Redemption (24 page)

“We’re all saints, Jane, with varying degrees of tarnished halos,” Carl replied. “You keep the book. I know it by rote.”

Jane reluctantly accepted the gift and set it on the couch. But her impatience was growing. She expressed her urgency to learn about Clinton and Carl finally acquiesced. He donned a black canvas jacket and snagged another coat from the pegs by the front door for Jane. Even with the garish glow of the red and green chile lights outside the house, the clear sky shone with a brilliant palate of sparkling stars. Jane lit a cigarette and took an eager drag of painkilling nicotine into her lungs.

“So, what do you know about the asshole?” Jane asked with pointed precision.

“Did you read my article about him in
Rolling Stone
?”

“Yeah. I want to know what you left out of the story.”

“Why?”

“You following the news the last few days?”

Carl shook his head. Jane told him about Charlotte and how Clinton was assuming the pseudo lead in the case. “Shit,” Carl said, nervously scuffing the hard dirt with the heel of his boot. A bone-chilling, high desert wind whipped up, carrying the sweet scent of sagebrush. “You involved in this kid’s case?”

Jane eyed Carl with a reluctant gaze. “Maybe.”

Carl considered the situation, motioning toward the house. “Is Kit involved?”

“I can’t go into any details. Let’s just say that this could turn out to be bigger than the Lawrence murder case.” Carl arched his eyebrows at Jane’s disclosure. “If it all plays out and my involvement turns out to be important, I will give you the exclusive interview.” Jane waited for that proposal to sink in.

“It’s taken me a long time to get the stories and the money and respect that go with them. If certain individuals found out I blabbed about stuff that didn’t get put in the story, I’m seriously fucked.”

“This conversation never happened, Carl. You have my word. And you’ll have the biggest exclusive of your career if it goes down our way.”

Carl dug his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “First off, you know as well as I do that there’s really no such thing as a profiler. That’s a manufactured Hollywood brand. The real term is ‘Behavioral Analyst’ and the only group that has a respectable B.A. program is the FBI. They have twelve psychologists, all FBI agents who got their Masters and PhDs in psychology. They’re stuffed into a building in Quantico and analyze photos and case files from the comfort of their desk. They study victimology, they study crime scenes and the vic’s background, and try to put together a best guess as to what happened and who did it. But you tell me, cousin, isn’t that what any good detective does? The only thing you get from the Behavioral Analyst guy is the expert witness in court that comes on the stand and says ‘I’ve got a PhD and here’s what I feel.’

“Now, Clinton Fredericks, he calls himself a profiler, but he’s just a guy with Nick Nolte hair and an ego the size of a Mack truck who uses the information from older cases to make assumptions about current ones.”

“So why is Clinton Fredericks’s name synonymous with crime solving?”

“Because he’s got a good agent. He’s also got a public relations firm that shores up his image and deflects the more compromising elements of his behavior.”

“You’re talking about Rudy Weiss and the killing of that bank teller?”

“That incident cost Fredericks pretty good bank with his PR gurus, but it paid off. He got a book deal and maybe a reality TV show down the road. I had to jump through fucking hoops when I wrote the article for
Rolling Stone
. One of the conditions was that I had to release the article to his PR man before the magazine got it. Anything they didn’t like got censored. It was my first article for
Rolling Stone
and I was promised more work if they liked the piece on Fredericks. So I did what the PR guys asked and I never told the magazine about it.”

“What’d you leave out of the story?” Jane asked, taking a drag on her cigarette.

Carl let out a long sigh. “Clinton sees himself as the resurrection of ‘Gonzo’ journalist Hunter S. Thompson. After Thompson committed suicide, I think Clinton felt he could match his idol’s wildness and proclivity to
become
the story instead of report it. But Clinton’s theater isn’t journalism. It’s hard-core life-and-death drama where average people can be used, bought, and manipulated to serve his higher purpose.”

“What’s his MO?”

“Clinton’s not satisfied with the crumbs the cops throw him. He wants the whole loaf of bread he can get from a closer source: the family. He got cozy with that bank teller’s family. That’s how he knew so much about her when he was out there with the megaphone ‘negotiating’ for the TV cameras. Being close to the family also gives him the advantage of finding out some choice information that the cops may only divulge to the relatives. But he’s also got a stalker mentality.”

“How do you mean?”

“Basically, he leeches on to anyone and then steals that information for his own advancement. I spent three months with
the prick. We drove from one fucking TV show to the next so he could promote his stupid book. But in between getting his makeup on for the next TV interview or doing book signings, he started opening up to me. All egomaniacs need a stage and another body to bounce their brilliance off of. I’m a good listener when I have to be, and so he talked and talked
and talked
. He wants to be super profiler, super negotiator, and super crime solver—”

“Clinton got that bank teller killed. How does that raise his image?”

“Didn’t you see his stirring epilogue on live TV when he wept in front of America as he told of the brave sacrifice that poor woman made and how he was going to do whatever it took to have a park near the bank named after her. And he did it! And you better believe the fucker was there front and center on the day they cut the ribbon at that little park. Never mind that he was also quietly enjoying half of the $250,000 reward fund that the family of the dead woman
insisted
he receive.”

“Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack. What’s the reward up to for this girl from California?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I guarantee you he got cozy with the girl’s mother and found out there was a reward fund. His presence on the case will fuel that fund and his personal involvement will deepen with each dollar that is added to the kitty. Clinton told me a lot of shit when I was out there on the road with him. He likes to drink and I know how to act drunk. He’d get loaded and I’d drink tonic and pretend to be fucked up so he’d feel comfortable talking to me. When Clinton’s sober, he’s a fucking asshole. When he’s drunk, he’s a Chatty Cathy doll with a psycho twist. For example, one night he gave me his ‘recipe’ for the perfect media crime event. Mix a child—preferably a girl—add a small town, pepper it with a high-profile mystery, get the parents to like you, spice it up with a large cash reward, and you’ve got the perfect showcase for Clinton Fredericks.”

“Jesus....” Jane squashed her cigarette into the dirt.

Carl hesitated. “You know what else he told me?” Carl improvised a slurred, drunken voice. “‘Bottom line, Carl, I don’t give a fuck about the hostage. Do you have any idea how much pussy I get from what I do? Women want to fuck me from one side of the country to the next and I just stand back and take numbers.”’ Carl pulled out of the drunken imitation. “So I say to him, ‘But Clinton, what if the hostage gets killed?’ And he says, ‘We all gotta die sometime!’ Then, he laughs like the fuckin’ psychotic he is. Next day, he sobered up, but he’s not like some drunks who forget what they tell you. He remembered everything. He pushed me up against my hotel room wall, held me by my throat and said, ‘If you tell anyone what I said last night, I’ll destroy you.’ And that SOB has the connections to do it. So I did what I was told, knowing full well that somewhere down the road, some other victim was going to have a target on their forehead when Clinton got involved in their case.”

“Clinton crossed the line with that statement. He went from being an asshole to being a physical threat to the victim! He needs to be exposed!”

“Not by me! Hey, I’m not proud of it, cousin. We all start out with this genuine desire to speak the truth. Then, if we’re smart, we realize real quickly that the truth is not what matters when the lie is what you’re selling.”

Jane took a step toward Carl. “The truth still matters to me and it matters even more to that twelve-year-old girl.” Jane weighed the circumstances. “Look, if it all pans out, you get the exclusive with me and
my quotes
annihilate Clinton in the story, not yours.”

Carl considered the offer and nodded in agreement. “Okay.” He smiled warmly. “You always had more guts than I did. We didn’t see a lot of each other growing up, but when the families did get together, I always quietly envied your strength.”

Jane lit another cigarette. “Appearances are often deceiving, Carl.”

“Naw. You
are
strong. You’re a survivor.”

“You got the survivor part right,” Jane said, taking a long drag on her cigarette.

A quizzical look came over Carl. “You mean surviving the media frenzy over that homicide case this past summer?”

Now it was Jane’s turn to look puzzled. “No. I mean...
life
.” She waited for her response to sink in. “Growing up, you know?”

A pall fell over Carl. “I hear you.” He cast his eyes downward, drawing circles in the dirt with the toe of his boot. “We turn eighteen, break free of the home, and spend the rest of our lives trying to right all the perceived wrongs against us. Along the way, we do too many drugs and drink a lot booze trying to suffocate the memories.” Jane studied Carl’s somber face. For the first time, she noticed an edge of sadness that hung close to this heart. “I hope your dad found peace in the end,” Carl said. “I don’t think mine ever did. Were you with him when he died?” Carl asked.

Jane’s body stiffened. “No,” Jane replied with a low flush of ire.

“I was with my dad.” Carl let out a long exhalation. “It was good. After I learned about what happened between he and Uncle Dale, I started seeing him not so much as my dad but as a person who was still tortured by the fact that he couldn’t forgive himself. I understood why he couldn’t be there for me emotionally.” Jane felt as if she were walking into a movie that was halfway done. “It’s ironic, isn’t it, how my dad was always so passive and quiet as an adult. He was always afraid of hurting someone.” Carl’s eyes were lost in the distance for a moment. “Always afraid he was going to be forced into doing something he didn’t want to do. So he never tried. He kept it all inside. The only time he came out of his shell was when he drank. That’s when he talked about the real stuff—the stuff that made him. He didn’t want to feel. Because if he felt, he’d have to live with what he did over and over again.” Carl looked at Jane “Every time I came to your house and saw Uncle Dale, I always felt so sorry for him.”

“You felt
sorry
for my dad?” Her voice was shaky.

Carl furrowed his eyebrows. “Well, yeah. To go through what happened to him as a kid. It’s just fuckin’ evil.”

Jane felt disoriented. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” She tossed her cigarette into the darkness and walked inside the house. Carl followed.

Kit was still on the couch sound asleep. Jane’s nerves sparked as she crossed to the breakfast bar in the kitchen.

“Your dad never told you what happened to him?” Carl asked quietly, so as not to wake up Kit.

“Nothing happened to
him
!”

Kit gradually awakened.

“Oh, God,” Carl said softly, “You don’t know, do you?”

Jane’s gut twisted. “I don’t need to know!” Her voice was low but forceful.

“Yeah. You do.” Carl sat on a stool by the breakfast bar. “Starting from the time my dad was ten and Uncle Dale was six, and continuing for about eight years, Granddad Perry used to force the two of them to fight each other. And I’m not talking minor shit. I’m talking fight until you damn near kill the other one. Nothing was off limits. Punch, poke, kick. It was Granddad Perry’s way of punishing them. The old man should’ve been put away in a mental ward for what he did to his sons.”

“I don’t know where you heard this bullshit, but it isn’t true,” Jane argued.

“It
is
true. My dad told me all these stories when he was drunk—”

“He was drunk!”
Jane countered.

“That’s when he spoke the truth, cousin!”

“This is
not
truth!” Jane jabbed her finger on the bar.

“
Your
dad was small and scrawny and four years younger. He never had a chance against my dad. He’d be bloodied and broken and begging for mercy and all Granddad Perry would do was yell out, ‘Kick the little fucker!’ My dad didn’t want to do it, but he had no choice. If he didn’t, Granddad Perry would whip the shit out of him with this belt that had metal studs on it. So my dad kicked
your dad and prayed to God he would pass out so the fight could be over.”

“I remember Granddad Perry! I liked him! And he always said
he
liked
me
because I reminded him of himself....” Jane nearly choked on those last words. The enormity of the startling revelation crashed around Jane.

“It’s weird.” Carl said. “All those years, my dad was the aggressor and then he turned into this weak, passive man. And your dad became a homicide detective.”

Jane looked at Carl in a daze. “It’s not true,” she whispered. “It can’t be!” She spun around, grabbed her satchel from the floor and stormed out the door.

She got into the Mustang and sped into the darkness.

CHAPTER 16

Kit nervously waited inside Carl’s house for Jane to return. An hour passed and then another and there was no sign of her. Carl retreated to his bedroom to send an e-mail to Kyoto while Kit wore a worried path in the Native carpet. She looked up to check the time just as the sound of car wheels crunching gravel was heard outside. Peering out the front window, she saw the Mustang trolling to an uneasy stop inside Carl’s front gate. The engine turned off, but the headlights remained on high beam. Kit watched as a lone figure emerged from the driver’s seat, then disappeared behind the Mustang. She grabbed the warmest coat she could find on Carl’s front pegs and walked outside. A biting wind swept across the front yard. Kit pulled the coat around her frame and squinted into the darkness. There was raw silence.