Chapter 42
Con wasn’t sure what to say. He knew what The Sandman was trying to do. He was trying to save face, to explain his actions and maybe garner a little sympathy.
Control the narrative.
Torture Con even further.
Little Matty was bullied at school. Little Matty was beaten by his dad.
Little Matty watched his grandmother die.
Boo-fucking-hoo.
This was, however, the first time that Con had heard any of this story. After Matthew’s arrest, there had been a boom of podcasts and even a book written about his life.
Con had consumed everything he could find about The Sandman, convinced that it would help him figure out where his sister’s body might be.
It didn’t.
But there was never any mention of this soirée in the morgue, of Rick with the cleft lip or overweight Damien.
Someone had, however, managed to track down Matthew’s mother, hiding out in rural Virginia.
The woman claimed she didn’t have a son. Had never been married. Even when presented with both marriage and birth certificates to contradict these claims, Patricia Neil, now going by Paula Atkinson, denied everything.
“You’ve got the wrong woman,” she’d asserted.
What was known about Matthew Nelson Neil was that he’d grown up in a suburb of New York City in a lower-class home. He dropped out of school when he turned sixteen. The arrest record that followed gave no indication of the true evil the man possessed.
Shoplifting in Ohio when he was seventeen for which he’d gotten probation. At twenty, Matthew was arrested again, this time in Nebraska for assaulting a woman outside a bar. A prostitute claimed that he tried to rape her, but Matthew contested that he’d paid for sex and that the woman had changed her mind.
The judge hadn’t been so lenient this time.
Matthew spent four years in prison for his crime.
And then, as he presumably continued to make his way west, Matthew either cleaned up his act or was never caught for breaking the law.
There was no record of the man between the ages of 24 and 31.
Nobody knew where he went, what he did for work.
Matthew remained completely off the radar until Con and Tate confronted him in that desolate house.
During the DA’s due diligence following the man’s confession, a call went out to the public, asking for help in trying to trace The Sandman’s movements over the years.
Nobody spoke up and Matthew remained obtuse at best.
“Bullshit,” Con said at last. Dwight’s article suddenly flashed in his mind. “You know, the media calls you The Sandman because of the pillows you left with the victims and the fact that they were all buried in or around deserts. But I have a better name for you: the Necro-Killer.”
Matthew’s face changed. His eyes darkened, his body tensed.
“And if you're so inspired to tell stories,” Con continued, “why don’t you tell me what happened to Valerie?”
Con instantly realized his mistake.
A smile spread across Matthew’s lips, revealing teeth that looked like globules of fat.
Even though Con, usually so composed and analytical and deliberate and in control, knew that he was falling into a trap, he was unable to contain himself.
“Tell me where you buried her,” he hissed. “Why don’t you just tell me?”
Nothing. Just that terrible smile.
“You admitted to all the other murders, so why don’t you just tell me what you did with my sister?”
He didn’t expect a reply and was thus startled when he was met with one.
“I never killed your sister,” Matthew said flatly.
Con sneered. It wasn’t the big reveal he’d been hoping for, but it was a step in the right direction.
“I saw you at the gas station standing behind her.”
There was no need to be more specific. The video of Val and Matthew had been played on every media circuit for weeks while they searched for The Sandman.
Matthew lost his tongue again.
“Tell about the rock out in the Mojave,” Con asked, switching gears. “What was I supposed to find? Did you bury her there? Is that where you buried Val?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you do. That was the message… the secret message you put in the audiobook. You wanted me to go out there, to dig.”
Matthew pressed his lips together as if trying to stop himself from saying something.
“You want to know what I think? I think that you tried to rape that prostitute in Nebraska, but you couldn’t get it up. And this made you mad. When you met Marcy Long, you tried to have sex with her and maybe it was even consensual. But again, you couldn’t get hard. She laughed at you, and you killed her. Only then could you get hard. And you fucked her. You fucked her corpse.”
Matthew began to sneer.
“I did not.”
“Oh, you did. I know you did.” What Con said next hurt him to the core, but it was necessary. He would do and say whatever it took to find his sister’s bones. “But that wasn’t your first time, was it? I think your first time was with Val. I think you saw her in the gas station and wanted her. You followed my sister and when she didn’t give you the time of day, you strangled her. Then you—” his voice wavered ever so slightly, “—then you raped her.”
“I did not,” Matthew protested through clenched teeth. The vein in his forehead had returned and Con doubled-down.
“You did; you killed her and then raped her. My twin sister. And every time you see my face, you see her .”
“I did not,” Matthew said with such force that Con recoiled. The guard stepped forward. “I didn’t kill her!”
The man slammed both fists down and the chains around his wrists rattled on the metal table.
“Matthew, calm down,” the guard warned.
But Matthew was beyond reproach.
“I didn’t fucking kill her! I loved her! Even after what she did, I still loved her!”
Con felt as if the man had somehow freed himself from his chains and had driven one of those massive firsts into his solar plexus.
He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. So complete was Con’s shock that he didn’t even register that the man had finally, after all these years, admitted to knowing his sister.
“I loved her!” Matthew screamed again. “ I loved Valerie! ”
“All right, enough of this shit,” the guard grumbled. “Agent Striker—”
“I lo… ved…” One of The Sandman’s eyes started to twitch and, moments later, his entire body began thrumming like a plucked violin string.
“Oh, shit,” the guard cursed. “Help! We need help in here!”
He grabbed Con and glared at him.
“You can’t be in here. You have to go.”
“I… lo…ved… Val… erie.” Drool poured from The Sandman’s mouth. “I lovvvvvv…”
“You have to go!” the guard suddenly screamed in Con’s face. “You have to go, now!”