Chapter 14
DEPARTURE
GRAYSON
Ionly had theories. Remnants of the truth, pieced together from faded newspaper clippings and an old coroner’s report. But fear is a powerful thing, more than capable of dragging dark secrets to the surface. All it took was one threat to shake her. She doesn’t want the past unearthed.
She’s born to take lives.
It’s encoded in our DNA—the genetic signature of a killer.
Sounds like such an atrocity, to admit to being such a thing, yet we’re all born with purpose. Some to be healers and save lives, others to be defenders and advocate for them. So what’s wrong with our calling. The world is overpopulated and full of filth that needs purging.
It’s a calling fit for the torrid pit of hell.
And yet, it can be beautiful. An art form.
I rest my head against the seatback, imagining a younger, freer London driving a replica of her tattooed key into her father’s neck. The strength it takes to do this—the ruthless determination, the sheer hunger for the kill.
A thrill ignites my blood.
The man who gave her the only life she’d known, and she snuffed out his in an instant. Her hair wild, skin sheened with sweat, eyes gleaming. And then the serene look on her face that followed. The same one she gifted me as her body rolled with aftershocks of pleasure.
I want more. I want to experience this ecstasy with her over and over.
My pants tighten, and I adjust myself, forcibly resituating the aching part of me that I’ll deny relief until my beautiful London submits.
“Twenty minutes until we land.” Officer Micheals glances across his shoulder. “When we reach the ground, just give me an excuse to put a bullet in your head, Sullivan.”
He says this part lower, so only I can hear. His righteous anger pulls an amused smile from me. He was created for killing, too, but he’s deprived himself of the indulgence. Instead, choosing a profession that merely teases him, his trigger finger always at the ready.
What a painful existence.
I lean forward, causing him to noticeably tense. “When the time comes, it won’t be you who gets that pleasure.”
His lips curl in revulsion. “Move back, con.”
I obey, turning my attention toward the airplane window, where New Castle welcomes me home. No, Micheals won’t get his chance, and neither will the many others vying for their shot.
Just above my head, a box of my meager belongings holds my ticket out of this life.
I ease close enough to the window to see the curve in the horizon. All that appears endless and seamless has a twist.
But fuck, it makes for a great ending.
“All rise. Court is now in session, the Honorable Judge Arthur Lancaster presiding.”
Loud shuffling echoes through the courtroom, the pews packed full of the curious. The judge is a thin, aging man swallowed by his black robe. He orders the court to be seated, and I steal a moment to glance around, seeking her eyes.
London isn’t here.
My court-appointed attorney nudges me to face forward. After my hair was neatly trimmed, he had a black suit and blue tie delivered to my cell this morning, requiring my tattoos to be covered. As if appearing presentable could hold any sway over the jury.
I can see it on their faces, the revulsion. This case would need to be heard halfway around the world on a remote island to find a jury that doesn’t already know the gruesome details.
“Don’t make eye contact with them,” my lawyer instructs. “Not yet. I’ll advise.”
Not a problem. There’s only one gaze I want to look into. She’ll be here. Her expert testimony won’t be heard until later, but London is usually present for her patients throughout the trial. I’m not a typical patient, though. She’s punishing me for my behavior—for knowing her sins.
My hands fist beneath the table.
My lawyer looks at me. He’s young. “I won’t bring up the footage used in the previous trial unless we have to,” he says. “That likely won’t work in your favor, but just to be clear—” his eyes stare into mine, searching “—there are no recordings of these victims, correct?”
None that were recovered by the authorities. “There are no recordings,” I answer him.
“Good.” He straightens his tie and stands.
Only minutes into the trial, and the prosecution has wasted no time getting to the shock-and-appall portion of this performance.
Enlarged crime-scene photos are propped along the wall, displaying the victims in graphic detail.
Victims, the prosecutor repeatedly stresses, beating it into the jurors’ minds.
I suppose referring to the victims as deviants would be too uncomfortably ironic.
No matter, they’ve already been tried, condemned, and served their consequences.
“Detective Foster, how was this new evidence discovered?” the lawyer asks the graying, stocky man on the stand.
The detective looks at the jury when he responds. “Technically, it was old evidence. We just had no basis for comparison. The defendant wasn’t in any database at the time.”
I admit, I was sloppy. My first kill was executed under extremely taxing and relentless circumstances. By the time I gave in, I was damn near defeated, worn down from fighting the compulsion, the need that refused anything but complete surrender.
I wanted the desire to end. Yet I never imagined it would be so exhilarating, an addiction in the making, that I’d have to feed the craving again.
Once I killed the sick fucks who called themselves my parents, I thought the dark thoughts would finally cease. Since I was their creation, that part of me had to die with them. But even changing the scenery to the States in my youth didn’t stop the cravings. Nothing did.
I fought it for too many years. Weary, hollow.
The first kill happened too fast. It wasn’t until my second that I learned to be cautious. I had to be in order to continue. But I always knew my first reckless act would haunt me, and here I sit, being tried for that sloppiness.
But, oh, the fucking rush.
You can never replicate your first. Like two lovers in the throes of passion, clumsily feeling their way through that awkward first encounter—and yet it’s the most erotic, carnal experience.
“The perpetrator left a partial palm print on the murder weapon,” Detective Foster states, breaking into my thoughts as he points to the enlarged photo of a pulley shaft.
Fuck. The evidence couldn’t be more damning. I remember the night I rigged the contraption, my gloves getting caught in the axle.
“After so many years, a case goes cold,” the lawyer says, a little leading. “What prompted you to run the search again on the partial palm print?”
“The MO,” Foster says. “That is, the method and distinct pattern of the Angel of Maine killings were similar to the murders here in New Castle. It was worth a try, to see if there was a match.”
“And was there a match, detective?”
“Yes.” He turns his attention to a diagram of the palm print in question, where numbered points of comparison confirm that it is, without a doubt, a match to mine.
“No further questions, Your Honor.”
My lawyer rises from our table. “Detective Foster, there’s no dispute that the print matches my client, and therefore can place him at the scene. However, do you have any additional evidence?”
The detective frowns. “How do you mean?”
“I’m sorry, let me clarify. Aside from this print, was there any additional evidence recovered at the scenes linking Mr. Sullivan to the crimes he’s being tried for today, or is this print the sole piece of evidence connecting him to all four homicides based merely on the similarities between the murders? ”
Foster straightens his back. “This is the main evidence, that’s correct.”
“You mean to say, your weak evidence,” my lawyer counters.
“Objection,” the Attorney General interjects.
“Sustained,” The judge rules. “The jury will disregard that statement.”
“I apologize, Your Honor.” The lawyer hits the jury with a charming smile. “But, Detective Foster, I hope you can see why I’m having a hard time understanding this logic, this process, if you will. Let’s walk the jury through it, shall we?”
The detective nods. “All right.”
I’m riveted watching Allen Young pace the courtroom. He’s a fresh trial lawyer the state likely believed would hang me. His theatrics are entertaining, but it’s his ability to gain the jury’s trust that’s fascinating. They like him, even if they despise me.
“Mr. Sullivan’s palm print was found on the pulley, but we already know that my client worked in the same fishing district as the victim. Is it possible that Mr. Sullivan used the pulley to load his diving equipment onto a boat at one time?”
“It’s possible, but not probable,” Detective Foster replies. “The charter boat Mr. Sullivan used for work has its own loading equipment.”
Young doesn’t miss a beat. “But it is possible, considering the charter boat had numerous reports of faulty equipment at the time.”
The detective hesitates, features tight. “A slight possibility.”
“Thank you,” Young says. “Now, detective, let’s discuss the differences between the cases. In your initial report, didn’t you state that the victim’s death appeared accidental, that he unintentionally hanged himself as a direct result of this faulty equipment?
“I did state that, but I quickly amended it after reviewing the discovery made by the medical examiner.”
“Right. The medical examiner’s findings reported contusions, that is bruises, around the victim’s neck, which supports the cause of death due to asphyxiation. Injuries like one would have when strangled by a rope.” Young cocks his head expectantly.
“Yes, that’s correct,” Foster says, shifting in his seat.
“But the examination also uncovered several repeated ligature marks, suggesting the rope was tightened, loosened, and then tightened again, repeatedly.” He glances at the jury.
“This pattern indicates that the victim was tortured prior to death.”
“Isn’t it possible that this contusion pattern also could’ve been caused by the victim fighting against the rope, trying to loosen it from around his neck?”
“Objection, Your Honor,” the prosecutor interrupts. “The witness is not a medical expert.”
“Sustained,” the judge says. “I agree. Detective Foster isn’t qualified to answer that question.”
The detective looks annoyed at having his response denied.
Young quickly moves on. “But unlike the other crime scenes, where it was clear a heinous murder had been committed, this first scene—the scene providing your only physical evidence—had a number of differences, isn’t that correct?
Such as the elaborate traps the perpetrator rigged to carry out the murders.
The pulley was never proven to be a trap, was it? ”
“That’s not uncommon for a first murder,” the detective counters. “Repeat offenders improve their methods over time. They become more cautious and advanced. The difference between the first crime scene and the later scenes is only that of an amateur versus a proficient.”
My lawyer smiles. “This is based off of your opinion?”
“Yes, Mr. Young. Based off of fifteen years of detective work.”
“Was the wife of the victim ever questioned in connection to his death?”
“Of course,” Foster says. “Everyone connected to the victim was questioned.”
“But only after the second crime scene was discovered, and after your initial report declaring the victim’s death an accident had been amended.”
Detective Foster breathes deeply. “That’s correct.”
“So to recap, there is no inculpatory evidence linking my client to the subsequent murders. In fact, the one murder you can almost tie him to, the method is obviously different from the other crimes. Detective, you yourself stated it lacked a methodical approach, and yet it was the only scene where any type of evidence was uncovered. That in itself is a deviation in method, wouldn’t you agree?
That a methodical murderer would make such a blatant mistake?
But you want the defendant to be prosecuted for all four murders and have him put to death by lethal injection. ”
The detective flounders, struggling to respond.
“Objection, Your Honor.” The prosecutor stands, tone incensed. “Mr. Young is badgering the witness.”
Young speaks up before the ruling. “That’s all right, Your Honor. Detective Foster’s silence was answer enough. Nothing further.”
“I’m still giving my ruling to have that last statement stricken from the record, Mr. Young,” the judge declares.
My lawyer gives me a subtle nod as he reclaims his seat, and I have a newfound respect for the state of Delaware. Hell, Allen Young almost has me convinced of my own innocence.
“And there’s our reasonable doubt,” he leans in and whispers my way.
Reasonable doubt. Not enough to keep me from serving a life sentence, but maybe enough to keep me off of death row.
There’s a strange lightness in my head, a sensation almost like hope. It’s as foreign as the emotions London has awakened inside me.
“Now, if your psychologist can just work her magic, you might have a fighting chance to plead for the court’s mercy.”
“She will,” I assure him. Young is just as committed to this case for his sake as for mine. A case like this could make his career—and I’ve invested my time wisely in London. She’ll be here. I’ve made sure of that.
“Court is adjourned,” the judge announces. “We’ll resume at nine tomorrow morning.”
“You better be sure,” Young says, assembling folders into his briefcase. “Do whatever it takes to get her on that stand.” He departs quickly, leaving the officers to shackle and escort me to the courthouse holding cell.
I scan the courtroom once more, jaw tightening at London’s absence. She’ll come. It’s not only my fate that hinges on her testimony.
Her life depends on it.