The Killing Hour

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Landry is confused. It’s like Feldman is having a conversation with somebody who isn’t here. Feldman understands this is a trial-is he trying some sort of insanity defense? Perhaps he’s not trying one-perhaps he really is just that insane. Would it make a difference?

It would. If Feldman wasn’t in control, if there really is something in his brain that isn’t wired up right, then the guy cannot be held accountable. If he had arrested him and not brought him out here instead, then over the following days they would look into his life and see if there was any history of being mentally unstable.

That’s not what is going on here. Feldman is in control of his actions. Of course he is. He’s a psychopath. Only that word doesn’t come close to describing Feldman. He doesn’t know what word does. It would probably take a combination of words. A string of them. Long-lettered terms that only doctors with diplomas would know how to pronounce. Landry has never dealt with anybody so messed up, and in a way this actually helps. It helps that with each sentence that comes out of Feldman’s mouth Landry knows his decision to bring the man out here is the right one. Hell, it’s even cost-effective.

He adjusts the gun across his knees, shrugs his shoulders back to offset the beginning cramp, and shifts further into the chair. Not much longer to go. So far the only thing that Feldman has said that may be remotely true is what he said about his wife. There was something in his words that frightened Landry. Something that suggested perhaps she has been helping. If that’s the case, then she’ll have called the police by now. It means there’s no going back. Not that it matters. He’s a dead man anyway.

“You just said you weren’t jealous. Weren’t jealous of who? Jo?”

“I liked Kathy, that’s all. Is that a crime?”

“The way you liked her it sure as hell was. Why’d you kill Luciana in the bathroom?” he asks, catching himself using the victim’s first name. How long has he been doing that? It means he’s personalized them; it means this has become more than just a case. But why the hell not? If he’s going to kill a man it ought to be over somebody with a first name. They deserve to be personalized. They deserve justice. Revenge? Do they deserve revenge? Of course they do. That’s why he’s out here.

Is it? You’re not out here for yourself?

He decides not to answer that.

“Why not the bedroom? You said she’d already showered, so why take her back in there?”

“I don’t know why,” Feldman says, and Landry has heard that same answer before from dozens of men unable to explain why they killed dozens of women.

“She was still alive, Feldman, when you rammed that stake into her heart.” He leans forward and tightens his grip on the shotgun. “We know that because of the blood splatter. Her heart pumped all that blood out into the bathtub.”

“Answer me this,” Feldman says. “The phone call to the police. How did the phone get outside if I burst into her house when they arrived home?”

“Because Luciana made it outside. You took the phone off her and broke it before dragging her back inside.”

“Yeah? She made it all the way out there and didn’t scream for help?”

“You got to her before she could.”

“Why would I snap the keys off in the ignition of the van?”

“You broke the keys because the van was stolen and you had use of the victim’s car.”

“Come on, that doesn’t even make sense. What would be the point? Even if I was using the victim’s car, what reason would I have to break off the key?”

“Because it was an accident.”

“An accident? Do you know anybody who’s ever accidently done that?” Feldman shakes his head. “You have all the answers, don’t you. Doesn’t matter that they don’t make sense. The craziest thing of all is that you think I’m the crazy one.”

Landry jumps to his feet, frustrated that a man like this can label him anything, let alone crazy. He moves quickly across the room, wanting to strike him hard with the shotgun, but when he takes aim and Feldman twists away he realizes this sick son of a bitch probably isn’t that far off in his assessment. Of course he’s crazy. No sane police detective would have brought a suspect out here with the pretense of a trial. He lowers the gun and steps back. Feldman turns toward him and opens his eyes, his body relaxing with relief.

“The cars don’t make sense,” Feldman says. “How can my car have been there, Luciana’s disappear, and me also having used the van? How can I have stolen Luciana’s car, and driven mine away at the same time?”

“Because your car wasn’t there.”

“It was. I was driving it.”

“No. You left your car near your wife’s house. You then stole a van. You drove to Luciana’s house and for some reason you snapped the keys in the ignition. You then stole her car. You drove to Kathy’s house and killed her. Then you drove back to your car and swapped them back over. Then you abducted your wife.” He sucks in another breath of cigarette smoke. Good, sweet smoke. Help me get through this. “Why did you keep her breast?”

“I’m innocent,” Feldman says.

The pieces all fit together nicely without worrying about Feldman being innocent. The stake in Feldman’s home. The severed breast. The bloody clothes. The letter he wrote. The cuts and bruises on his skin. His ramblings during their interview. His lying at the start of the evening. The bloodstained notepad with his name on it. Kidnapping his wife. What more does he need?

Nothing. He already has more than any jury would need to convict.

Are you sure? Are you really that sure? Or are the pills fucking with you?

He flicks his cigarette butt toward the fireplace, only managing to get half the distance required. He pulls out the packet and lights another. He’s sick of this. He wants to go home. Wants to retire. Wants never to have heard of Charlie Feldman. “I want to hear it in your own words.”

“Hear what?”

He sucks in a deep breath. The air is cold and tastes of mildew and cigarette smoke. “Just tell me the truth. Things’ll be easier on both of us. We can get this over with.”

“I’ve been telling you the truth.”

“Which one of them did it to you, Feldman? Which woman was the lucky one to give you that nice bruise on your forehead?”

“Look, Detective, what you’re doing is crazy. Think about it. You’ve brought me-”

“Shut up, Feldman,” he says.

“Just think about what-”

“Are you deaf? The comic deaf man? Is that it?”

Jesus, why is he even bothering looking for a confession? He ought to just do what he came out here to do. Go home. Get drunk. Sleep it off. Get drunk again in the morning. Get drunk every morning between now and the end. Staying drunk might turn all of this into a very bad dream.

“What about the door to my house?” Feldman asks. “You know somebody broke in. You know somebody trashed my room. Why would I cut her breast off and leave it on my bed? Why would I let you inside knowing that? If I was going to kill somebody I’d hide all the evidence.”

“I’m the one who broke into your house, Feldman.”

Feldman cocks his head and pulls back a little. “What? You did all that?”

“I broke in last night. Your house was fine. You must have come back after then and done all that damage. And you wanted a souvenir, Feldman. Your type always does. And your type is always so Goddamn cocky you never think we’re going to show up.”

“Why would I trash my own house?”

“Because you knew we would find you. You trashed it in an effort to draw attention away from yourself. You think by saying all this nonsense it diverts suspicion away from you. That’s what you were counting on if you ever got caught. Come on, Feldman, I’m getting sick and tired of your bullshit.”

“You’re saying-”

“Here’s what I know, Feldman. I know you’ve lied to me. You told me you didn’t know these two women when you did. You told me you weren’t at their homes when you were. You have a stake similar to the kind used on them. You have a body part in your house. Your clothes were covered in blood. You admitted that you kidnapped your wife. Your name and phone number was found on a notepad next to one of the victims. Only they weren’t victims, were they, Feldman? They deserved it. They mocked you or rejected you or looked at you funny. Or did they simply forget to smile when you stood in line behind them at the supermarket?”

“It doesn’t matter, does it?”

“What?”

“You keep saying you’ll hear me out, but you won’t. You have your mind made up.”

“I said I’d hear you out, and I have. I didn’t say I was going to believe whatever bullshit you came up with.”

“I’m not going to confess to something I didn’t do,” Feldman says, “and that’s what you want to hear, isn’t it, so you don’t have to feel so guilty about shooting me. It’s not going to happen. I didn’t hurt those women. My wife is safe. If you’re waiting for me to tell you what you want to hear, then you’re wasting your time. I’m not playing your game anymore. You may as well go ahead and do whatever it is you came out here to do.”

“Fair enough,” he says. He stands up and points the shotgun at Feldman. Think, Goddamn it, think. You’re a police officer, your job is to uphold the law. Is that what you’re doing? It is? Well, why don’t you take a look at yourself?

Keeping the shotgun level he moves to the door and slides it open. The cold wind sweeps into the cabin, chilling Landry to the bone. It chills his mind too, and in these few frozen seconds he hates himself for what he’s going to do before the night is over.

No. No, no, no. He’s gone through this already, he’s gone through this and justified it.

Sure you’ve justified it. But you’re hiding something too, aren’t you? The change of clothes. The Bible. You knew where tonight was always going to go. It’s not that you came out here with no plan. You came out here with a bad one.

He looks over at Feldman. The anger is starting to return, but not all of it is directed at this murderer, yet to direct some of it at himself is detrimental. He hates Feldman. He hates Feldman because all of this is his fault. He hates Feldman for forcing him to do this.

Worst of all, he hates himself.