'My sister and I fled the church that morning. Father tried to stop us, but I struck him down.' He smiles, once. 'No, I didn't kill him. He died of cancer ten years ago. I have no idea if he ever confessed to his sin. I like to think he did.'
'She never talks,' Alan says.
'He's in charge,' I reply. 'It's his show.'
This is common in serial killer teams. One acts as the dominant, calls the plays, provides the rationalization for their actions. Kirby hadn't been so far off the mark after all.
'We were troubled for a number of years, I will admit. We lost our way. The only thing we never lost was our love for each other.' His sister places a hand on his shoulder. He reaches up to hold it while continuing to speak. 'It took us some time to come back to God. I won't bore you with the ins and outs of that right now. There's time for our full story later. All that's important now is that truth: we did come back to God. I came to realize that the ruination of our lives was the result of a lie, a refusal to bare all to God, a refusal to confess in order to receive salvation.
'We have since applied this to ourselves, without mercy or restraint. I admitted to sexual longings for my sister. She did the same. We did our penance for our actions, for so nearly following in our parents' sinful footsteps. And we came, once again, to understand what God's purpose was for us.'
He glances up at her, she down at him, and they smile. It's an image made terrible because it is beatific. Monsters with halos and blood on their teeth. They return their gaze to the camera.
'God had tested us, from the moment of our conception. He gave us every reason to give up on Him. He provided us with betrayal, doubt, and suffering. He wanted to be sure we were strong enough. God tests all His prophets thus.
'I came to understand that the face of my father was the face of far too many. The holy man, devoting his life to God and others. The admirable soul who is yet willing to consign himself to eternal damnation because he is willing to reveal some of his secrets, but not all of them. My father admitted to having children out of wedlock, but not to the ultimate truth--that it had been his sister he slept with.
'I came to understand that it was our duty to bring others to the full light of God by ensuring they understood that God accepts only absolutes in His truth. Be truthful about all, be factually contrite, ask Him to forgive, and He will cleanse the sin from you. Admit to nine sins of ten, hold back the one, and you will burn forever.
'We have devoted our lives to this work. It has been difficult. Thou shalt not kill, one of God's most basic dictates. But all those we killed had confessed to their sins, and all save one were truly contrite. How else could we know about them? We only took souls who had admitted their sins to a priest in holy confession. They were martyrs, all but one, pierced in the side as Christ on the cross, and the contrite now sit at the right hand of the Lord.' He pauses. 'The child is the exception, of course. I have no doubt that she is burning as I speak. She died to illuminate the other half of the sacred agreement: contrition. Because of these deaths, millions more will understand that they are not alone, that we all have shameful things inside us. We all have a darker side we must admit to if we're to experience the fullness of the love of God. And oh, how wonderful that love is. God is many things, but most of all, God is love.'
The first visible hint of insanity reveals itself. It's subtle. A certain shine to the eyes, a higher pitch to the voice. But it's there. Behind it will be the truth of what he's doing and done and why. Shame at the circumstances that caused their birth, betrayal by those they trusted, all of it wrapped in the religion in which they were raised. I don't care how flowery the phrases are, how carefully thought out the rationalizations; serial murder is sublimated rage. There are no exceptions. I consider, again, the fact that the victims were all women and realize that Callie had been correct when she spoke about the Madonna and the whore. Michael Murphy blamed his aunt/mother more than he blamed his father, and the women he murdered had paid the price.
'That stage of our work is done. We're ready now, to move forward, to take the next step on the path God has laid for us. Come find us. We are ready. We will go willingly, and will not fight back.'
Fade to black.
'Isn't that nice of them?' Callie says, scorn in her voice. 'Poor babies, boo-hoo for them. Daddy was an asshole, join the club.'
I tend to agree with her sentiments; we all do. Life is rough, even cruel and unjust. That's no excuse for turning on your fellow man. The nature versus nurture argument has raged for years, and will rage for more. I think there is truth in the need for a good environment. Our future is informed by what we experience as children. Statistics bear this out too often to be discounted.
Approximately one-third of the abused go on to become abusers. But what about the other two-thirds? All those abused, mistreated, beaten, and betrayed, who went on to lead normal lives? Haunted forever by their experiences, maybe even permanently damaged, but--
and here's the point--still decent? For every victim of molestation who goes on to offend against children as an adult, we can find examples of victims who went on to become kind and loving parents. What is the difference between the two? Are some of us just born able to carry bigger burdens than others?
Michael and Frances had been dealt a bad hand, true, but it was hardly crippling. Not even close to the worst I'd ever heard. The fact that they'd managed to spin their misfortune into a rationalization for twenty years of murder is, for me, more a testament to their weakness and their guilt than a reason to sympathize.
'I don't really care why,' I say. 'I just want to put them in jail.'
'I can get behind that,' Alan agrees.
In the end, this is the simplicity that saves us. Looking for reasons why, trying to get down to that deep, dark bedrock, is just a serpent eating its own tail. In the end, you won't find truth, you'll just devour yourself. At some point we have to stop trying to understand why and accept that our only job is to remove them from society. It's easier with some than others.
'Let's get a current address,' I say, 'and give them their wish.'
AN HOUR HAS PASSED SINCE the discoveries began to come so fast and furious. AD Jones is in our offices, along with my team and the FBI SWAT.
The head of our SWAT is Sam Brady, Callie's fiance. Brady is in his mid-forties and he's a tall, lanky man, standing around six-four, with close-cropped hair and a face that can be as grim as his profession calls for. I've seen other sides to him and have come to know a man at peace with who he is. He loves Callie quietly, but he loves her deeply and he seems to bring this approach to everything in his life. He's solid and all man and utterly unintimidated by Callie. Brady has watched the last video clip of the Preacher.
'I don't recommend going in hot,' he says. 'I'm not the expert, but it seems to me that they want to be taken into custody. Need it, even.'
'I agree,' I say, 'but I'm not confident enough about it to go knock on the front door. I think we should set up a perimeter and talk them out via phones or bullhorns. If they want to come quietly, we'll let them. If not . . .' I shrug. 'Tear gas time.'
He considers this and nods. 'I'll get my team geared up. Give us twenty minutes.'
'We'll meet you in the parking lot.'
I AM CHECKING MY WEAPON and readying my mind. We all are.
'Hey,' Alan says, ratcheting back the slide on his weapon, 'if you know the death penalty is on the table and you plead guilty--is that suicide?'
'I think in their case they're confident that it's martyrdom.'
He holsters his weapon and sighs. 'Yeah. So, do you think they meant it about coming quietly?'
'I think so. But you can never be sure at the end.'
Suicide, by self or by cop, is an oft-preferred solution for a criminal when the jig's up. Most accepted from the beginning that they would die if discovered.
'Seems strange they have a house in the Valley,' he muses.
'Probably drove by it once or twice and never knew.'
James's cell phone rings. He answers, listens, and frowns.
'What's that?' he asks. His face goes white. 'Send it to me now.'
'What is it?' I ask.
'Bitch,' he breathes, but it has an odd sound to it. More desperate than insulting.
'James?'
He looks at me.
