Killing Hope (Gabe Quinn Thriller) (74 page)

Thinking back, I don’t know what prompted me to drive down the Hollywood Freeway and park up at the Metropolitan Detention Center on Alameda Street. Perhaps I wanted closure. Or maybe unconsciously I was following my
Uh-Oh Radar
. It was a gloomy day with makings of rain. I didn’t notice. It had been the same hellish weather in my head all week.

On demand, I presented an ID at the grey-on-grey reception desk. Signed the dog-eared log book. Handed over my firearm. Passed through the metal detector screen. Got frisked. Followed the Officer-in-Charge down another grey-on-grey corridor to the Visiting Room, where another granite-faced attendant took over. Ushered me to a private interview area.

Dr Milton Perry was sitting at a metal table bolted to the floor. He was wearing a standard orange jumpsuit over a white undershirt. And the look of a man on death row. Same look I was wearing. He looked too big for the flimsy plastic chair. Like a Satsuma wrestler trying to balance on a child’s seat. He got to his feet as I entered – or as much as his chains would allow. Gave me a shaky smile. I could smell his unease. He smelled like me.

‘Detective! Thank God,’ he reached for my hand but his restraints yanked them back.

I kept it in my pocket. My hand, that is. Kept my personal space personal.

‘Eleanor promised you’d come.’ He said as we sat down. ‘I can’t thank you enough. I know you and I didn’t exactly part on favorable terms. I do hope it won’t influence your decision. ’

‘What do you want, Perry?’

I let my irritation show. I was hiding the fact that my son was
The Undertaker
; I couldn’t keep everything in.

If Special Agent Gene Devereux of the FBI was right, then the man sitting before me now had clubbed me over the head with a candlestick before slaying my friend, Father Dan, together with four other men of the cloth. And to think I was worried about my own eternal damnation. I was in no mood for pleasantries. No mood for anything.

Perry’s eyes scanned my stoic face. I could see fear behind his gaze. He was doing his best to appear happy with his imprisonment. Likely. But I could see it, sweating through. Like a trapped animal. This place scared him. The thought of spending the rest of his life behind bars had shaken him up real good. As it would me.

‘I heard about your partner.’ He began tentatively. ‘May I offer condolences?’

I feigned a glance at my watch. ‘Just get to the point, Perry.’

‘First, I want to clear up the confusion about my PA being in Jeff’s house.’

‘No point.’ I said. ‘She told me.’

I saw more of the fear leak out of his eyes.

‘So now you know my secret.’

We all have them. Some are best buried for ever.

‘I need your help to clear my name.’ He blurted suddenly.

Can’t say I was surprised.

‘And why would I do that?’

He spread his hands. ‘Because I am innocent.’

‘Haven’t you heard the cliché? That’s what they all say.’

I got up to leave.

‘Like you and Stacey Kellerman?’

I paused. Sat back down.

‘Your situation isn’t anything like the same.’

Truth was, I didn’t want it to be. Didn’t want to share anything with Perry. Even murder.

‘I have an alibi.’ He said.

I had familiarized myself with Perry’s arrest statements before coming here. There was no mention of an alibi for any of the murders he was being accused of. They’d found decapitated heads in his basement. No alibis. Everything cut and dry. Case closed.

‘Detective, do you believe Le Diable murdered Father Flannigan?’

Instinctively, I touched the healing wound on my scalp. I’d been there. Seen it with my own eyes. Had the scar to prove it.

‘Yes.’

‘What if I said I wasn’t even in town that day?’

‘I’d say prove it.’

Perry shifted his weight. Glanced nervously around us. All at once he seemed edgy. Like the walls had ears. His stress was palpable.

‘I am being framed.’

‘Why? By who?’

He spread his big hands again. ‘Why, because I have many enemies. Just like you. As for who … let me ask you, Detective. Who stands to gain from my incarceration?’

I made a face.

Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have given Perry the time of day. But I’d promised Eleanor.

Perry leaned across the table, as far as the chains would allow. ‘Le Diable.’ He whispered – as though its very utterance would invoke evil to rise around us.

I got to my feet. I was through with Perry’s bull.

‘I shouldn’t have come here. This was a mistake.’

‘Wait.’ Perry pleaded, getting to his feet. ‘Please, wait. Please. I’m begging you. I know you and I have our differences. Please don’t allow them to cloud your judgment. I assure you I am innocent.’

‘So give me something. Anything.’

I waited. Saw him weigh up his options. He didn’t have many. When you’re caught between a rock and a hard place everything’s gritty.

‘Promise me what I am about to tell you will remain off the public record.’

‘No.’

Milton Perry closed his eyes and let out a long tremulous breath. ‘I was with Abe Oswald.’

‘The Mayor? When were you with the Mayor?’

‘Each time there was a murder.’

I looked at Perry suspiciously. ‘Come on, Perry. I said no bull. That’s just about the best alibi you can get in this town. If it’s the truth, why didn’t you say this before?’

‘I couldn’t.’

‘What do you mean you couldn’t?’

He rubbed at his face. All at once he was acting like a man who was about to throw off the weight of the world before going to the gallows.

‘Because we were at a motel in Laguna Beach,’ he confessed slowly. ‘Abe and me. We were … together.’

I already knew about Perry’s romantic affair with Professor Jeffrey Samuels. Already knew that he’d gotten his PA to remove incriminating evidence of their sexual encounters from the house on Carroll Avenue: condoms, sex toys, lubricants …

‘We’re married men.’ He said. ‘If this ever gets out …’

‘You think the Mayor will back up your story?’

I saw the air go out of Perry’s lungs. All at once he looked resigned to his fate. We both knew the answer.

‘Orange suits you.’ I said as I got to my feet.

Perry just stared into his manacled hands.

I should have felt sorry for him. But the truth was, I didn’t feel a thing.

220

^{___________________________}

I should have gone straight home. I didn’t. I headed south instead – following Alameda Street across two busy intersections before making a left onto 7
^th
Street, going east. Didn’t stop until I came to the Union Pacific rail yard. It looked different in daylight. Less eerie. Less the scene of several terrible killings.

I knew better.

I parked away from the engineers attending to the decommissioned locomotives. Watched my step as I crossed oily shingle. Diesel clawed at my throat. I stepped over rusty rail tracks. Made my way through the gap in the chain-link fence. Took it easy negotiating the steep concrete incline as I headed down into the broad manmade trench that masquerades as the LA River hereabouts.

Several kids were skateboarding the graffiti-covered incline, I saw. Their whoops of laughter echoing around the vaulted carapace of the 7
^th
Street Bridge.

I came to the gritty concrete where the slope leveled out. Stopped. Dug in heels. I could see the supporting pillars from here; I didn’t need to go any closer.

I watched the kids playing. Let the smell of sewage and rotting refuse blow across my face. I thought about the events of the last few weeks that had led to this moment. Thought about all the senseless deaths – some too close to home. Realized I wasn’t ready to deal with the brutal reality of it all – not just yet. I’d spent the last eleven months refusing to deal with the murder of my wife. Maybe I’d spend the next eleven refusing to deal with my murderous son.

It was only a matter of time before
The Undertaker
struck again, I knew. If not for this blood prophecy, then another. Some new mindless prediction that needed intervention. And when he did, it would be down to me to catch him.

Or kill him.

The thought scared me silly.

No matter how many times I’d hauled myself mentally through the notion it never got any easier.

Some things are like that.

We are told, as children, that fear comes from not knowing. On this particular occasion I knew exactly what to expect; I knew the horror that awaited me somewhere down the line – and yet fear was gripping my stomach like a vice. The rationalist within me argued it was my old ulcer in need of lubrication, when really, if I was completely honest, I was chilled to the core at the thought of what was to come.

Being a father does that, I guess.

###

Words from the Author

Thank you for purchasing my novel! I hope you enjoyed ‘
Killing Hope
’. If you did, please take a moment to write a Review on Amazon and Rate it accordingly, then Recommend it to everyone you know! Recommends are lifeblood to authors – so please consider letting your friends and family know about my book.
Thanks!
Keep an eye out for the
‘Gabriel Quinn #2 Thriller’
coming to an e-reader near you soon!

You can also keep up-to-date on new releases by subscribing to my
‘Writer’s Blog’
website, including information about other projects such as my popular sci-fi novel
‘Uth’
.