Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
When Gary reached the interview room, Riley was standing outside.
He frowned. “You didn’t need to wait for me.”
“Lewis is in there with him.” Riley was vibrating. “Things might be looking up, boss.”
Gary arched his eyebrows. “Do you know how many voluntary confessions turn out to be people chasing fame or the result of mental illness? What makes you think this one is for real?”
“I don’t. I’ve heard enough of these guys to know when something doesn’t ring true. And we know how to deal with them. But you remember that painting Marius Eisler was working on? The one on the easel?” Gary nodded, and Riley inclined his head toward the door. “It’s the guy in the painting.”
Gary finally got why Riley was buzzing. “He knew the victim. He might know something that could help us.” Riley nodded slowly. “What has he said so far?”
Riley consulted his notes. “He gave his name as John Reynolds at the desk. I’m running a background check. I just wanted to prepare you before you walked in there.”
Gary patted his arm, opened the door, and walked in.
John Reynolds sat at the table, Lewis facing him, and a police officer stood with his back to the wall.
The first thought to slip into Gary’s mind was that Marius Eisler had been a truly gifted painter; he’d captured his model to perfection.
An average-looking man of middle age, the kind of man you wouldn’t look twice at.
John pointed to the camera high in the corner above the door. “Are you recording all this? Because I wouldn’t want you to miss anything.” He leaned back, his arms folded.
Gary took the empty chair next to Lewis, then gave a nod. Lewis glanced at the sheet in front of him. “This is Detective Mitchell, and I’m Detective Stevens. Your name is John Reynolds, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“You’re forty-nine years old, and you live on Park Street in Dorchester.”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s me.”
“What do you do for a living?”
“I’m an accountant.” John stared at Lewis. “How come I’m not under arrest? Don’t you need to read me my rights or something?”
Lewis flicked a glance in Gary’s direction, then returned his attention to John.
“So far we have nothing to arrest you for. You walked into the precinct and told the desk sergeant you’re responsible for the deaths of six men.
” He leaned back, mimicking John’s body language. “So we’d like to hear more.”
Gary had a feeling the only thing they might possibly charge him with was wasting police time. It could be the only tool available to get him involved in mental health treatment if he needed it. He trusted his instincts. This wasn’t their man.
And now to prove that supposition.
“Fine. You want details?” John counted off on his fingers. “March 2016, I killed Trey Hopkins. December same year, Denver Wedel. June 2017, Geoff Berg. December, Vic Zerbe. May this year, Marius Eisler. And last week, Cory Peterson.” He smiled, as if he was expecting praise.
“Marius Eisler was painting your portrait.” Gary focused on John’s face. “You killed him before he finished it. Why was that?”
A shrug. “I didn’t like the way it was turning out. I don’t think he captured the real me.”
“On the contrary. I think he nailed you,” Gary remarked.
“Did you have sex with him before or after one of the sittings?” Lewis asked.
John flushed. “No.”
“Then it was purely business? Your sole purpose in going to his apartment was to be painted?”
He swallowed. “Yeah.”
Lewis smiled. “Ah. You went hoping for more, and he turned you down. Is that it?” When John didn’t respond, Lewis leaned forward. “So why’d you kill the others?”
“Isn’t it obvious? They were gay.”
“And that was enough motive to kill them?”
John glared at Lewis. “That was all the motive I needed. They have to be wiped off the face of the earth.”
“How did you kill them?” Gary didn’t break eye contact.
John yawned, covering his mouth with his hand. “You already know how.”
“Humor us. Tell us how it went down from your perspective.”
He rolled his eyes. “If you insist. I tied them up, using cuffs. Happy now?”
“Not really,” Lewis commented. “You could’ve read that in the papers. You still haven’t told us how you killed them.”
“I strangled them, okay? That’s what the rope was for.”
Gary nodded. “Oh, I see. And what did you do with the nail clippings you took?”
John blinked. “The… nail clippings?”
“We know you cut their nails—all the victims had a nail clipper beside the bed,” Gary lied, “but no clippings could be found. So we figured the killer had taken them. What we couldn’t work out was why.”
“Mementos,” John blurted.
“But what did you do with them?” Lewis demanded. “Stick ’em in a drawer? Encase ’em in plastic and make a coaster out of it? Of course, you might be more imaginative than me, but I gotta be honest here, I’m struggling.”
He glared at Lewis. “What I did with them is my business.”
“Let’s go back to why you killed them.” Lewis peered at his sheet where he’d scribbled a note. “They have to be wiped off the face of the earth, you said. Then why stop at six? Surely there are plenty more guys out there that need wiping off too.”
Riley came into the room and handed Gary a sheet, then withdrew.
Gary glanced at it, suppressing his sigh. He showed it to Lewis.
An Internet search for John Reynolds comes up with nothing. This guy is a nobody.
John’s voice rose. “Hey, I made a start, right? Someone else will follow my example and keep going. You wait and see. Bernhard Goetz had the right idea.”
Aha. And now we have it. Gary arched his eyebrows. “The vigilante? He claimed he’d done a public service by killing four men.”
John nodded, his eyes wide and bright. “See? That’s what I was doing. I’ll be a hero for making a stand.”
Gary had heard enough.
“No, you won’t,” he said quietly. “You modeled for Marius Eisler, but that’s all. How many times did you sit for him?”
“Twice.”
Another nod. “Did he offer to paint your portrait, or did you commission him?”
“I asked him.” John aimed a fierce look at Lewis. “And no, I didn’t go there for sex. I’m straight. I didn’t even know he was gay until I saw all those paintings.” He grimaced. “I only went to him because I’d seen one of his portraits in a gallery. No one’s ever painted me before.”
Gary studied him. “It’s obvious you know nothing of the circumstances in which these men died.
You may be homophobic, but you’re not a vigilante, a hero.
You’ve never amounted to anything your whole life, have you?
You’re no one, Mr. Reynolds, but I think you badly want to be someone.
How far did you think this would go? Your arrest?
A trial? Not even close. But it will get you a charge of wasting police time. And maybe some help too.”
John’s eyes bulged. “I don’t need any help, you hear? Now I want you to arrest me for murder. I killed those guys, and I want everyone to know about it.”
Gary shook his head. “Sorry. I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
John regarded them in stunned silence, and as Gary watched, he crumpled, his chest heaving, his chin trembling.
Gary glanced at Lewis. “Book him.” He stood and walked out of the room. Riley was waiting outside. Gary grimaced. “Lord, what a sad little man.”
“Why do people do this?”
“For the attention? I’m not going to waste time speculating on his motives. We’ve got work to do.”
When they walked into the case room, Dan was still sitting in the chair, staring at the photos. He turned to look at them. “I guess I’m not leaving, then?” He sighed. “You know, part of me hoped he was the genuine article. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Gary told him. “It happens more than you’d realize. And if it gets him the help he needs, I guess it’s almost worth it.” He gestured to the evidence box. “Were you able to learn anything?”
“Nothing of any use, I think.” He shuddered.
“What’s wrong?” Gary and Riley asked simultaneously.
“I didn’t pick up anything from the killer, but….” He shivered. “So much fear. These guys knew they were going to die.”
“You couldn’t see what they saw?” Riley’s face fell. “Does that ever happen? You know, as if you’re looking out through their eyes?”
“If you’re asking me for a physical description of the bad guy, I’m sorry, no, I can’t give you that.
” Dan picked up one of the evidence bags.
“The best way I can describe it is… it’s as if their belongings soaked up all the raw, strong emotions they were experiencing.
I’m not saying it doesn’t ever happen the way you suggest—because now and again, it does—but it’s rare.
” He stared at the board. “What interests me are these letters the killer carves into their skin, especially where he cuts them.”
Riley walked over to the board. “What about them?”
“What do they call it when you get a tattoo there? A tramp stamp? Maybe that’s a comment on his victims.”
“He appears to choose guys who are on Grindr, Scruff, and other such apps. All the victims were very sexually active, and witness statements indicate a high volume of ‘visitors’ to their homes. So your theory could be right. Maybe he saw them as promiscuous.”
“We think that’s how he’s targeting them,” Gary added.
Dan pointed to the heap of Scrabble tiles on the desk. “Good idea. Has it helped?”
Riley huffed. “If you’re asking what the letters mean, we haven’t worked that out yet. But it did help us solve a puzzle.” Gary listened as Riley brought Dan up to speed on their theories about mystery man Kris.
Dan shivered when Riley got to the part about the anagram. “Okay, that just gave me chills.” He glanced at the board once more. “Do you think the letters are in a specific order, or is the killer giving you a puzzle to solve once you have them all?”
“We’ve tried multiple combinations, but so far they make no sense. And now we know he’s in this for the long haul, I think your puzzle idea is the correct one.”
“There is something I’d like to try,” Dan murmured. “But I’d need you to do something for me.”
“What is it you need?” Gary asked. “And when do you want it done?”
“Not today—I need to recharge my batteries first—but tomorrow, possibly.” Dan touched the photos of the ropes and cuffs. “These might be more use than the jewelry, especially as the killer will have handled them.”
“I’ll have them sent up first thing tomorrow,” Gary confirmed.
Dan studied the images. “Maybe he’s into BDSM. Then again, maybe it’s a red herring, but he’s used them with all the victims.” He turned to look at Gary. “Were any of the victims into BDSM? Was there any evidence of that at the crime scenes?”
Gary shook his head. “What would you look for as evidence?”
“Leather, bondage gear, toys, slings, photos…. Maybe you should look at the Grindr and Scruff accounts again,” Dan suggested. “Cross-reference any guys who hooked up with all the victims and who are into leather, etc. But you’ll already have done this.”
Riley nodded. “The list is growing. We need to interview more of them. Maybe we need to reinterview some of them.”
“Cory wasn’t into all that. At least, he never mentioned it.” Gary didn’t think the topic had ever come up in conversation.
“How long were you two in a relationship?”
Gary froze. “What?” He thinks we were lovers? Dear Lord. How much does he know? How much does he see? He felt naked, under scrutiny, his secrets laid bare for all to see.
A flush crept across Dan’s cheeks. “Sorry. That’s none of my business.”
Gary struggled to claw back some semblance of calm. “No, you… you took me by surprise, that’s all. Cory and I, we were just friends,” he said as Lewis strolled into the room.
“Besides, Gary is straight,” Lewis interjected.
What the actual fuck?
Before he could get a single word past the lump in his throat, Lewis scowled. “Well, you are. What’s wrong with that?”
“Even if I wasn’t straight, that’s nothing to do with you.” Gary’s face grew hot. “And it’s certainly not something you should be commenting on.”
Dan cleared his throat. “If it’s okay with you, I’ll go back to the hotel. I need a rest.”
“You do that,” Lewis murmured.
Gary fired him a glance. “I’ll walk you out,” he told Dan. He waited while Dan picked up the jacket he’d hung over the back of the chair, then led him out of the case room and through the hallway. When they reached the main entrance, he paused. “If you’re tired, we don’t have to meet up later.”
Dan smiled. “I still need to eat, don’t I? And besides, you said the food was good.” He removed his wallet from his pocket and pulled out a business card. “That’s my cell. Text me with the address of the restaurant. What time are we eating?”
“Seven?” Gary took the card.
Dan nodded. “That gives me time to have a couple hours sleep. I got very little last night.” He cocked his head. “Good luck with whatever you’re doing now.”
“Reading reports, writing reports, reading statements—the dull parts the TV shows leave out.”
“But those are the parts that get the job done.” He locked gazes with Gary. “You’ll get him. I can feel it.”
“As Riley says so often, from your lips to God’s ears.” Gary watched as Dan walked away from the building, a slim, elegant figure who moved with grace.
You just rocked my world to its foundations, Mr. Porter.
In less than twenty-four hours, Gary had gone from being a total skeptic to someone who believed.
More than that—someone who had hope.