Chapter 6
Agent Chris Hale called him six times and after the fourth, Con put his phone on silent. If the man called again, he would turn it off completely.
Fuck Chris Hale.
And fuck Marcus Allen.
A shirtless Constantine Striker sat on his covered back porch, staring out over the grassy plains. The absurdly hot weather had wreaked havoc on all vegetation in California and the grass behind his house was no exception: it was mostly yellow, with the occasional brown and, even more rare, green patch sprinkled in for good measure.
In one hand, Con held his cell phone, the other, the earbuds that were connected to the device. He’d been sitting like this, alone, quietly, for the better part of an hour. He had purchased the audiobook, but he hadn’t listened to it yet, wasn’t sure if he would.
The reviews were a mixed bag, but there were only seven of them. Still, Con had read each and every one of them at least a dozen times.
One was exceedingly complimentary, stating that the book was an instant classic.
Con very much doubted that.
It was the two one-star reviews that had held his attention.
The first said that they’d returned the book immediately after learning who the narrator was. The second was even more scathing. Most of it had been censored by the audiobook provider, but enough was still legible for Con to get the gist of it: in essence, the review stated that Matthew Nelson Neil was a piece of shit who deserved to die and that anyone who bought this audiobook was financially supporting a serial killer. The author of the review was Bobby H.
Well , Con thought, Bobby H, I don’t disagree.
He was loathed to purchase the book as well but did so after checking the return policy. Apparently, he could listen to the entire book, twice, three times if he was so inclined, and return it within thirty days for a complete refund.
And, by golly, that was exactly what Con planned on doing.
But despite all of this preamble, he still couldn’t bring himself to press play. Instead, he reached over and grabbed his beer, the bottle of which was sweating nearly as much as he was, and took a sip. It had gone warm, and he swallowed with a grimace.
Con didn’t know if he could handle hearing the man’s voice. Then there was the question of what he had to gain by subjecting himself to this torment?
He hadn’t spoken to Matthew since that day when he’d nearly killed the man. There had been no trial; The Sandman had confessed to everything, to killing the twelve women. He hadn’t even been offered a deal. Most lawyers defending Matthew would have, at the very least, asked for the death penalty to be taken off the table.
But Matthew had made no such request. What’s more, is that he was forced to tell law enforcement about his process, about what he’d done.
Con had been desperate to attend these interviews but then Special Agent in Charge of the OC Field Office, Harold Painter, had refused. Con had begged and just when he thought that Harold was close to breaking, Washington stepped in.
They didn’t think it was a good idea for someone as emotionally invested as Con to be anywhere near Matthew.
They were probably right.
Their only concession had been giving him access to the tapes after the fact.
And that was the last time that Con had heard the sociopath’s voice.
Matthew, speaking slowly, methodically, described how he lured the women from bars and nightclubs, sometimes just pulling up next to them late at night and offering them a ride. It still boggled Con’s mind that a woman would actually willingly go anywhere with that piece of shit. Then he took them back to various locations in and around Orange County, including the house that he’d eventually been captured in. He offered them a drink laced with a sedative and when they passed out, he strangled them. After they died, he stripped them naked and lay next to them. When they began to smell, he drove the body out to various deserts, including Santiago Oaks Regional Park, Black Star Canyon, Trabucco Canyon, and Antelope Valley, where he buried them.
Matthew was staunchly adamant that he never sexually assaulted any of his victims and, for the most part, the autopsies backed this up. The interviewer had pushed on this point, and this was the only time that Matthew lost his cool.
Con didn’t know if Matthew had access to the Internet, but if he did, he hoped that the man had come across Dwight’s article calling him The Necro-Killer.
He would hate that.
The interviewer had also pressed when it came to Valerie Striker. There was a long period of dead air before Matthew finally answered.
“I don’t know a Valerie.”
He was a fucking liar.
If Con had been in the room then, he wouldn’t have been able to resist the urge to strangle The Sandman again, shouting those same words into his fat face.
Tell me where she’s buried!
Con brought his beer to his lips. This time, he was already grimacing prior to drinking.
The bottle empty now, he set it, his phone, and the headphones down. Then he made his way inside, took a fresh six-pack from the fridge.
Back on the porch, he cracked another bottle.
Seconds passed, then a full minute.
Somewhere in the distance, a coyote howled, snapping Con out of his stupor.
It was time.
Con jammed the headphones into his ears, pressed play, and listened to the voice of the man responsible for murdering his twin sister.