“Just between us boys, Dave, did he do it?”
“I can’t talk about that, Tom,” David said, hoping Gault would change the subject. “That’s privileged information.”
“Sure, I forgot. Say, what would happen if someone popped up and confessed? You know, said he did it. Would that guy get off because Stafford’s been found guilty?”
“Not if the person who confessed was the killer. They’d let Stafford out and put the real murderer on trial.”
“That makes sense.”
For a moment Gault appeared to be deep in thought. David was very tired and he wanted to get on with Gault’s problem. He was about to speak when Gault said, “I’ve got one for you, old buddy. What if some guy came to you as a client and told you he did it, but he says he doesn’t want you to tell anyone. What happens then?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you can’t repeat anything a client tells you, right? I mean, there’s that privilege, right?”
“I see what you’re getting at. I’d have to do some research, but I guess I couldn’t tell anyone about the confession.”
A wry smile played on Gault’s lips.
“And an innocent man would stay in prison.”
There was a wistfulness in Gault’s tone that alarmed David.
“Yes,” he answered uneasily.
“That would put you in a tough position, wouldn’t it, old buddy?”
“Look, Tom, I really am tired. What’s this legal problem that’s so urgent?”
“Don’t want to discuss the murder of that police lady, huh?”
“Not really.”
“Don’t you want to know who did it?” Gault asked in a voice so low that David wasn’t sure he’d heard him correctly.
“Got your interest now, don’t I? But, hell, if you’re really tired, we can talk some other time.”
David didn’t move and he didn’t answer. He was suddenly very aware of how isolated Gault’s house was. The writer’s eyes twinkled, giving a devilish cast to his handsome features.
“You know, I really felt bad when Larry was convicted. I thought for sure you’d get him off. And there’s another thing. I don’t think it’s fair, his getting all the credit when I did all the work. It’s sort of like someone getting a Pulitzer for a book I ghosted.”
“Are you telling me that you killed Darlene Hersch?”
“That’s right, old buddy. I did it.”
“If this is another joke like that confession to Julie’s murder, it’s in bad taste.”
Gault’s smile widened.
“I killed Julie, too. I want you to know that. And there have been others.”
“Ortiz said the killer had curly blond hair,” David said, trying to keep his voice steady.
“He did.”
Gault stood up and walked over to a desk near the doorway. He pulled a blond wig from the bottom drawer and showed it to David.
“I was so damn famous after that trial, I had to disguise myself every time I wanted a little action.
“You know, Dave, there are some girls that like to get laid by the criminal element, but you’d be surprised at the number that are turned off by the prospect of winding up the evening dead. Actually, I don’t look half-bad as a blond.”
“Why did you kill Darlene Hersch?”
“I’m a little ashamed about that. The truth is, I panicked. I’d been out at a few bars and couldn’t score. Then, what do I behold, but a vision of loveliness standing on the corner.”
Gault shook his head sadly at the memory.
“I had terrific plans for Darlene, but she went ahead and spoiled everything by trying to arrest me.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Like I said, I panicked. Hit her quick. Then I realized I’d have to finish her. I’d had enough of the law after my murder trial, and I didn’t relish another trial for assaulting a police officer.”
“And the others you mentioned?”
A wistful expression replaced Gault’s smile.
“You know, you’d think I would have been happiest after I made all that money from the books and the movies, but the years as a mercenary were the best times. I felt alive then.
“Life is dull, Dave, deadly dull. One boring, repetitive act after another, until you die. But a creative person can create experiences. Being rich was an experience. And marrying that bitch movie star. It’s something most people only read about, but I made it happen. Only that gets boring, too, so you have to move on.
“All experiences become boring after a while, Dave, except one. Killing never gets boring.”
“Why are you telling me this?” David asked.
“I trust you, Dave. Especially after the way you worked so hard to defend me when, in your heart, you thought I was guilty. I still remember your closing argument. So forceful. So sincere. And all the time you thought I was guilty as sin. A man who can lie like that can be trusted.
“I’ve wanted to discuss, I guess you’d call it my philosophy, for a long time, but until I learned about this attorney-client privilege, I couldn’t take the risk. Now I feel a lot better, knowing that anything I tell you is confidential.”
David couldn’t move or speak. He felt wasted. Gault studied him, then burst out laughing. David half expected, hoped, that Gault would say this was all a joke.
“Puts you in a predicament, don’t it? Stafford rots in prison because you folded at trial…”
David’s head jerked up and he started to say something, but Gault raised his hand.
“Hey, old buddy, I’m not being critical. It’s just the word goin’ around. I do a little reporting, remember. That means interviewing. There are a lot of lawyers who figured that you could have kept Johnson off the stand if you wanted to. But you didn’t, did you? And we both know why, don’t we?”
Gault winked and David felt his heartbeat quicken.
“What do…?”
“It’s okay, old buddy. We all have our little secrets. And yours is safe with me. I got a tad suspicious when I ran into you and Stafford’s old lady in that cozy dinner spot, so, in the interests of good journalism, I decided to follow you. It turned out to be pretty easy, especially at night.
“Hey, don’t get uptight. I’m nonjudgmental. Shit, a guy who’s murdered a couple of people can’t go around throwing stones at someone for dickin’ a married woman, can he?”
“You son of a bitch,” David said hoarsely.
“Hell, I’m worse than that. But there’s no reason to take this personally, and as I said, your secret is safe with me, just like I know mine is safe with you.”
“You’d let an innocent man stay in prison for something you did?” David said, immediately feeling ridiculous for asking the question of a man like Gault.
“What choice have I got? To get him out, I’d have to put me in.”
Gault walked back to the desk and replaced the wig.
“Tom,” David said cautiously, “I think you need help. It’s a good sign that you’ve decided to talk to me and-”
Gault shook his head, amused.
“None of that psychiatric horseshit, please,” he said, wandering out of David’s line of vision. “I’m not crazy, old buddy. I’m a sociopath. Read your textbooks more carefully. See, I know what I’m doing, I just don’t give a shit, because I don’t have the same moral structure you have.” Gault was directly behind David and the writer’s voice was low, soft, and vaguely menacing. “In fact, Dave, I don’t have any moral structure at all.”
Gault stopped speaking. It was completely quiet in the house. David’s heart was racing with fear. He wanted to run, but he couldn’t move.
“A sociopath operates on a pleasure-pain principle,” Gault continued. “If you and a sociopath were all alone in a dark house with no one around for miles, a sociopath is the type of person who could kill you, just for kicks, if he thought he could get away with it.”
