Of course Douglas had called her, furious that she’d allowed Savich to call him. It took her ten minutes to talk him out of coming over to her town house. He said he’d spoken to Can-dice, who’d been visited by the police. He was outraged that anyone would believe she had tried to run down Lacey. It had been an accident.
“I wouldn’t be leaving unless I was certain it was an accident, Lacey. I want you to be certain, though, that it wasn’t Candice.”
“I’m certain, Douglas.” She’d have said her tongue was purple to get him off the phone. “Don’t worry. I’m fine. Everything is fine. Go home.”
“Yes, I am. I’m taking Candice home too.”
Now that sounded interesting, but she was too tired to ask him to explain.
The next morning, Big John Bullock, Marlin Jones’s lawyer, was on CNN, telling the interviewer, a drop-dead gorgeous guy who looked like a model right out of GQ, that the FBI and the Boston police had forced Marlin to confess, that he hadn’t known what he was doing because he’d been in so much pain. He would have said anything so they’d give him more medication. Any judge would throw out a confession made under those circumstances.
Was Marlin guilty? the gorgeous young hunk asked, giving the audience a winning smile even as he said the words.
Big John shrugged and said that wasn’t the point. That was for a jury to decide. The point was the police harassment of the poor man, who wasn’t well either mentally or physically. Lacey knew then that if the judge didn’t suppress the confession, Big John would go for an insanity plea. The evidence was overwhelming. Lacey knew that when the lawyer saw all the evidence against Marlin, he’d have no choice but to go for an insanity plea.
Lacey just stared at the TV screen, at that model interviewer whose big smile was the last thing on the screen before the program skipped to a toothpaste commercial. She’d been a fool. She should have shot Marlin straight through the heart.
She would have saved the taxpayers thousands upon thousands of dollars. It would have been justice and revenge for all the women he’d butchered.
By the next afternoon, MAXINE hadn’t come up with a thing. There were no differences at all in Belinda’s killing versus the other women’s. Only tiny variations, nothing at all significant.
She felt better. Belinda would finally find justice, if the little psycho ever made it to trial. A psychopath wasn’t crazy, necessarily, even not usually. But who else knew that? Then she pictured him with Russell Bent of Chicago, both of them playing cards in the rec room of the state mental institution, both of them smiling at each other, joking about the idiot liberal judges and dumb-ass shrinks who believed they weren’t responsible for their savagery because they’d had bad childhoods.
She had to stop it. There was nothing more she could do. Her father was right. Douglas was right. It was over. It was time to get on with her life.
19
IT HAD TO BE MARLIN Jones.”
“It seems likely, but you don’t sound as if you’re really satisfied.”
“I’m not, but MAX-oh, I forgot, he’s in drag-MAXINE-didn’t turn up a single variation in the way Belinda was murdered as opposed to the other women. Marlin killed them all, he had to have.” She sighed. “But why did he leave out Belinda in particular? It makes no sense.”
“I’m glad you’re not satisfied. I’m glad you have that itch in your gut,” Savich said slowly, tapping his pencil on his desktop, deliberately. “You’ve inputted all the physical data and run endless comparisons, but there are other aspects you need to take into account. Now you’ve got to finish it.”
She was frowning ferociously. A long, curling piece of hair flopped into her face. She shoved it behind her ear, not even aware of what she was doing.
He smiled as he said, “MAXINE and I have been doing a little work. It’s her opinion that we need to go back to the props. Okay, think now about how he killed the women. Think about what he used to kill them and where he killed them.”