The house is in Reseda. It's an older ranch style home from the 1960s that hasn't seen much updating since. The blue and white wood trim is cracked and peeling. The lawn is full of dead or dying grass. The windows are dirty and the curtains look old. The Murphys don't care about this home; it's just a place to camp between murders. Brady jabs a finger at the picture windows that lead into the living room.
'No finesse. On my go we're going to toss flash-bangs through the windows, and simultaneously smash open the front door and throw in a few more. Then we breach and take them down. My team will enter, we'll call you in when it's clear.'
Brady's voice is low and urgent. His men are silent and still, but it's the tense motionlessness of a track runner waiting for the starter pistol to go off.
Kirby screams for the first time and we hear it in stereo; it plays from the computer speakers and filters out from the house.
'Wait for the next scream,' I say. 'That's when they'll be the most off guard.'
In the end, the monsters are all the same. They live for the screams.
Brady looks at me and frowns.
'It's her best chance,' I say. 'Better another shock than a bullet. She can take it.'
Brady processes this in a heartbeat; he nods and then signals to his men in the front to be ready. One is poised at the picture window. Another stands by the front door with a battering ram, while yet another waits next to him, flash-bangs in hand. Brady has his HK53 at the ready.
My team and I stand back by the cars. Everyone has their weapons out. The moon hangs above us all, silver and unforgiving. We'd just arrived, so the neighborhood hasn't yet woken up to our presence. That will change in another heartbeat. There is a sense of time passing by the second, or the millisecond, or the nanosecond. Everything hangs, a tremendous waiting. Kirby screams and the world explodes.
Flash-bangs crash through the window. The battering ram hits the door once, the doorjamb is destroyed as the door flies open. More grenades are tossed inside and again that stereo-echo as they detonate. I see it happen from the outside, I hear it happen from the inside, and it all happens in the blink of an eye. Brady rushes into the home, followed by his men. There's no hesitation in their motion; everything they do is committed, decisive, swift. The camera has fallen over and now faces a wall. I can't tell what's happening inside.
'Come on,' James mutters. 'Hang in there, Kirby.' I don't think he's even aware that he's saying it.
I hear Brady and his men yelling at the Murphys.
'Get down on the fucking ground!'
Grunts and sounds of a scuffle follow. I hear thuds. A minute later Brady is at the door, motioning us in. We run.
The living room is to the immediate right. The Murphys are both down on their stomachs on the floor. They are looking at each other and their lips are moving.
' 'Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,' '
Michael says.
' 'I will fear no evil,' ' Frances replies.
'Shut the fuck up,' Brady growls.
They ignore him and continue their recitation.
James moves to Kirby. The smell of feces and urine and sweat are strong in the room. Her head hangs down, her hair brushes her thighs. He kneels in front of her, puts a hand under her chin, and lifts it up. It's a tender act, unexpected.
'Are you okay?'
'S-stupid . . . stupid question,' she croaks.
She's talking to him, but her eyes are on me. They are pleading with me.
'Everyone out of here except Callie and me,' I order. Hesitation and quizzical looks follow. The Lord's Prayer murmurs in the silence, like flies buzzing against a screen.
'I mean it,' I say. 'Now, please.'
Only James seems to understand. He stands up and heads for the door without another word. Brady's men pull the Murphys to their feet and begin to walk them outside. Michael stops in front of Kirby.
'You didn't confess. You're going to hell, you know.'
'S-see you th-th-there,' Kirby hisses. She tries to blow him a kiss but fails.
'Get them out of here,' I say.
Alan is the last to leave.
'I'll watch the door,' he says, and pulls it shut behind him.
'C-can Callie clear o-o-out too?'
'I need her help, Kirby,' I tell her, my voice gentle. 'She was there for me right after. You can trust her.'
Callie remains silent as Kirby studies her with a weary eye.
'K, c-can you please get me out of this?'
'Of course, honey-love,' Callie tells her softly, kneeling next to the chair.
Callie pulls a pocketknife from her purse. As she begins to cut the ropes, Kirby starts to shiver. I put one hand on her shoulder, move the hair back from her brow with the other. When the ropes are off, she rubs her wrists and sits there for a moment, shaking.
'C-can I t-tell you something?' she whispers to us.
'Anything,' Callie says.
She smiles. 'I'm ab-b-bout t-to run out of s-s-steam . . .'
We catch her as she topples forward from the chair in a dead faint. This is what I'd seen in her eyes, that thing I'd understood. Kirby was about to fall apart and she wanted as few witnesses to that secret as possible.
KIRBY CLINGS TO ME, HER arms around my neck, as Callie washes her in the bathtub. We clean her like a baby, and she lets us. It's a moment of trust not likely to roll by again. Her muscles twitch and spasm, and her grip tightens as Callie (gently, so gently) wipes her private areas for her.
'Want to hear my confession?' she whispers in my ear, so faint I'm sure that only I can hear her.
I say nothing. I feel Kirby's lips smile against my skin.
'I had a friend, when I was sixteen, who got murdered by her boyfriend. He beat her to death and ran. I found him one year later and it took him three days to die. I wasn't even eighteen, but I never felt a lick of guilt about it.'
I say nothing. I stroke her hair. She puts her head on my shoulder and sighs.
Everyone, even Kirby, needs to tell someone their secrets, sometimes.
43
'WHAT DID YOU DO WITH THE BODIES?'
I sit in the room with Michael Murphy, as I have with so many others like him, trying to pry out his final secrets. The last confession. He examines me, my scars, tries (I guess) to look into my soul.
'Are you Catholic?' he asks me.
'Not anymore.'
'Do you believe in God?'
'Maybe. What did you do with the bodies?'
He hid from us for twenty years. Where did the victims go?
He sits at this table as he sat at the one in his video clips. The rosary has been replaced by cuffs around the wrists, but the posture is the same. Michael Murphy is exactly where he wants to be. In his mind, jail was just the next best pulpit to preach from, the death penalty he and his sister had received was an opportunity for martyrdom. They confessed without prompting or the need for a trial. In terms of the video clips, 'viral' remained an apt term. They've made their way around the world and back again via the Internet. In most instances their use is voyeuristic, the opportunity to peer into the last moments of another human being, to put an ear to the confessional booth. But it can't be denied that they ignited a debate that will probably rage on for months or longer.
There are those who feel that their methods were inexcusable, but that the message still has merit. Murder,
