Confession (10 page)

“But I'm not paid to set murderous clients free.”

She didn't let a beat go by. “Nor am I. I'm a psychiatric consultant hired to render an
honest,
expert opinion.”

“Yet you specialize in getting killers off death row. Come to think of it, there's no death penalty in New Mexico, so what the hell are you doing here?”

“
I
asked Dr. Cassidy for help.” Faith finally got a word in. “Dr. Cassidy, thank you so much for coming. I wasn't expecting you to show up in person, but I'm terribly grateful you did.”

“I would've been here sooner, but I was in Phoenix working another case.”

Spense lurched toward her. “Goddamnit, Caity. Judd Kramer is guilty. Just take my word for it and go home, why don't you.”

Dr. Cassidy's lips pursed, and her smile was all innocence. “You're on Kramer, too? What airline you flying? Maybe we can sit next to each other on the plane back to Phoenix.”

“Maybe you can kiss my ass.”

She addressed Faith, “I apologize for Agent Spenser. His manners get worse every time I see him.”

A low growl came out of Spense's mouth. Dr. Cassidy got on her tiptoes and up in his face. “I specialize in discovering the truth. Not getting killers off. And as you know, I'm especially interested in cases where a confession factors heavily into a guilty verdict. The number of false confessions in this country, and the number of innocent men and women who're convicted based on those false confessions is unconscionable.”

Spenser smacked his fist into his open palm. “And the bulk of those false confessions are based on sloppy police work and coercion. No one's arguing that, Caity. But let's stick to
this case
for a moment. Even you have to admit that Jericho's confession wasn't coerced. It was a spontaneous, voluntary, good confession. And as such, is highly credible.”

“The fact that Dante volunteered his confession doesn't make it credible. Maybe he's looking for his fifteen minutes of fame. Maybe he's lost touch with reality. Police fielded more than two hundred confessions after the Lindbergh baby was kidnapped. None of those confessions was coerced, and every one of them proved false. But you know that already, Spense.”

Faith could see a vein pulsing in Spense's forehead, his posture tightening. “Let's not do this in front of the kid, Caity. You and I got time for a pissing match later. If you're flying Delta, I'll change my seat on the plane, and we can see how long it takes for the flight attendants to separate us.”

He turned to Faith, took her by the hand, and uncurled her fingers, which had drawn down into a closed fist, then he pressed a card into her palm. “Despite your first impression of him, Detective Johnson's a good man. You should trust him. But just in case you don't, and you get in a jam, you can call me. I've got connections, Faith, and I can make things happen, even from Phoenix.”

Back at Faith's desk, Spense reverently lifted each photograph and held them up to the light for inspection before replacing them in his briefcase. “Remember these victims, Faith. Linda Peabody. William Carmichael. Nancy Aberdeen. Ken Stoddard. You think about
them.
”

Spense brushed past Caitlin Cassidy, scalding her with his gaze on his way out the door. Then he looked back over his shoulder at Faith. “One more piece of advice, kid. If you're going to treat confessed serial killers in this office, you should consider keeping a weapon here for self-­defense. You're afraid of guns, so figure something else out.”

Faith didn't bother asking herself how Spense knew that. After all, the man was a whiz at puzzles.

“Again, I apologize for Spense . . . and for me, too. There's something about that man that gets me every time. But that's no excuse for that little scene you just witnessed.” Dr. Caitlin Cassidy stuck out her hand. “Dr. Faith Clancy, I presume.”

Faith let out a long breath. “No worries. And please, call me Faith. I can't believe you're here. Thanks again, Dr. Cassidy.”

“Call me Caitlin. I guess my timing wasn't the greatest.”

“Your timing was perfect. Please . . .” Faith gestured toward the seat recently vacated by Spense.

Caitlin plopped down and stretched her arms, then settled them behind her head as Spense had done. To Faith's eye, the two apparent enemies seemed to share a lot of personality traits.

“Tell me what happened with you and guns,” Caitlin said.

Yep. Another puzzle solver. “Maybe you and Agent Spenser could form your own special team.”

“Not a chance in hell Atticus Spenser and I will ever be on the same team, and you can take that one to the bank. Now then, about your fear of firearms.” When Caitlin's voice thawed, it warmed the whole room, instantly putting Faith at ease.

Something in her eyes made Faith want to trust Caitlin, made her want to let her guard down. “Sure. I'll tell you all about it. But first you tell me how you knew.”

“A few minutes ago, when Spense pulled back his jacket and flashed his ser­vice weapon, your face went white. No. Not just your face, your lips, too. I swear, your lips and your skin were the exact same color. I was sure you were going to faint.”

“I've found if squeeze my fists, it raises my blood pressure and keeps me on my feet.” Faith walked to the window and looked out onto the street below, then turned back to Caitlin, twisting the turquoise ring she'd bought on the street last week.

Caitlin looked at her expectantly.

“I was six. My best friend Gina and I were playing cops and robbers at her house. Her dad was a cop, so we played that game a lot. Anyway, Gina's mom had a pocket Beretta. It was so small, we thought it was a toy. Gina picked it up.” Faith pumped her fists, went to her desk and sat down hard in her chair. Just remembering that moment raised the hairs on her neck and sent her heart racing. “One minute, I was playing with my best friend, the next, I was watching her die.”

“I'm sorry.”

She looked away, folded her hands on top of her desk. “Yeah. Me, too.”

Caitlin reached out and touched Faith's hand. If another person had done that, Faith would've pulled away. But Caitlin had a way about her.

A moment later, Caitlin sat back and crossed her arms. “Have you ever thought about trying to overcome your fear? Maybe take a gun class so you could learn to handle a weapon safely.”

“I've never had a reason . . . before now. But we digress.”

“Shrinks like us do tend to digress don't we?” Caitlin shrugged one shoulder. “And we have important matters before us. I read about Dante Jericho's confession in the papers even before I got your e-­mail. I could tell you I was planning a trip to the darling city of Santa Fe and just happened to drop in, but that would be a lie, and you'd see right through me.”

“I'm not sure I can see right through anyone at the moment.”

“I believe you can. Don't underestimate your instincts, Faith. You've got the training and the heart for this business. That's apparent by the way you've handled yourself so far. All you need now is experience.”

“This isn't the kind of experience I planned on getting when I went into psychiatry. I'm not a forensic specialist, like you.”

“Believe me, nobody wants something like this to fall in her lap, but in life, you get what you get. This is a highly unusual case. Try to look at it as a rare opportunity.”

“A
very
rare opportunity, I hope.”

“Listen, I brought up all those false confessions in the Lindbergh kidnapping mainly to get Spense's goat.”

“Mission accomplished.” Faith refrained from raising her hand for a high five.

“But Spense makes a good point. A false confession that did not result from external influence is more akin to a zebra than a horse. They don't show up at the watering trough that often. Confessions are my thing, but I've never seen an
unsolicited
false confession in my career. I'm only thirty-­three, but still.”

So that was why Caitlin Cassidy had flown all the way from Phoenix to Santa Fe. She was hunting zebras.

“Now that it's just us girls, how about you fill me in on Dante Jericho?”

“Does this mean you're be available to assist in his case? If I could come up with the funds I mean. I'm sure Luke Jericho would be willing to pay you whatever you ask.”

She waved her palm in the air. “No can do. When I said I wasn't in this for the money, I meant it. I'm involved in a big pro bono case right now.”

“Judd Kramer?”

“Uh-­huh. I'm here for one day only, so we have to make the most of our time.”

Faith's body sagged with disappointment.

“I'll get you started, and I'll stay available for you by phone or e-­mail. I wish I could take this one for you, but I can't.”

“Then where should I begin?”

“Let's start with your working diagnosis for Dante Jericho.”

“His diagnosis.” Faith drummed her fingers on the desktop. “Truthfully, I'm not sure anymore. In the beginning, his presentation was classic. A schizoid personality disorder in the throes of a major depressive episode—­some paranoid features. He met criteria under DSM-­5.”

“Don't you hate the new manual?”

“With a passion. But hey, at least they got rid of those irritating roman numerals.”

Bonded together by a mutual dislike of the new Diagnostic and Statistical Manual for classifying mental disorders, they shared a high five after all.

“So Dante didn't fit the diagnosis of psychopath.” Caitlin frowned.

“No. Schizoid. Depressed. Possible delusions, but he exhibited no psychopathic features at all. At least not until the day he confessed.”

“Interesting.”

“That day, his behavior was entirely inconsistent with his past behavior—­and my working diagnosis. He followed me from his brother's art gallery, snuck into my office the back way, and more or less ambushed me. He grabbed my cell, made all sorts of menacing gestures and remarks. I'm certain he was deliberately trying to frighten me. And he seemed to be getting off on it . . . like a psychopath would.”

“Scary.”

“Very. I had to force myself not to show fear.” Her hands closed into fists. “I decided to behave as if we were in regular session. And that's when Dante suddenly turned back into his old, docile—­and depressed—­self.”

“What do you make of that?
Two incompatible diagnoses.
Is the guy schizoid and depressed, unable to carry out a simple plan, or is he a ruthless psychopath?”

“If I knew the answer to that, I suppose I could tell you for certain whether Dante is capable of having committed such highly organized crimes.”

“What's your gut telling you?”

“My gut goes first one way, then the other. Like you said, I don't have a lot of experience to guide me. But
logic
tells me his menacing behavior in my office was all an act. He never planned to hurt me. He wanted to scare me good and proper though because he wanted to be sure I'd phone the police.”

“Then my advice is to keep digging. Don't stop until you find the truth, Faith, because I'm telling you from my heart, if you ever stop searching, you'll never be able to live with the consequences.”

 

ELEVEN

Wednesday, July 31, 11:00
A.M.

O
ne more piece of advice, kid. If you're going to treat confessed serial killers in this office, you should consider keeping a weapon here for self-­defense. You're afraid of guns, so figure something else out.

Special Agent Atticus Spenser's words to Faith had missed the mark. She wasn't
afraid
of guns, she was flat-­out
terrified.
She figured Caitlin Cassidy was right: It was time to face her fear. So the next morning, after filling her tank with a hearty breakfast and three cups of coffee—­the sole purpose of which was to raise her blood pressure sufficiently to prevent fainting—­she headed downtown and marched intrepidly through the doors of Todd's Gun World.

And if it hadn't been for its puke pink grip, she might've walked back out as the proud owner of a Ruger LCP. Faith had gotten through the nerves that nearly stopped her from entering the gun shop in the first place. She'd sucked down the queasy feeling that came over her when she saw the rifles, thick as locusts, covering the walls. But when Todd, the earnest owner of Todd's Gun World, gently placed a lightweight compact pistol with a pink handle in her palm, she'd almost lost her breakfast.

Focusing on the gun's silly-­looking grip seemed like a good way to ward off an outright case of the jitters. “Why's the handle this color?” she asked though she already knew the answer. Todd had taken one look at Faith and decided the gun she needed was lightweight, lethal . . . and pink.

“Err . . . because you're a lady? Goes good with your shoes?” His puzzled smile had finished his sentence off for him with an unspoken
why'd ya think
?

She knew she shouldn't have worn her Jimmy Choos. A gun was not an accessory. Nor was it a toy, and she hated the way the pink grip made her feel like she could be playing Barbies with her girlfriends. Her throat clogged, and she got that watery feeling in her legs. This was exactly the type of weapon a child might choose to stuff in her ear, like her friend Gina had done. Two deep inhales later, she'd regained her land legs. “What? You don't have bedazzled?”

Giving her hand a paternal pat, Todd had said, “Far as I can tell, nobody dragged you in here, Missy. You asked me to assist you in finding a weapon for self-­defense. This model is compact, so it's safe and easier for you to fire. It's easy to load, and you can handle the recoil. But that don't mean it's for sissies. This here compact pistol packs a punch. It's a favored BUG for our boys in blue.”

“What do you mean BUG?” Oh, Lord. Did she really want to know the lingo?

“Backup gun. Now, the question is, do you want a gun for protection, or don't you? If the answer is yes, I got plenty without the pink for you women's liber types.”

“I haven't burned a bra in years.” Some ­people giggle when they get nervous—­Faith got mouthy. Still, she bit her lower lip. Todd had hit the nail on the head . . . and then hammered it home.

Do you want a gun or don't you?

She'd let the question roll around in her head. If she hadn't understood the need for personal defense before, she understood it now. Being holed up in her office with Dante, with her wits as her only line of self-­defense had been a wake-­up call. No, he hadn't harmed her. Yes, she now believed his confession to be a lie, but she could never go back to that false sense of security she'd had before. She'd turned the gun over once or twice, testing the grip. The weight of her decision was as palpable as the cool pistol in her hand. She blew out a hard breath.

She didn't think she could take a human life—­even in self-­defense. “Thanks anyway, but I guess I don't want a gun after all.”

“No worries.” He'd grinned widely and thumped her on the back. “I see what your deal is, and I got all kinds of nonlethals. Uncle Todd's gonna fix you up right.”

Now, Faith stood smack in the middle of her unprotected office with no gun and the full knowledge she simply didn't have it in her to use lethal force. But that was okay. She hadn't given up on the idea of personal safety. She'd re-­upped for her Krav Maga class, and added an additional night per week. Plus, Todd had made good on his promise, and she'd left his shop with enough bells and whistles to befuddle an attacker into believing
she
was the badass.

She also had a few tricks of her own up her sleeve. She closed the door to her office, flipped the dead bolt in place, and started to unpack her personal-­defense arsenal. First came the letter opener, brass-­plated and pointy. Not sharp enough to kill someone, but it could put an eye out in a pinch. She slipped the letter opener in her top desk drawer and moved on to the next item.

It took both hands to lift the glass orb from her shopping bag. None of the paperweights at the office-­supply store had been treacherous enough to suit her, so she'd gone to a Christmas specialty shop and picked up this little beauty—­a giant snow globe of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, mounted on a wooden base. An absolute steal at ten dollars and guaranteed to knock an intruder out cold. She marched the heavy globe over to the bookshelf. When one end of the shelf lifted like a teeter-­totter, she rearranged, then rubbed her hands together in satisfaction.

Two down; two to go.

She snapped her pepper-­spray ultra system, which included an earsplitting alarm and blinding strobe, onto her belt. To prove she was a good sport, she'd selected the spray with the pink holster. Remembering Todd's
attagirl,
her chest puffed. Then her foot began to tap. She still had one final item to place. Circling her office, she kept her eyes peeled for the perfect spot. The desk seemed an obvious choice, but that zone had already been secured by the letter opener. She circled the room again, but nothing came to mind—­this place really could use more furniture. But the third circle was the charm—­her gaze fixed on the plantless plant stand near the doorway. If she turned the boxy mahogany stand against the wall just so, its sliding door would be hidden from view and, voilà, became a secret panel.

When she pulled her Taser from its case, her hands stayed steady—­a very good sign. Constructed from black plastic, the stun gun felt light and comfortable in her grip. With a simple click, she activated the laser sights. Sweeping the red dot about the room, she straight-­armed the Taser.

“Clear,” she whispered.

No. That wasn't right.

“Clear,” she said, in soft but audible voice. Yes, that was a bit better. She turned off the red light and resolved to practice handling both her Taser and her pepper-­spray ultra system again tomorrow. Lightning doesn't often strike twice, so it seemed unlikely she'd ever actually use her assembled arsenal, but one thing was damn sure, on the off chance lightning did strike again, she wouldn't be caught unprepared.