Andy Candy gasped.
She wanted to shout. Raise her voice, let loose, keep going until she was exhausted. Instead, she simply put the remaining twenty-odd pages in the envelope aside, walked over to the sink, and drew herself a glass of water. She gulped it down, unable to tell whether it was hot or cold.
Moth was unsure how long the three of them were quiet. Might have been seconds. Could have been longer. It was as if he’d begun to slip through time. When he did speak, it seemed like his voice echoed, or else came from some distant location or some different person-a stranger.
“So, Susan,” he asked quietly, “exactly how do I get away with murder?”
Andy Candy recalled a reading from a literature class, her third year at college. An unraped year, she thought. Lots of seminar discussions about existential writing. The only real choice in life is whether to kill yourself. Or not. She tried to remember: Was it Sartre? Camus? It was one of those French writers, she was certain. She glanced over at Susan Terry. Well, she’s caught between the proverbial rock and a hard place, isn’t she? This was almost a joke, and Andy stifled a smile. She didn’t dare to look over at Moth. She tried to imagine what it was like for him to look down and see the man that killed his uncle pictured on something as ordinary as a driver’s license. She felt an odd sense of things coming together, as if instead of confusion, things were slipping into place, joining up, linking into a chain. She stole a look at the killer’s photo, but in her mind’s eye it was replaced by the grinning face of the frat boy who’d fucked her, impregnated her, and abandoned her. Kill them all, she thought.
A small silence.
“Timothy, I cannot tell you that,” Susan Terry said.
“Can’t or won’t?” Moth asked.
Susan ignored this question. “What we should do is call my boss. Hand over everything to investigators. Let them put together a prosecutable case. Make an arrest. Complicated, sure, but possible. Come on, Timothy, don’t be dumb. Let’s let someone with expertise handle this.”
Moth paused.
“When you prosecuted murder cases,” he said slowly, “it had to occur to you as you put everything together before going into court: This factor, this piece, this bit of evidence-take any one little thing away, and the whole case would crumble. The person best able to see how to avoid arrest and going to prison isn’t the criminal, because he’s wrapped up in what he’s doing-it’s the cop or maybe a prosecutor like you, who view it all in hindsight.”
Susan Terry nodded. “Yes,” she said. “That’s a reasonably accurate statement.” She sounded like a law school lecturer.
“So it stands to reason that an experienced member of law enforcement, like you, would-intellectually speaking, of course-know where the pitfalls and fuckups really lie.”
Susan nodded. She felt a little as if she had awakened on some strange planet, where blood and death were treated like subjects for a term paper.
“All right,” Moth continued, picking up a little momentum. “Let’s speak hypothetically, then.”
It was easy for Susan to see where he was going. She didn’t stop him, although a part of her deep within was screaming for her to do precisely that.
“Hypothetically, and all together generally,” Moth continued. His voice was cold with barely restrained fury. “What are the specific areas where people screw up and get arrested for murder?”
Susan took a deep breath. Ah, well, she thought. Guess I can’t hold back the tide. “In my experience, and speaking hypothetically, naturally it’s in connections. Relationships. What links the killer to the victim? Usually, they know each other, or they have business together. What the police look for is how they intersect.”
Moth was leaning forward, almost predatory. “So the most difficult kind of killing to solve…”
“… is when the connection isn’t immediately apparent. Or remains hidden. Random. Witness-less. Obscured by something-shit, Timothy, pick whatever word you like. It’s where the motivation for the murder isn’t clear and how person A got into the same place as person B. With a gun.”
Moth was thinking fast. Susan could see things turning over in his head.
Andy Candy interjected: “You mean like some guy who stalks and kills members of a medical school study group years after whatever the hell they did was done and everyone had moved on to something else, except the killer?”
There was much cynicism in her voice. Andy could hear it, and she actually rather liked it. It was like opening the door to a refrigerated room.
Susan tried to ignore her. She talked to Moth. “Look, there are also forensic links. Don’t underestimate what police labs can do. I mean, it’s not like how it’s portrayed on television-you know, instant this and instant that and bingo, we know who a killer is. But they can match fingerprints, hair samples, DNA-you name it. They take their time, and they are reliable as all get-out. And ballistics. That science is pretty advanced.”
Moth looked over at the desk and the two pictures. He picked up the photo of Blair Munroe on the Massachusetts license. “I know what connects me to this man,” he said quietly.
He replaced the picture on the desk surface.
Taking the other picture in his hand, he looked at it for a moment. Stephen Lewis. Angela Street, Key West. “But what connects me to this person?” he asked.
Susan hesitated. “Just me, and what I’ve done,” she said in a low voice.
Moth held up both pictures. “And exactly what do you suppose connects this man to this man?”
Susan inhaled sharply. It was as if in that second, she could see a murder. She didn’t know whether Moth saw it as well. “Probably nothing, if he’s as smart as we think he is.”
Moth smiled.
“Goodbye, Susan,” he said. “I think you should go to Redeemer One tonight. Yes. Absolutely. You should make one hundred percent certain you are at Redeemer One tonight. Make sure you testify. Talk about every one of your troubles in detail and make everything you say memorable. You wouldn’t want anyone at that meeting to forget that you were there-in case anyone should ever ask them.”
45
A one-sided conversation:
“Don’t be rash.”
“You can fuck up your entire future.”
“You will get caught.”
“You think I can protect you? Think again. I won’t.”
“Murder isn’t a game, Timothy. It isn’t some sort of academic exercise. It’s real, it’s nasty, and it takes a whole lot more toughness than you have.”
“You think you can look that man in the eye and kill him? Ask yourself that question first. It might be easy for Hollywood movie stars in fake dramas, but in real life it’s not so damn simple.”
“You think you can pull a trigger?”
Pause. No reply. Continuing:
“Cops aren’t stupid, Timothy. And they have time on their side. No statute of limitations on homicide. And they have resources you wouldn’t imagine.”
More silence. Words that exploded in the still of the apartment seemed to have no impact.
“What makes you think that when I pick up the paper tomorrow and read about a murder in Key West I won’t go walking into the Major Crimes Division of the city police and say, ‘I know who did this…’ And even if it takes them a helluva time to piece it together, they will. Count on it. And if I decide to help them, it won’t take all that long. So, kill that man and enjoy your final forty-eight hours of freedom, Timothy. Spend that time picturing what you might have done with your life.
“They will be the fastest forty-eight hours you will ever experience, waiting for that knock on your door. And don’t try to run; it won’t do you any good. And I don’t care if you use all your uncle’s money to hire the best damn criminal defense attorney in Miami-you will go to prison. You know what happens to nice white boys doing time for murder? Use your imagination, Timothy, and after you figure the worst that can happen to you up at the state prison, multiply that by about a factor of ten, because that’s the reality.”