Chapter 42
STILWELL WAS AT his desk prepping for the seven a.m. roll call when he got the news.
He held roll call on Fridays only because that was when he had four to six deputies on duty to handle the start of the weekend.
It was preseason, so it would be only four this time.
Stilwell was figuring out how to deploy them while still keeping at least one deputy on post at Bird Park until it was decided when the search of Kent Middleton’s apartment would be and who would conduct it.
But everything changed when his cell phone buzzed. It was Ballard.
“Morning, Renée.”
“He’s gone, Stil.”
“Who?”
“Middleton. They found him in his cell an hour ago. He’s dead.”
Stilwell’s chin dropped. He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, one hand over one ear, the phone to the other.
“How?” he asked.
“He killed himself,” Ballard said. “They’re telling me he took the cotton pack out of his nose and the tape off his face and made some kind of ball with it. Then he swallowed it and choked to death.”
Stilwell closed his eyes. He said nothing and a long silence went by.
“Stil?”
“He got away with it.”
“No, we—”
“He spent one night in jail. For five women. Maybe more. Don’t kid yourself—he got away with it.”
Another silence before Ballard spoke.
“At least we stopped him. There would have been more than five if we hadn’t.”
Somehow that didn’t make Stilwell feel any better.
“Where was he booked?” he asked. “Didn’t they have him on suicide watch?”
“Metro City, and they tell me they did,” Ballard said.
“Tearaway blanket, no shoelaces, twenty-four-hour camera, lit cell, the whole nine yards. But they didn’t see it.
They thought he’d put the blanket over his head because of the light.
So he could sleep. He did the whole thing under the blanket. ”
“They should have seen it coming.”
“I don’t know about that. You were in the interview. I think at first he thought he could beat this.”
“No, I saw it. For just a moment when I pulled out the notebook, I saw it in his eyes. He knew. He knew what his future was and it was bleak. It was prison for the rest of his life. He had the game-over look.”
Ballard didn’t respond right away and Stilwell waited.
“You know, I should have seen it too,” she finally said.
“You were asking the questions,” Stilwell said. “You had to concentrate on that.”
“No, I mean later when we were taking him to Metro. He said something that was almost a confession.”
“What was it?”
“I was in the back seat with him. Laffont was driving and Paul was in the front passenger seat. At first I was just trying to bait him into an admission. I reminded him that he’d been flying completely under the radar until he started engaging with us.
You know, taunting us. I asked what was up with that and he answered, but carefully.
He said, ‘The person you have me confused with probably realized that he had to raise the stakes, that he had to make it more dangerous.’”
“That doesn’t seem very suicidal.”
“Right, but then he went back to that movie Seven and said he would be remembered forever and that I wouldn’t be remembered for anything.”
Stilwell said nothing.
“It was like you said,” Ballard continued. “He was thinking about the future. I even said to him, ‘Is that a confession?’ and he said, ‘It was nothing.’ I should have read it right.”
“Do you think that means he broke his nose on purpose?” Stilwell asked. “Part of the endgame?”
“Whoa, that’s a little bit of a stretch, don’t you think?”
“Maybe. So what happens now?”
“Media relations still wants to do it up big,” Ballard said. “A press briefing later this morning with the chief talking about closing the case. They’ll invite the sheriff and you, if you want to come over.”
“No, count me out. It’s the start of the weekend, and I’m going to be busy here. You still going for a search warrant on the apartment?”
“No, we’ll let that go for now and just wrap things up. I think he was smart enough not to leave evidence around for his girlfriend to find.”
“You sure? He had that camera in his backpack. There might be photos, possible leads to other victims.”
“His notebook will give us that. For now I think we leave things as they are. I need Masser to work on the summary report. A search warrant will have to wait.”
Stilwell didn’t think it was the right call but let it go. It was not his department. It was not his case.
“What about the girlfriend?” he asked. “Does that mean she’s clear to go home?”
“If she wants,” Ballard said. “And if we need to talk to her, I’ll reach out to you to set it up. It will be interesting to see if she talks to the media. They’re going to find her. I see Josh Mankiewicz and Dateline knocking on her door.”
“You’re sure she wasn’t part of this with him?”
“All our victims were taken before he moved out to the island and met her, right?”
“Right.”
“So that puts her in the clear.”
“I take it she doesn’t know yet that Middleton offed himself?”
“I don’t think so. Only a few people know at the moment.”
“Then I’d better go tell her before it hits the news.”
“Sorry to stick you with that.”
“It’s okay. Eight years in homicide, I got used to it. When’s the press conference?”
“Last night I was told to write something up for the chief to have by ten this morning. I don’t know if they’ll stay with that timing after what’s happened.”
“There’s a local reporter out here I promised I’d keep in the loop. All right if I tell him? I’d just like to give him a heads-up so he can get over there.”
“Is the paper online?”
“No, just print. People still read want ads out here. Keeps things local.”
“A throwback. Yes, talk to your guy, only I didn’t tell you that you could.”
“Understood.”
“I guess that’s it, then. I’m sorry it turned out this way, Stil.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“Stay in touch.”
Ballard disconnected, and Stilwell leaned back in his chair and tried to collect his thoughts.
He didn’t know what to feel about Middleton taking his own life.
He sat there staring into space until he realized how angry he was.
He felt cheated somehow. And he felt sorry for the families who had waited years for answers and would not have the full measure of justice—of hearing a jury or a judge pronounce Middleton guilty.
He took Middleton’s suicide as a final Fuck you. As him saying, You aren’t going to drag me into court, display me to the world like an animal, and convict me.
There was a knock on the door, and De Giorgio stuck his head in.
“We’re all here, boss,” he said.
“Good,” Stilwell said. “I’ll be right out.”
Stilwell opened his phone and called Lionel McKey’s cell. When he answered, Stilwell could tell he had woken him up.
“Lionel, get out of bed,” he said. “You have to catch the first boat to overtown.”
“What?” McKey said. “Why?”
“For the press conference on the bones case. You don’t want to miss it. We got somebody.”
“Okay, okay. You mean you made an actual arrest?”
“We did, yeah. So get up and get over there. I heard the press conference is at ten. Call me after and I’ll fill in the blanks.”
“Okay, I’m going.”
“Good.”
Stilwell disconnected and got up to meet with his deputies.