“And he got his way. But there’s always some kind of motive. Psychotic or otherwise.
Peake’s no criminal superman, just pathetic. Derrick plotted it all out. Good against evil; Derrick gives, Derrick takes away.”
Another drink poured. Milo said, “Daredevil Avenger.”
“On some level, Derrick probably started believing his own P.R. Peake as surrogate monster, Derrick as angel of deliverance. But Peake just doesn’t fit any type of psychotic killer. He’s never shown any indication of a delusional system, bloody or otherwise, never acted violently before the massacre or since. He’s a retarded man with advanced schizophrenia, organic brain damage, alcoholic dementia. Crimmins called him a meat puppet and that’s exactly what he was, right from the beginning.
Derrick and Cliff got him drunk, borrowed his shoes they were able to even though they were much taller, because Peake’s feet are disproportionately large. One or both of them walked through the Ardullo house slashing and bludgeoning. Two killers would have made it easier, quicker. The sneaker prints pointed to Peake and led to his shack. With that kind of proof, why bother looking any further? And don’t forget who was in charge: Haas, a part-time cop, absolutely no homicide experience. Then the FBI came in and did an after-the-fact profile.”
Milo had two more shots.
“One other thing,” I said. “That night, when Peake had his hand taped to the gun, he was experiencing plenty of tardive symptoms. Lots of movement; you’d think he would’ve pulled the trigger just by chance. But he didn’t. And I swear there were times, looking at him, that he seemed to be resisting. Forcing himself to hold back.”
He pushed his drink away. Swiveled on his stool and stared.
“He’s a hero now?”
“Make of it what you will.”
Another shot. He said, “So what are you going to do about it?”
“What can I do? Like you said, no proof. And one way or the other, Peake’s going to need confinement. I suppose Starkweather’s as good a place as any.”
“Starkweather in the post-Swig era,” he said. “I heard his uncle found him a job on someone else’s staff.”
“Swig was a mediocre man trying to do a wizard’s job. There’re no easy solutions.”
“So Peake stays put.” “Peake stays put.” “You’re okay with that.”
“Do I have a choice?” I said. “Let’s say I do raise a stink, somehow manage to free him. Some do-gooder will see that he gets out on the street, which’ll turn him into just another homeless wretch. He can’t take care of himself. He’d be dead in a week.”
“So we’re putting him away for his own good.” “Yes,” I said, surprised at the harshness in my voice. “Who the hell said life was fair?” He stared at me again.
“That day in his room,” I said, “when I talked to Peake about the Ardullo children and he began to cry, I misjudged him. I thought it was all self-pity. But he was feeling real pain. Not just at being blamed for it. At what happened. Maybe he revealed some of that to Claire, and that’s what kept her going with him. Or maybe she never saw it. But it was real, I’m sure of it. Right after that is when he jumped up, assumed the Jesus pose. He was telling me he’d been martyred. Suffered
for someone else’s sins. Not sorry for himself. At peace with it.”
“Telling you,” he said. “Severely low-functioning, but he’s worth listening to?”
“Oh, yeah,” I said. “It always pays to listen.” We sat in silence for a long time.
Someone else replaced Jimmy Buffett, but I couldn’t tell you who.
I threw money on the bar. “Let’s get out of here.” He lifted himself with effort.
“You going to see him again?” “Probably,” I said.
The End