The Confession Artist

Chapter 49

I stop at my office before driving home. I park in the lot out front, check that my gun is securely in my holster for the thousandth time, and go in, my senses on high alert. Reporters have stuck their business cards around the edges of my door sign.

Inside, once again, the first thing that hits me is the framed quote that Jess gave me:

Justice and power must be brought together so that whatever is just may be powerful, and whatever is powerful may be just.

So lofty. I shake my head. In principle, I’ve always agreed with it. It’s why I opened my PI business. And yet, I’ve crossed all sorts of boundaries in my short time in law enforcement and my even shorter time as a PI, placing my own ideas of justice on a very shady continuum.

Usually, pride to know this little bastion is all mine swells in my chest when I enter.

But this afternoon, I feel like it’s a useless, cheap little space.

Some tiny limp noodle I’ve picked out of boiling water to go up against a sharp blade of injustice.

I try to shake it off and boot up my computer.

First, I call the hospital to check on Zane again.

Still run into the HIPAA wall of silence, but I glean enough from the chat to know that he’s stable.

After I hang up, regardless of Aaron Lasserio stewing at the county building, I finish my report on him so that Graham Insurance can pay me and, please God, continue to use my services.

Then, even though wading back into the online muck is the last thing I want to do right now, I force myself to take the plunge. I tour my social media accounts for posts about the Confession Artist, to make sure nothing important is sitting right before my face.

It’s a tornado of nastiness, as expected, its own forces snatching more and more foul comments. It’s not all bad, though. Some people are worried about my well-being. As I’m deleting most of the foul stuff, my eye snags on a post I’ve already seen before.

The truth will set you free.

It’s a common, trite thing to say. It doesn’t surprise me to see it repeated, but I check to make sure it’s not the same user posting it over and over.

When I finally find it from two days prior, which takes tons of scrolling through a deluge of crap, I verify that it’s not.

It’s from a different user. Long shot, I think.

When I get through the rest of the good, bad, and the ugly—and the neutral, all the folks reminding me that it’s my last day to confess, as though it might’ve slipped my mind—Jess calls.

She says, “Crosbie, it’s getting late. What’s your plan?”

I’m happy to hear from her, but her voice is terse, like a nail gun firing. I still see the look of disappointment and disgust on her face, so I say what I say next tentatively. “I’m going to confess.”

“You are?” I think I hear a small sigh of relief, but then she follows with zero sign of emotion. “What exactly are you going to confess?”

It hits me again, just like it did at the county building, that what I’ve been kicking around in my head is all-the-way, three-dimensional, in-the-moment, plain-as-day, heart-poundingly real. I am going to do it.

And there’s something else circling around my head.

If Ridgeway and Lasserio aren’t the creators of the sketch of me out there, I want to catch who is.

I want to draw them out so that I, the FBI, or even one of the deputies on duty can nab this killer.

So my confession needs to come after the deadline, not before, even if it puts my life at stake.

As frightening as it is, I need to do this for me. If there’s any chance that I am the target of the real CA and not just in Ridgeway’s crosshairs, it will hopefully draw them out.

From here on, it’s all about having alerts. I learned this on the force. Having a heads-up is everything when it comes to protecting yourself and others.

As long as I know someone’s coming, I can take care of myself. My Ring system works surprisingly well, and I plan to always keep my gun on me and next to my bed when I sleep.

My old Kevlar vest from my time on the force is in my garage. Since they’re formfitted you get to keep them, even when you leave. I haven’t needed it as a PI, but I plan to dig it out as soon as I get home.

Yes, I need this to prevent future victims. Regardless of the fallout for me.

And I know the price will be high.

And, in the long run, it might be just what Jess needs. For so long, I’ve wanted nothing but to protect and shield her. Clearly, that hasn’t gotten me, or her, very far.

“Well,” I say. “The whole Sophie situation and—”

“But do you really think it’s that?”

“I wasn’t finished,” I say. “The whole Sophie situation and the whole Billy Railes and Leon thing, too. It’s not a full confession otherwise.

I have to explain my reasons, impulsive as they were.

That’s the thing that stings the most. What happened to Sophie and you, along with the harassment I endured.

It was all motive for why I backed up Billy’s lie.

And I spoke to Tim Mooney, the guy who was targeted but wasn’t murdered.

He confessed partially at first and felt like he was still being stalked.

He confessed more fully. Motive, rationalizations, and all.

And he was spared. I won’t use your name. I’ll say a woman I know.”

“It’s a small town, Crosbie. Everyone will know it’s me. Plus, my podcast and how I quit producing material. People will put two and two together.” She’s digging in her heels. “Don’t be a fool.”

Suddenly, something gives in me. “Jess, this is my life we’re talking about here.

I can’t believe you’d make this all about you right now.

If I’m willing to confess to the world that I was complicit in an officer-involved shooting, make that killing, and suffer the possible consequences, maybe it’s time you buck up and deal with the reality of what happened. I’m facing serious jail time.”

“Fuck you, Crosbie. There’s a huge difference,” she says, and hangs up.

Heat rushes to my face. I throw my phone on my desk and whirl around and grab the poster Jess gave me off the wall and bash it across one of my office chairs.

The glass frame shatters. Shards fly across my office onto the floor, across my desk, onto the chairs.

She’s right. There is a huge difference.

I was the perpetrator in my situation. She was the victim.

There’s no comparison. But now I’m a killer’s target.

Doesn’t that make me a victim, too? Does she have no empathy for me?

My jaw is clenched so tightly, it’s like I’m biting steel and it might crack.

My chest rises and falls with each angry breath.

I take deep ones through my nose to calm myself.

I sink into my chair and shut my eyes to squeeze out my fear.

To shut out my guilt. When I open them, I look down at my hands.

They’re quivering from too many things: my anger over the conversation with Jess, the fear of who’s out there waiting to do me in, the deep resentment I feel over being targeted and exposed across the nation, over feeling like a victim, and the worst, the sense that I am what I’ve never wanted to believe about myself.

A coward and a hypocrite.

I check my gun, lock my office up, and leave.

The mess will wait.

Outside my office building’s glass front door, a gang of reporters mills around the sidewalk. I curse the building for having only one exit. I think about going back up and staying for a little longer, but I can’t hide in my office. Or delay the inevitable.

When I step out, I’m accosted. Their questions—all echoing Jess’s—bombard me.

“What’s your confession?”

“Today’s your last day—what’s your plan?”

“How scared are you?”

“What are you going to do to protect yourself?”

They follow me and fold in tight on either side as I slither into my SUV and shut the door.

In my rearview, a woman in a tan trench coat and a man in a thick blue sweater with a camera stand behind my bumper.

I put my car in reverse and begin to creep out, but not before someone swings open my passenger door and hops in as I’m inching out.

I realize I’ve forgotten to relock my doors with all the chaos.

It’s Jeremy.

“Jesus. It’s you. Get out of my car. Now.”

“Just drive.”

“No, get out,” I scream. I don’t trust him. I don’t trust anyone anymore. I want to draw the killer out, and if it’s him, I want it on my terms. Not like this. Not an ambush in a parking lot.

My voice no longer sounds like mine. More like some shrill person I don’t know. The reporters pound my window. Bang, bang, bang. Jeremy’s too.

“Crosbie, just drive.”

Calm. Sincere. Means it.

I push on the gas, and finally, they jump to either side of my rig. I sweep past them and rush out of the lot.

A light turns red at the intersection down the block, so I stop.

In my rearview, I watch them scurry to their cars.

One reporter has already gotten into his, has pulled out, and is close to catching me at the intersection.

Oh no you don’t. I run the red, drive two more blocks, ignore the stop signs, blow through those intersections, and swing a right.

I pass several more blocks and take another right.

I follow the rules of the road again. I hit my blinker, pull over, and turn to Jeremy. “Get out of my car. I’m not saying please.”

“Hear me out.”

“No.”

“Time is ticking and you told me you wanted to confess.”

“I told you I’d get a hold of you.”

“I need more than a minute if I’m going to write something thoughtful.”

“How did you know I was here?”

“Same way all of them knew. Good guess. Your office location is not a secret. And as the day has crept on without hearing from you, I got worried. I went to your house. Some other patrolman is there. I heard the awful news about the shooting. And the new guy wouldn’t tell me where you were, so I thought I’d check here. ”

“Okay, well, I’m fine, but I still need you to get out.”

“But this is your last day. Things are bound to get more dangerous unless you confess something.”

“Maybe I’ve changed my mind.” I haven’t, but I’m in no state to give him information about what’s going on in my head.

He gives me a weighted stare. “Why would you do that?”

“Get out.”

“You’re not being wise about this.”

What’s not wise is having you in my car, I think.

He’s examining me, and I stare back. I can barely breathe. My spine is a steel cable.

“Crosbie, what’s going on?”

“You tell me. How did you know about the possible third sketch subject?”

“Tim Mooney? He confessed. I’ve been trying to get a hold of him to interview him as well, but frankly, you confessing right now is more important than getting an interview from him.”

“He confessed along with a lot of others. Why did you zero in on him?”

“I’m good at my job.”

“That’s not an answer. And you know details on him that are beyond what you could dig around for. Specific things that were private.”

“What are you talking about?”

“How do you know he got a fright? That that’s the reason he gave a more thorough confession?”

He half smiles. “Is that what this is about?”

I don’t answer.

“Ask your agent friend,” he says.

“Alderson told you?”

“No,” he says. “The other one. Guess she likes my smile.”

I shake my head. Unbelievable. So Miss Perfect and Miss Precise and Miss Protocols is not so perfect after all. I can still hear Greene berating me in the observation room. Now I have a thing or two to say to her.

I stretch across Jeremy and open his door. “Please,” I say. “Out. Now.”

Finally, he steps onto the street.

I watch him watch my car through my rearview as I drive away.

On my way home, I refocus on Ewing’s apology, to suckle on that feeling of vindication and satisfaction like it’s a pacifier.

But it can’t compete with the desolation I’m feeling after the fight with Jess and the maddening talk with Jeremy and the throat-closing thought that I’m nearing the end of my last day.

And to add to it all, I can’t kick a niggling sensation that I’m missing something vital, something lurking at the edges of my mind, just beyond reach.

None of it matters, though. The plan stands: use myself as bait.

I call Greene. She doesn’t deny that she might have let the information slip about Mooney, the third sketch near-victim.

A deep relief washes over me. He was being honest. But still, he was too conveniently, so coincidentally, in both Dallas and now here.

But with Greene’s less-than-direct-yet-obvious admission that she’s the source of the leak, I decide that even though I booted Jeremy out of my car, I will use him after all.

If he’s not the killer, he’ll work anyway.

If he is the CA, I’ll be ready. I inform Greene that I intend to confess, but not until the seventh day.

“Why do it at all, then?” she asks.

“I have to,” I say.

There’s an awkward pause. Greene says nothing, like she’s intuitively known all along I carry these ugly things.

“What do you think?” I break the silence. “Is it a copycat situation or not?”

“We can’t say for sure, but I personally don’t think it is. I don’t think they could pull off the internet piece of this puzzle.”

I take that in. My plan to confess a day late stands. I tell her that I’m using Jeremy. She doesn’t object. No arguments. Just says, “If that’s what you want, Alderson and I will be right over.” I’m guessing they want to draw out and nail this killer as much as I do.

I slide to a stop and roll down my window to talk to my new watchman.

He’s been using a discarded bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken to gather trash off the side of my drive.

“Damn reporters,” he says. “Who’d just dump your wrappers and crap and drive off?

And they call themselves the watchdogs of democracy. ”

I park and step out, grab a few crushed soda containers. “Where are they all? Did they all go to my office?”

“The smart ones. Since you haven’t been here much, some got bored and left. I take it you had a crowd at your office?”

I don’t want conversation. If it were Zane, I’d fill him in on Lasserio.

I think of Zane wounded, struggling to do something as basic as pulling in a breath.

And behind that, I have a flash of Jess, her anger burning through the phone.

And then another question: Have I been seeing her through a distorted lens all this time?

Assuming I need to protect her because I didn’t protect Sophie?

I thank the new guy for all the tedious time he’s spent keeping guard and tell him that the agents and more deputies are on their way and that I might have a visitor soon who will need to be searched.

I give him Jeremy’s full name, go home, and call him.

He’ll be delighted to hear I want to use him after all.