The Confessor Read online

  The

  Confessor

  By

  Sarah Markel

  ~ Author’s Note ~

  This book is a standalone work, but does feature characters, places, and events from the Mended Hearts and Dej and Carrie series of books.

  This is my first attempt at a crime drama, and I hope that it is well received.

  ~ Special Thanks ~

  I would like to thank Detective Williams, of the Polk County Sheriff’s Office. Without your input and expertise, this book would not have reached its completion.

  I would also like to thank Sergeant Michael Dawson, Detective Shari Caulfield, and Officers Brooke Thatch and Martin Jimenez, each hailing from a different precinct. Your assistance with police procedure and investigative process, as well as your personal opinions, have provided invaluable insight for me.

  Very special thanks to the United States Federal Bureau of Investigation, for providing me with the materials needed to understand profiling.

  Thank you, to my friend, Nancy Ann Healy, for once again allowing me to reference her name and characters.

  Lastly, I would like to thank my readers, friends, and family, for supporting and encouraging me with this book. Without you, I never would have tried my hand at this type of story.

  To my editor, Marilyn Taylor, thank you so much for putting up with my impatience. Your input and insight have made this book a million times better than it would have been.

  ~ Table of Contents ~

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Epilogue

  ~ Prologue: April ~

  “Please… why are you doing this?”

  I stand beside the long, deep-set stainless-steel table and look down at him. His hands are chained to the table above his head, and his ankles are secured in a similar fashion to the other end. I watch him struggle against the bonds, confusion and fear contorting his unpleasant features.

  “Confess,” I instruct, my voice low and menacing.

  He stares at me. “Confess? Confess to what?”

  I shake my head. He knows what he did. He knows all the disgusting details of his crimes. He knows what he did is deplorable and unforgiveable.

  “Confess,” I instruct again.

  He’s beginning to panic. I can see it in the rapid movement of his eyes, as he searches for a way to free himself.

  “What do you want me to confess to?”

  I step around the end of the table and pick up the scalpel waiting on the rolling tray beside me. He watches my every movement, his senses heightened by fear. I look down at his bare feet and decide this is where I will begin.

  “Confess,” I repeat firmly.

  “I didn’t do anything!” He screams, a fleeting moment of bravery shining through.

  I am calm. His emotions do not affect me. With a steady hand, I quickly draw the blade of my scalpel down his left foot, slicing from the bottom of his toes to the bottom of the heel. Bright red blood blossoms from the wound and spreads over the shiny metal surface of the table.

  His screams fill the dimly lit room. I don’t enjoy hearing the sound, but it doesn’t make me flinch. Very little affects me anymore, but his crimes make me angry. He’s not my first victim, and he won’t be the last. I watch as his face contorts in pain and he tries to free himself, again.

  “Confess.”

  “I don’t know what you want!”

  “I want you to confess,” I reply, my voice even and calm.

  “Confess to what?” His eyes are beginning to tear up and he looks at me pleadingly.

  I am not moved by his discomfort. I draw my blade down the other foot, slowly this time, applying more pressure for a deeper cut.

  Screams once again serenade me as he struggles, instinctively trying to get away from the source of his pain.

  “What do you want from me?”

  I meet his eyes and allow just a hint of emotion into my voice.

  “Confess to your crimes. Admit what you’ve done, and I will release you.”

  “What crimes? I didn’t do anything!”

  I’m growing tired of his constant denial. Sometimes, people don’t feel their actions are wrong, for any number of reasons. Pedophiles defend their actions by claiming weakness. Abusers claim anger or drugs or alcohol. Murderers blame the victims for their own deaths.

  “Meredith Strong. Grace Burke.”

  There it is. I see the spark of recognition in his eyes when I speak the names of his victims. The victim’s names had never been released to public. The details of their brutal rapes and murders, however, had been splashed all over the news for months, while this piece of filth was on trial.

  This man was tried and convicted, but not of rape and first-degree murder. Instead, his use of the gay-panic defense resulted in a conviction only for breaking and entering. That was seven months ago.

  An innocent lesbian couple, brutalized and murdered on the very night they returned from their honeymoon. The police scoured the city for anything that would cast doubt on his claims. They did their best, there was no doubt about that, but it wasn’t enough.

  The state had long ago abolished the death penalty, instead opting to house the lowest of society’s vermin on the taxpayer’s dime, for whatever remained of their repugnant lives.

  The Strong and Burke families would never receive justice from the authorities. That’s what I am here for. To make sure those families never have to worry about what ever happened to the person that took their daughters from them.

  “I… I don’t know who those people are,” he stammered.

  I hate liars. I place the scalpel at his right ankle and drag it along the outside of his leg, all the way up to his armpit, as I walk to the head of the table. Blood pours from his body from this long, shallow incision.

  “I’m going to give you one chance, Mr. Durfee,” I pull a disposable cell phone from my pocket and show it to him, “Confess to your crimes, admit what you have done, and I will release you. Refuse, and I will make sure that your suffering lasts far longer than theirs did. I will give you one hour to make your decision.”

  I put the phone back in my pocket and turn to leave the room, placing the scalpel back on the table beside the others. None of the cuts I made on him are life threatening, in fact, the ones on his feet have already stopped bleeding.

  “Wait.”

  I stop as my hand hovers over the door knob.

  “I’ll confess.”

  I turn slowly. I’ll admit I’m a tad surprised by his willingness to cooperate. I smirk inwardly, making sure to keep my face a mask of indifference.

  “That was an awfully expedient decision. How will I know you are telling the truth?” I know he’s guilty, I have all the evidence needed to prove it, but I’m curious if he will be honest in his admission.

  “I’ll say where I hid the knife. The police haven’t found it yet.”

  Despite my best effort, my eyebrow arches. He’s correct, the police have not been able to find the weapon used to violate and defile those two women. That piece of evidence could have changed the outcome of the whole trial.

  “Tell me where it is. If it’s where you say it is, I will record your confession and release you. If it is not,” I allow an evil, predatory grin to spread over my face, “I’m going to peel off your skin and feed it to your dog.”

  He gulps, but nods his head. “It’s hidden behind the medicine cabinet in my bathroom. The whole cabinet comes out, it’s behind there, wrapped in a black hand towel.”

  I nod my head,
but say nothing more as I leave the room, locking the varied assortment of locks behind me. The room is soundproofed, so no one will hear the screams. On the off chance that he manages to get out of his bonds, he will have nowhere to go and no one to help him.

  ***

  “You found it, right?” He turns his head when I open the door, his eyes pleading and his voice hopeful.

  I nod my head and pull out the cell phone. “I did. During the confession, you will reiterate the location of the knife. You will name your victims, and you will admit the reason for your crime.”

  He nods quickly. He’s excited to be escaping from his confinement. He’s thinking that he will go home, take a shower, have a meal, maybe watch television, then settle down in his bed to sleep for the night. He has no idea.

  I turn on the video camera app on the cell phone. I hold the phone above his head, focusing the lens so the video will be clear.

  “Confess,” I instruct, careful to keep my voice deep and gravelly, my instruction short and to the point.

  He begins to speak, rattling off an apology, and giving the details as instructed. When he’s finished describing the heinous act, and explaining his reasoning, he looks over at me.

  I leave the video running as I reach across his chest toward the cuff securing him to the table. He doesn’t see the scalpel I’ve palmed, and for a moment, relief floods his face. That relief quickly fades into horror when he feels the blade slice across his throat.

  I watch as realization settles over his face. He tries to speak, but all I can hear is gurgling as he begins to drown in his own blood. My blade is precise, and the perfect amount of pressure has scored his neck deeply.

  It takes only ninety seconds for the worthless life to leave its vessel, and I say nothing as my camera records the last seconds. When I am sure that he is dead, I turn off the camera and shut down the phone. I remove two small photos from a plastic bag in my pocket.

  “Justice has been served,” I say to the images of two happy women. I place the photos inside the gaping wound that used to be his throat and tuck them down his windpipe.

  The alarm on my watch sounds, and I look at it in surprise. I didn’t realize it was getting so late. I’ll have to work with haste.

  I make quick work of folding the body into a large rolling trash can, and am cautious to lock the door behind me as I wheel the trash to the truck. I am not worried about being seen, there are no other people for miles.

  Once the truck is loaded, I drive toward town, mindful of the posted speed limit. It won’t do to be pulled over. I know exactly where to leave the trash to ensure it will be discovered quickly, and turn down a well-travelled road toward a homeless camp.

  The unfortunate residents of this camp will be absent, as the soup kitchen is currently getting ready to begin serving supper.

  I pull into the center of the camp and am expedient in leaving him where he will eventually be found. Before I leave, I tuck the cell phone in with the photos, and seal it with a piece of duct tape. Can’t have one of the homeless scavenging the taped confession.

  With my work complete for the day, I climb back into the truck and head home. Can’t be late for supper. The wife gets angry when I’m not home while the meal is hot.

  ~ Chapter 1: April ~

  “Weston,” Detective Cordelia Weston mumbled sleepily into the phone. She glanced at the clock and groaned as her partner spoke on the other end of the line. 3:18 am.

  “Sorry to wake you, Cordy, but we’ve got a body.”

  “Where?” she asked softly as she carefully sat up in bed. The body beside her grumbled and rolled away, taking most of the blanket with her.

  “Eastgate Homeless Camp. One of the residents called it in.”

  “How long?” Cordy rubbed a gentle hand over her wife’s hip and the grumbling stopped.

  “Call came in about two hours ago. Apparently, there was a fight over jurisdiction, so we didn’t get it until a few minutes ago.”

  “I’m on my way. Be there in thirty,” Cordy hung up the phone and leaned over to kiss her wife on the cheek.

  “I’ve gotta go to work,” she murmured, “I’ll try to be home for dinner.”

  Jenica Weston grunted her acknowledgement. Cordy chuckled. Jenica knew the routine, and while she didn’t appreciate that Cordy was called away at all hours of the night, she had accepted it. Cordy loved her job, and Jenica loved Cordy.

  “Tell Gibson that if you’re late for dinner, I’m going to invite his wife over for a recipe swap.”

  Cordy snorted and climbed out of bed. She didn’t bother to turn on the light as she pulled clothing from her dresser. Cordy had an eccentric sense of style, and had essentially started her own fashion trend with her fellow officers. Most of the department often referred to her clothing choices as hobo-chic.

  “You wouldn’t do that,” she said confidently, “you said she would ruin your family recipes.”

  Jenica sat up and glared at the dark shadow of her wife. She had indeed made that exact statement, but if it meant that her hard work would be enjoyed properly, she would happily share her Maori recipes with Gibson’s culinarily challenged wife.

  “Sweetheart,” Jenica said kindly, her New Zealand accent thick and provocative, “You know that I wouldn’t do that, but your partner does not. He’s creeped out enough by the food I make, do you really think he wants to entertain the thought that Nora might try to make rewena?”

  Cordy shivered and swallowed the gag that tickled her throat. She hated rewena, a native Maori bread made from fermented potatoes. Thankfully, Jenica only made it when her parents visited from Auckland.

  “Alright, babe, I’ll give him the warning,” she said as she sat on the edge of the bed and stuffed her feet into a pair of boots.

  Jenica leaned forward and wrapped her arms around her wife. “That’s a good girl,” she teased, pressing a kiss behind Cordy’s ear, “now run along and catch the baddy. I’ll see you tonight.”

  Cordy stood and kissed her wife goodbye. She grabbed her shield and wallet and left the room quickly, only to double back and take the keys dangling from Jenica’s fingers. “Those might help,” she quipped.

  Jenica smiled and waved as Cordy once again left the room. When she heard the front door close and Cordy’s mustang roar to life, she flopped back down and curled up with Cordy’s pillow.

  Jenica inhaled deeply, as she always did when Cordy was called away at night, drawing the scent of Cordy’s perfume into her lungs.

  “Kia haumaru i reira, toku aroha,” she murmured before falling back into the warm clutches of sleep.

  Whenever Jenica was on the verge of sleep, she always reverted to her native language. Had Cordy been there to hear her, she would have smiled at the way her wife’s Maori tongue curled around the sentiment. Be safe out there, my love.

  ***

  “Weston, over here,” Gibson Price waved as Cordy stepped through the crime scene tape.

  “Why did it take two hours for the county to release jurisdiction?” she asked as she joined her partner beside a large yellow tarp.

  “County Sheriff originally got the call, but it was delegated out to Monmouth, who passed it off to Independence, who thought Marilynn should handle it, who sent it back to County, who finally called us.”

  “Ah, yes, the body is in a homeless camp, and no one wants to deal with it, so let’s start passing the buck. Gotta love bureaucracy. If this was an election year, the Commissioner would be out here handling it himself.”

  Eastgate was a county-sanctioned homeless camp, located at the four-corner junction of Falls City, Marilynn, Monmouth, and Independence. Each of the cities donated land within their city limits, and the camp’s jurisdiction was shared between police departments.

  When calls to the camp came in, the broadcast went out to all four departments, as well as the County Sheriff. As typically happened, the calls were shuffled around, until someone decided to respond.

  Gibson let his partner rant. After
nearly ten years as her partner, he’d learned it was best to just let her speak her mind. She was a much more likeable person that way.

  “So, what have we got?” Cordy asked as she crouched and lifted the corner of the tarp.

  “Victim’s name is Franklin Durfee. Address has him listed on Mitchell Street, Falls City. Someone obviously didn’t like him.”

  Cordy listened as Gibson filled her in on the facts, but her mind was focused on inspecting the body. The man was wearing only a pair of grimy underpants and a black ski cap. His body had been laid out to look like he was sleeping on his side, with his legs bent at the knees. Cordy could see fresh lacerations on the bottom of each foot.

  “How long do you think he’s been here?” she asked.

  Gibson scratched the stubble on his chin and consulted his notes. “According to the residents, he wasn’t here before five o’clock. Everyone we talked to so far, insisted that he wasn’t here before they all left for the CRBC Soup Kitchen.”

  “A few of them noticed him when they came back, but since he was covered up with a blanket and appeared to be sleeping, they assumed he wandered into the camp and decided to take a nap.”

  “Who’s running the canvas?” Cordy asked as she stood and motioned for the coroner.

  “Johansson,” Gibson replied, stepping aside so the coroner could access the body, “She’s pretty thorough.”

  Cordy nodded. She’d worked with Officer Johansson before, and was quite impressed with the eager young woman.

  “Vic’s in full rigor,” the coroner, Lita Vasquez, noted aloud, “rough guestimate on TOD is six to twelve hours. I’ll know more once I get him on the table.”

  Lita beckoned to her techs, and Cordy and Gibson backed away, so they could work.

  “How pissed was Jenica?” Gibson asked conversationally as the pair waited for the body to be removed.

  “She didn’t seem too upset,” Cordy replied, “but she did tell me to warn you; if I’m late for dinner tonight, she’s going to invite Nora over for a recipe swap.”

  Cordy saw Gibson’s color drain, even in the dim light just outside the department’s portable lighting.