Chapter 11
THE TRAILER SPRINGS TO LIFE, and suddenly there he is, on the screen, speaking.
The reality of what Samuel Figg looks like now does not match the memory of the Carnival Killer that’s been etched into Barb’s brain for the past twenty-five years, shaped by guilt and grief and the passage of time.
In her mind, “Sam” is still in his late twenties, wearing that faded Blondie T-shirt, his blue-eyed gaze magnetic and intense, his longish sandy brown hair framing a crooked smile, his skin tanned and his muscles sinewy from working outdoors doing whatever odd jobs he managed to pick up in between murdering women over that one crazy summer.
The man speaking on Barb’s screen now has none of that energy.
His prison scrubs look a size too big, and his gray hair matches the papery pallor of his complexion.
He’s missing a tooth on one side of his mouth, and the honeyed voice she remembers from back then sounds rustier now.
She wonders if he might be sick. Samuel Figg doesn’t look dangerous at all.
Not that he looked dangerous then, but his age and thin frame now are impossible to reconcile with the fact that he is, indeed, a serial killer.
The only thing unchanged are his blue eyes. His Kurt Cobain gaze remains as intense as ever as he stares directly into the camera.
“My name is Samuel Figg. I’m fifty-four years old, and I was born in a small town in Arkansas I guarantee you never heard of. I’m serving five consecutive life sentences for first-degree murder here in the Washington State Penitentiary, where I’ve been incarcerated for almost twenty-five years.”
The screen cuts to footage of Figg being led out of the courthouse after his prison sentencing.
Barb remembers that day; it was several weeks after he confessed.
It then cuts to generic footage of the Washington State Penitentiary before returning to Figg in the present.
His hands are raised to show he’s handcuffed to the table with chains.
“I murdered four women in the summer of 2001.” Figg states this casually, in the same tone of voice he might use to comment on the weather, which is jarring compared to the weight of his actual words.
Jana Jones is off screen, but her muffled voice can be heard in the background. The camera remains on Figg’s face as she speaks. Helpfully, there are subtitles at the bottom of the screen to clarify to viewers what she’s saying.
Producer: You mean five women.
Figg shakes his head. “I said four.”
Producer: You’re serving five life sentences, Mr. Figg.
Figg smiles. “I know what I’m serving, pretty lady. But you said you wanted the truth. I killed four women, not five. That’s the truth.”
The screen goes black. Then a small icon appears, an arrow circling counterclockwise. Below it are the words
PLAY AGAIN?
Barb can’t move. She feels frozen, as if welded to her wobbly stool, and she looks down at her hands where her fingers are splayed out like starfish on either side of her laptop.
She’s seen all the past seasons of Criminal Confessions, and it’s a show made up entirely of interviews—with police detectives, witnesses, the victims’ friends and families, and, of course, the criminals themselves.
The point is to tell the story of the crime after it’s happened, after the criminals are brought to justice.
It has never, to Barb’s knowledge, been investigative.
And it was certainly never meant to exonerate anyone.
Four women. He actually said “four women, not five.” Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god . . .
Noni drops off breakfast. Appetite gone, Barb picks at the bacon as her mind flies back to the early fall of 2001.
Lorelei’s body had just been discovered at the Millers’ farm, a week after her disappearance.
Nicolette had left town by then, moving north to live with Ray in Seattle.
Barb dared not call her. She’d read too many mysteries and police procedurals, and was paranoid that their home phone lines might be bugged. They’d already decided on their story.
All she could do was hope that Nicolette didn’t forget what they had promised each other.
A few days later, in a coordinated effort by the FBI and local law enforcement agencies in Sacramento, Portland, and Seattle, Samuel Figg was arrested for the murders of Evelyn Duncan, Crystal Fankowski, Karla Twain, and Gina DiMaggio.
All four women had been murdered after meeting Figg at a fair or carnival of some kind, which was how he got his nickname.
But the police didn’t flag him for Lorelei Glass.
The recent discovery of the teenager’s body was not on the task force’s radar.
Why would it be? Unlike the other four victims, who were all from major cities and over the age of twenty with dark hair, Lorelei didn’t fit the Carnival Killer’s victim profile.
She was only fifteen. She was blond. And she was from the small town of Seaside, Washington.
But then they searched Figg’s Lincoln Continental, where they found a Polaroid photo of Lorelei Glass with Samuel Figg at the Starlight drive-in on the night she died. Seaside PD was immediately notified. Within hours, he was being interrogated by the deputy police chief of Seaside himself.
Forty-eight hours later, Figg confessed to all five of the murders he was charged with, including Lorelei’s.
Her case was closed. The memorial was planned.
Her ashes were scattered. Lorelei’s stepfather, Burt, who was unable to cope with his wife’s grief and had already wanted out of the marriage, quietly filed for divorce and left town.
By then, his son, Marty, the stepbrother Lorelei hated, was away at college, and as far as anyone knows, he has never set foot in Seaside again.
Curious, Barb pulls up Safari and enters the name “Martin Kieswetter” into Google. All that comes up is an archived link to his father’s old bio at the long-defunct Kia dealership he once managed.
“Looking up an old boyfriend?” a voice says behind her.
Barb slams her laptop shut and whirls around.
She’d been so caught up in the past that she hadn’t noticed Daniel Hawksfield standing near her stool, a young child clinging to each arm.
He isn’t a tall man, maybe five-six, but his smaller stature was always part of what made him seem more like a peer than an authority figure.
The expression of worry, so familiar, is still on his face.
Hawk has always cared about his students. Sometimes a little too much.
“Well, hello, Hawksfield men,” she says. “Did you all have a good breakfast? Do you like the new menu?”
The two children hanging off his arm are miniature versions of him.
It’s still weird to see Hawk as a father, even though he’s been married for a few years now.
Some of her clearest memories of high school are of him perched on the edge of his desk with his sleeves rolled up as the class discussed Lord of the Flies or Macbeth or The Grapes of Wrath.
He had a way of making literature fun, even for the kids who hated to read.
“I ordered my usual,” Hawk says. “But Becca was happy to see some healthier options. She tried the vegan pancakes.”
“My mommy said they tasted bad,” one of the boys informs Barb. “She had to put on lots of maple syrup, and then they weren’t so healthy anymore.”
“You doing okay?” Hawk lowers his voice, his gaze steady on her face. “I watched the trailer, and I heard Nicolette is doing an interview. If you need to talk, I’m available.”
“I’m fine,” Barb says, keenly aware that his kids are listening to every word. “But thank you, I’ll keep that in mind.”
He smiles at her formal tone. “So how’s the book coming?” he asks, changing gears.
Inwardly Barb flinches. That’s about the worst question you could ask a writer, and Hawk should know that. “It’s . . . you know, slow going. The freelancing’s been keeping me busy.” She swallows. “How did the school year go?”
“I finally got the permission to replace Lord of the Flies with Razorblade Tears this past semester,” Hawk says. “Of course they protested at first, saying that Cosby’s book is too dark for teenagers to read.”
“Which means they’ve obviously never read Lord of the Flies,” Barb says with a laugh. “Razorblade Tears is fantastic.”
“I knew you’d get it,” Hawk says with a grin.
“Daddy, let’s go,” the younger boy says, tugging on his arm. “Mommy looks mad.”
They say their goodbyes, and Barb waves to Hawk’s wife, who’s standing near the diner’s doors waiting for her family.
Becca raises a hand in return, her lips flattening ever so slightly before she turns away.
Barb has always sensed that the younger woman doesn’t like her.
And maybe it’s because they’re a lot alike—Becca is one of Daniel Hawksfield’s former students, just like Barb.
The year following Lorelei’s death, Hawk often drove Barb home when their yearbook meetings ran late.
If her mother was at the diner working, Barb would invite him in.
They’d talk for hours. About Lorelei. About everything.
Hawk always supported her writing goals and encouraged her to pursue the life she wanted.
Looking at him now with his family, she knows he’s disappointed that she didn’t leave Seaside and become the novelist she’d always dreamed of being, like they used to talk about in bed.
In fairness, that makes two of them.