The Darker Side

very efficient and easy to purchase. We used them to strip the bodies of their flesh, and then we ground the bones into powder and tossed the powder onto consecrated ground.'

'You had them . . . eaten?' My voice is incredulous.

'The body is just a vessel, Smoky. Their souls are in heaven.' He is calm, assured, certain.

'I'm sure their families will appreciate that.'

'It doesn't matter if they do or they do not. The truth remains the truth.'

I fight the desire to strangle him with my bare hands. Just a few more questions.

'How did you find out about Dexter Reid?'

'Dexter's . . . situation became a controversial topic on a number of Catholic blogs. We monitored worldwide Catholic-oriented news via the Internet daily.'

I picture Michael and Frances as ghouls, crouched together in the dark, faces lit by a computer screen as they licked their dead lips and sifted through cyberspace.

'Let's discuss your method of operation. Was it always the same?

Frances infiltrated the congregation and bugged the confessionals?'

He nods. 'We'd listen to the tapes together and make our choice. Frances would befriend them, learn their patterns.'

'And you'd do the killing.'

'She helped at times, but generally, yes. That was our division of labor.'

'Then she'd stay with the congregation for a while after, so no one would suspect her of taking part in the disappearance.'

'Correct.'

'You started your . . . work before the Internet existed. What did you plan to do originally? With the tapes you made?'

'We weren't certain. We knew we needed to record our work, but I'll admit it wasn't clear to us at first just how those records would be used. Would we send them to a news organization? Direct to the people?' He glances up and smiles. 'We trusted God would show us the way, and in His time, He did.'

'Why did you change tack with Lisa Reid? You infiltrated her congregation personally.'

He shrugs. 'Eagerness, I suppose. We spent twenty years building our case. We knew our work was nearly done, and didn't want to wait a second longer than was necessary. As we were going to come out into the open, there was no further need to be so careful. Besides, it gave me the opportunity to leave my own thumbprint on the chalice.'

'Weren't you concerned that Lisa would recognize you on the plane?'

'I wore a beard, and changed the color of my eyes. She'd always seen me in a wheelchair before. When someone is handicapped, quite often all people remember is the affliction.'

True enough, I think.

'How did you know that your work was done?'

This is a key question for me, the behavior that makes Michael and Frances unique. Serial killers like to kill. They kill until they are stopped by capture or death. The Murphys had effectively stopped themselves by revealing their hand.

'We'd always known, had always agreed, that we would understand the moment when we had done enough. A few months ago, it was given to us that that moment had come.'

'How?'

Michael Murphy looks right into my eyes and smiles, and it is the sweetest smile I've ever seen, the most beatific expression on a human face I've ever witnessed.

'God told me.'

His voice radiates with awe. This is no joke or test.

'He spoke to you?'

'Even better--He appeared to me. It was approximately three months ago. I'd been sleeping fitfully for some reason that night, which was unusual. I always sleep deeply, and well. I had dozed off for a moment. I was at the precipice, that place where you tumble into true unconsciousness, when His voice came to me.'

'What did He say?' I prod, though I don't really need to. He's there, in that moment, hearing the voice of God.

' 'Michael,' He said, 'you've done well, my son. You've walked a difficult path at great personal risk to yourself, but the time has come for the next part of your journey.' '

I notice that only Michael gets the credit in this narrative; no mention of Frances.

' 'The time has come for you to reveal the truth to the world. It will not be easy. Many will revile you and reject the Word, but do not let that deter you. My way is the Way, and you must continue forward even though you walk through a field of broken glass.' ' Tears are running down Michael's face now. ' 'Yes, Lord,' I cried out to Him.

'Whatever You ask, I will obey. Whatever burdens You give me, I will carry.' ' He pauses for a long time. I wait him out. 'Then He was gone, and I felt energized and refreshed, even though I hadn't slept. I felt as though I could run for days, weeks, months, years.' He comes back to the present, wipes the tears from his face without seeming to notice he's doing it. He focuses on me again. 'God put us on that path. God told me we had come to the end of it. That's the way it's always been, for all the prophets since time began.'

He believes it. Every word. I can see it on his face, hear it in his voice. The insanity is back in his eyes again, that bright and shining light. Why had they stopped? For the same reason they had started; the Murphys were insane.

'What about Valerie Cavanaugh, Michael? She was a break in your pattern. Each victim had an outward secret that masked something darker. What was Valerie's outward secret?'

He pauses, thinking. 'You're right,' he admits. 'She didn't have one. But when we saw her confession . . . she did it to torment her priest, not because she was truly seeking God's forgiveness. You could hear the pride in her voice. Once, she even giggled. That poor man. He struggled with what to do, I'm sure, but the seal of confession is absolute.' He shrugs. 'Not the same as the rest, but her death still serves the greater message: the necessity for full truth before God. Confession without contrition is the worst kind of lie there is.' His voice goes flat. 'This world is better off without her.'

I cock my head at him. 'She made you angry, didn't she? She was the knowing antithesis of what you were trying to say. Your version of Satan.'

He shrugs, not agreeing, but . . .

'Question, Michael. Why just women? Weren't there any men with secrets worth killing to make your point?'

He stares at me blankly, puzzled.

'What does that matter?'

I find myself at a loss for words. He doesn't see it, I realize. There it is, the blind spot, and it's willful, reflexive, and profound. Selfrevelation, I'd come to understand long ago, real, deep and personal deconstruction, was a luxury the psychopath did not have.

'One last thing, Michael. The scars on Frances's wrists--they're real. When did she try to kill herself ?'

He smiles at me, and shakes his head. 'She never tried. She needed the scars to play her part. It was risky, but I got her through, with the help of God.'

I stare at him. I wish, on some level, that I could muster up a look of shock, or disbelief, but I know I'm long past that. I'm reminded of something a seasoned profiler once told me, back when I was new and bright and could still be shocked: sometimes only the worst stuff is true. I stand up. Right now, I want to get out of here, I want that more than anything. I remember, though, the final thing. I turn to him and smile.

'Michael?'

'Yes?'

'Everything I just told you about my mother was a lie.' I smirk.

'You really are stupid. Did you actually think I'd confess to murder?

Here? We're being videotaped, for God's sake.'

I leave the room without saying another word, his curses following me. This is my thrill, the thing that widens