, one way or the other, today.

“Hi, I’m Zachary Jeffcoat.” He rubbed his wrists and met her eye, nodding almost shyly, as he sat down. “And you’re a reporter? Christine Nilsson?”

Christine shuddered to hear her name coming from his lips. She made herself calm down. “Yes, a stringer, a freelancer.”

“Which newspaper do you freelance for?”

“None, really.” Christine reminded herself of her cover story, which she’d kept as close as possible to the truth in case he looked her up online. “I find stories that interest me, write them up, and try to sell them. This time I’m thinking of a book. My day job is a teacher, a reading teacher, and I always loved books, and I think this would be a great one.”

“I understand, okay.” Zachary nodded, inhaling. He pursed his lips, his strain evident. “So you’re trying to make something happen.”

“Yes.” Christine put her legal pad on the counter, then gestured to Lauren. “This is Lauren Weingarten, a friend of mine. She’s a teacher, too, but she comes along on my research trips.”

Lauren said, stiffly, “Hi Zachary, if I can call you Zachary.”

“Of course.” Jeffcoat turned to Christine with a deep frown, a premature furrowing of his brow under feathery blond bangs. “Listen, I swear to you I’m not a serial killer. I’m not the Nurse Murderer, or whoever they want to call him. I didn’t kill Gail Robinbrecht. I didn’t murder anyone, I never would. I’m innocent, and I need to get out of here.”

“So you’re innocent?” Christine repeated, fumbling for her footing. She hadn’t expected to talk about the murder right off.

“Absolutely, totally innocent, I swear it.” Zachary held up a palm.

“First, before we begin, do you have a lawyer?”

“Yes, a public defender, but I haven’t heard much from her. Her name is Mira Farooz. That’s pretty typical of defenders, from what I hear. They handle, like, fifty cases at once, and I need a good lawyer, a private lawyer. Can you help me get one? I have to get out of here.”

“Sorry, no, I can’t.” Christine wrote down Mira Farooz, to gather her thoughts. She hadn’t anticipated him asking for her help.

“I’ll tell you what I told the other reporters. I’m innocent and you have to help me. Please.” Zachary leaned over, urgently, on his side of the divider. “The cops think I did it because they found me there in Gail’s apartment, but she was already dead. I was the one who called 911. I didn’t do it. Why would I call 911 if I did it?”

Christine wrote down, he called 911. She didn’t know if it was prudent of him to be telling her so much about his case, but she didn’t have time to ponder. She tried to ask a question that a reporter would. “How did you know her? Gail Robinbrecht.”

“I didn’t. We hooked up the night before she was killed, that’s it.” Zachary pursed his lips, shaking his head. “I have, or had, a girlfriend, I know. I feel terrible about that, I know it was wrong. But I would never kill anyone.”

“What’s your girlfriend’s name?” Christine’s ears pricked up. Donor 3319 had a girlfriend, but she didn’t know if it was the same one.

“I don’t know if I should tell you that. I don’t want you to print that.” Zachary’s skin flushed a rosy pink, but Christine couldn’t say for sure that it was creamy, like on the online profile.

“I won’t use her name if you don’t want me to, but why not?”

“I think it would make her look bad, right now. She’s in medical school.”

Christine swallowed hard. So Zachary’s girlfriend was in med school. It was uncomfortably close to Donor 3319, who should have been in med school. She hoped it was a coincidence. “Why don’t you tell me her name, but I promise not to print it?”

“Still, no. She’d hate that. She was just here, she broke up with me.” Zachary flushed again, frowning. “I don’t blame her, she has to distance herself, with all this. Her family, her career, anyway, we were in trouble for a long time.”

“Oh, my. Sorry.” Christine remembered the corrections officer upstairs, telling her that the girlfriend had been here today. She tried to think of more questions, so she could see if his background matched Donor 3319. “Can I ask, does she go to med school in Pennsylvania?”

“Yes, Temple.”

Christine made a note, Temple Med. “Do you live together?”

“No. She lives in town, in Philly, and I live in Phoenixville. I travel for days at a time, to my accounts.” Zachary paused, hesitating. “Do we have to talk about her? If this is about me, we should talk about me.”

Christine nodded, trying to get on track. She was running out of time. “Okay, first, how old are you?”

“Twenty-four, and I didn’t even know Gail Robinbrecht, not really. I met her randomly and asked her out. I’d been with her the night before she was killed, and I was going to meet her again, but when I went to her house, like I say, she was dead. The police came and saw me there, and they thought I had done it.”

“Do you have any idea who would kill her?”

“No, I don’t even know her, it was a hookup. That’s it. I didn’t do it.”

Christine tried to get to the point. “Why don’t you tell me a little about yourself? Not about the murder, about you.”

“Okay, if you want.” Zachary frowned. “I’m an only child, and my parents have passed. My father was a pastor, and my mother worked however she could. Pastors, obviously, make no money. Her last job was in a high-school cafeteria.”

Christine knew it matched the profile, in that Donor 3319’s parents were religious. She remembered him writing that they would not approve of his donation, which was why he was requesting anonymity. “And where did you grow up, if I may ask?”

“We moved around because my father changed churches. We were Baptist and we went where the powers-that-be sent us. By the time I was fifteen, I had lived in twelve different states.”

“Oh my. Could you name a few of them?” Christine was wondering if one was Nevada. Donor 3319 had said that he was from Nevada, but he hadn’t mentioned anything about moving around.

“Let me see. New Mexico, Arizona, California for a lot of the time, then Colorado.”

“That’s a lot of moving around for a young child,” Christine said, relieved not to hear Nevada, but the list was incomplete. “Did you have a happy childhood?”

“No,” Zachary answered, without self-pity. “It wasn’t horrible, but it wasn’t great. My parents were very strict. It wasn’t a happy household. It was disciplined. They had high goals for me. High expectations.”

“That must’ve been difficult,” Christine heard herself say, the words coming oddly naturally. Years of teaching had trained her to be empathetic, and she couldn’t untrain herself in a day.

“In a way it was, but I understand the way my parents were. They weren’t always that way.”

“You mean they changed?”

“Um, yes.” Zachary hesitated again. “Do you need to put this in the story? Like, is this for your story?”

Christine smiled at him, trying to put him at ease. “No, I won’t print it if you don’t want to. It’s off the record. I’m just trying to understand your background.”

“Well, okay, my parents changed after my baby sister died.”

Christine blinked. None of this had been on the online profile of Donor 3319. “I thought you said you were an only child.”

“I wasn’t always, I had a little sister. Her name was Bella. She passed away when she was four, in an accident. It was awful.” Zachary sighed, pursing his lips. “There was a development we lived in, like a townhouse development in Denver, that had a retaining wall at the back. After a really bad rain, water would fill up there.”

Christine tensed, guessing where the story was going. Still, it wasn’t on the online profile, so she was hoping that it proved Jeffcoat wasn’t Donor 3319.

“Anyway, my mother was working two jobs then. She had the day job at the cafeteria, and at night she worked in a hospital, working for a janitorial company.”

Christine made a note to stay on track. Mother worked in hospital.

“My mom had worked the night before and she was really tired, and she was playing with Bella and reading to her out back on the blanket, like they always used to do. I remember, I used to go with them.” Zachary swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple traveling visibly up and down. “Anyway, my mother fell asleep, she dozed off on the blanket. She had worked so late, she had only gotten two hours’ sleep. Bella must have walked to the water and fallen off the retaining wall, and she drowned.”

“I’m so sorry,” Christine said, surprised to find herself meaning it. The story had an emotional power she couldn’t deny, and it threw her off from making her mental note of comparisons with Donor 3319.

Lauren shook her head. “That must’ve been awful, I’m so sorry.”

“Thanks. I came home with my dad, and I found them. My mom was asleep, and I’m the one who found Bella. I jumped in but I couldn’t save her. It was horrible. For Bella, for my mother.” Zachary shook his head, stricken, and Christine could see grief etching lines into his handsome face, which made it hard to believe he was a sociopathic serial killer.

Zachary continued, his tone quieter, “We were never the same after that, as a family. We fell apart. My dad tried to understand it, make sense of it in God’s plan, all that. My mother was a woman of faith, too, and she prayed and prayed for forgiveness.” Zachary’s blue eyes glistened, but he blinked them clear. “She blamed herself for falling asleep, for letting it happen, for being careless. But she wasn’t careless, it could have happened to anyone. It was a mistake. She was only human, overworked, underpaid, doing it all. She became very depressed. They died two years ago, they were hit by a drunk driver.”

“I’m so sorry,” Christine said, again. She hadn’t expected to hear such a moving story.

Zachary shook his head, his lips puckering. “That was when I lost my religion, that day. I was ten but I was old enough to doubt. I don’t believe in God anymore. I don’t believe in a God who would let my little sister drown.”

Christine reeled, trying to make the comparisons on the fly, so moved by his story of his sister’s death. She remembered that Donor 3319 had said he was an agnostic or atheist. Maybe this was why. Maybe Zachary really was Donor 3319.

“Anyway, that’s why I don’t blame them. It was a hard thing to go through, as a family, and I was happy when we moved away. That’s when we went to Nevada, and I graduated from high school in Reno.”

Nevada. “Where did you go after that, did you go to college?”

“Yes, I was a good student. Math comes really easily to me, all sciences do. I’m a logical thinker.”

Christine masked her dismay. Donor 3319 was good in math and logic. She didn’t seem to have to ask anything for Zachary to keep talking.

“I graduated from the University of Arizona magna cum laude, which is pretty good.” Zachary allowed himself a brief smile, and Christine smiled back, eager to latch on to a piece of good news.

“Well done, that couldn’t have been easy. What was your major?”

“Chem.”

Christine told herself to remain calm. Donor 3319 had been a chemistry major. “What did you do after graduation?”

“I worked, trying to save up the money to go to med school, but that was a dumb way. You can’t do it without loans.”

Christine held her breath at the mention of medical school, but she didn’t interrupt him. She knew Lauren would be thinking the same thing.

“I got into medical school at the University of Nebraska, Creighton. I was so excited about being a doctor. I really wanted to work in a research capacity, like try and cure something.”

“Like what?” Christine forced a smile, but her head was exploding. It was all adding up, just like Donor 3319, but she couldn’t bring herself to reach that conclusion. She just couldn’t.

“Something, anything to help society. Advance society. But the money was an issue for med school. The tuition was $65,000 a year, and I couldn’t get enough loans. The textbooks cost way too much, like $300 a pop, even if you buy used or e-books.” Zachary leaned forward, the conversation flowing more easily now that the harder subject had passed. “I worked every job I could get. Grocery bagger, math SAT tutor, research assistant. But I couldn’t come up with tuition. I got accepted, but I never went.”

“That’s a shame.” Christine realized it explained why the news reports hadn’t said he was in medical school. He had never gone. Had Donor 3319 or was he Donor 3319?

“I hope I get back someday, but I have to get out of here.” Zachary’s forehead buckled, his desperation plain, all over again. “I’m innocent, they have the wrong guy, I swear to you. I had a life, I had a future. I don’t belong in jail. You have no idea what it’s like in here. It’s scary as hell.” Zachary’s gorgeous eyes flared. “Please, I’ll tell you anything you need to know. Do you think you could help me get a private lawyer?”

“I don’t know,” Christine answered, unprepared for the question. “I’m here to write about you-”

“But you’re not, like, a real journalist with a real newspaper.” Zachary hesitated, frowning in an apologetic way. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I meant, the other reporters told me that they have ethical guidelines. They can’t help me get a lawyer. But you can, you’re on your own.”

“But I don’t know any lawyers here. I’m not from here. Don’t you know somebody, or maybe you could just investigate a private lawyer?”

“Not from inside, all they have are defenders, and they’re not good enough.” Zachary looked from Christine to Lauren with a new urgency. “Please can’t you guys help me? I can pay, I had a job selling medical instruments. I was making $65,000 a year.”

“Medical instruments?” Christine was thinking of the medical saw in the kill bag, which she’d read about in the news reports.

“Yes, I work for Brigham Instruments in West Chester, they make medical and surgical equipment. I’ve been working for them for two years, I have money in savings.” Zachary placed his hands on the counter, leaning closer to the Plexiglas, desperate again. “Please, can’t you find me a private lawyer? I need somebody good. You’re on the outside. Go into West Chester or go online. Find me a lawyer in Chester County.” Zachary met her eye, his blue eyes plaintive. “You’re the only reporter who asked me about myself, who asked about me. You’re obviously a caring person.”

“Thank you.” Christine felt touched, oddly.

“If you find me a lawyer, I’ll give you the exclusive. I’ll cooperate with your book, and only yours. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

Christine’s ears pricked up. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.

Lauren interjected, “Zachary, I have to ask, in the newspaper accounts, it said that they found things in your trunk that incriminated you, like the bone-cutting saw.”

“It’s my job to have saws in my trunk.” Zachary’s blue eyes flew open, pleading. “My trunk looks like the inside of an operating room. I drive around with samples. I demonstrate bone saws to doctors and surgeons. I don’t use my samples to kill anybody.”

Lauren paused. “Did you tell the police that?”

“My lawyer told me not to. She told me not to say a word to the cops. She told me not to answer any questions. I told you more than I told them.”

Christine found herself almost believing him. She could see the sincerity in his eyes and hear it in his voice. His whole manner seemed genuinely upset. The notion confounded her, but she didn’t know whether to trust her judgment, and she still wanted to know for sure if he was Donor 3319.

Lauren interjected, “Zachary, what about the other things they found in the trunk? The shovel, the garbage bag, they said it’s called a ‘kill bag’-”

“That’s no kill bag,” Zachary shot back, urgent. “My territory includes central Pennsylvania. You ever go out there in winter? You need a shovel to get out of that snow. I keep the garbage bags because I put them under the tires when I get stuck. I practically live in that car, I carry everything I need.” Zachary’s head swiveled from Lauren to Christine. “Listen, I swear to you, on the soul of my sister, I didn’t kill Gail Robinbrecht or anybody else, no matter what they say. It’s a rush to judgment, just because I was there. I never killed anybody. I’m no serial killer!” Zachary shook his head, anguished. “That’s just a story to sell more newspapers. I haven’t been linked to any of those murders by any authority. None of the police from any of those states or the FBI has gotten in touch with me or my lawyer. None of it’s true. None of it!”

Suddenly there was a loud rap at the metal door on the other side of the Plexiglas, and the corrections officer reappeared, taking stainless-steel handcuffs from his thick utility belt. “Jeffcoat, your time’s up.”

“Coming.” Zachary rose reluctantly, anguished. “Please, Christine, get me out of here. I’ll give you the exclusive. Find me a lawyer, please.”

“I understand,” Christine said, off-balance. She had run out of time to ask him, and she couldn’t go home without finding out. “Maybe we could talk again tomorrow? Would that be possible?”

Lauren looked over but said nothing.

“Yes, yes, anytime.” Zachary offered his wrists to the corrections officer behind his back. “We can talk every day if you want. Just help me, please. I’m begging you.”