The Kill (23 page)

“As I told you on the phone, we’re granting Hall immunity if he says anything that incriminates himself. The way we see it, the man served thirty-four years in prison. If he’s guilty as an accessory or for obstructing justice, his sentence would have been served already.”

Zack wasn’t completely happy with the arrangement, but as Perdue had explained earlier, Hall had initially balked. It could have taken days and a court order to force him to talk, and by that time, the killer could have struck again. They didn’t have the luxury of fighting Hall at this point. They needed information
now
.

When Hall sauntered into the room with his attorney, Zack instantly disliked him. His attitude entered first, his body swaying as if he were in charge. But his eyes showed fear, wariness, darting back and forth like those of a rodent.

Hall was guilty of something. Zack smelled it. But he reminded himself he wasn’t in this room to find out what penny-ante crap the guy had been up to in the weeks since he’d been released from prison. He was here to find out who Hall knew thirty-four years ago.

“Thank you for coming in, Mr. Hall,” Zack said in his most cordial voice. He extended his hand. “Detective Zack Travis, Seattle Police Department.” Obviously surprised, Hall shook it.

After introductions all around, they sat and Zack spoke. “I won’t keep you long, Mr. Hall. Your attorney filled you in on why we need your help.”

“You think someone framed me for that girl’s murder.”

Zack nodded. “Exactly.”

“I don’t know who, but I hope you catch him and he rots in prison like I almost did.” Hall glared at Perdue.

“I have some questions that might help your memory.”

“Go ahead. That’s why I came here.” He looked at Perdue again. “And nothing I say you can use to screw me with, right?”

“I took care of that,” Hall’s attorney Bledsoe interjected. “I showed you the papers on the way here.”

“I just want to hear him say it.”

“That’s correct,” Perdue said. “What’s said in here is inadmissible in court. You have complete immunity.”

Hall crossed his arms, smug.

Zack spoke. “When were you released from Vietnam?”

“April 10, 1972. Friggin’ about time, too. I only signed for a year, but they kept me sixteen fucking months. That was crap.”

“And you came to California. Were you born here, in Redwood City?”

Hall shrugged. “Down in Palo Alto. My ma has a house in Menlo Park. That’s where I grew up.”

“It’s ten minutes south,” Perdue explained.

“So you essentially came home,” Zack prodded.

“Yeah. I had a job, though. In a warehouse. Moving shit and stuff.”

“Did any of your buddies from the Army come back with you? Friends?”

Hall shrugged. “I dunno.”

“Did you know anyone you worked with who had also been in Vietnam? Maybe they didn’t serve with you, but had been there about the same time you were.”

“Hell, I knew a bunch of vets after I came home. Met most of them after my discharge.
Honorable
,” he stressed, then grunted. “Lotta good that did me in court when you guys railroaded me for killing that girl. I’m no fucking pervert. I don’t get turned on by little girls.”

Zack clenched his fist under the table to keep from throttling Hall for his cocky tone.

“Do you remember any of the vets you’d worked with, hung out with, maybe a roommate or drinking buddy?” Zack asked. “Someone with a tattoo on his left arm similar to yours?”

Hall frowned and looked up to his left, a sign that he was really trying to remember something. “There were a lotta guys in ’Nam that got tattooed up. I only got this one, on my first leave. Some of the guys, they got them all over their bodies.” He shook his head. “A lot of us got eagles. American bird and all that crap.”

“Any of the guys you knew when you came back to California?”

“A couple of the guys in the warehouse had tattoos like mine.”

“Do you remember any names?”

“Um, there was the manager. He wasn’t in ’Nam, but he did some time overseas in the early sixties. George something. I don’t remember his last name. We called him George. He was there when I started, and he was there when I left.”

Zack made a note of the information. The files had the information about Hall’s employment. He remembered the name of the manager, George Levin. Definitely worth checking him out.

“Anyone else you can think of?”

“There were some others, but I don’t know their names. Shouldn’t the cops have checked all this stuff out thirty fucking years ago?”

Perhaps, Zack thought, but the evidence against Hall had seemed solid at the time. Zack liked to think he would have pursued additional avenues of investigation, but he knew when confronted with a violent murder like Melissa St. Martin’s, circumstantial evidence usually did the trick.

He’d already checked into the warehouse where Hall had worked all those years ago. It was not only closed, but razed. A shopping mall had been built on the property more than ten years ago.

“You said that you’d been out at a bar drinking the day Melissa St. Martin was kidnapped.”

“That’s right.”

“Who was there with you? Anyone who might have seen you drink too much? Someone who knew what type of truck you drove?”

“No, it was just the guys, you know? A lot of them that hung out at the club were vets, from Korea or ’Nam or World War II. Those guys are too old. I—”

Hall cut himself off and slammed his fist on the table. “That fucker! That perverted sicko bastard! He set me up!”

The sudden rage and realization that crossed Hall’s face convinced Zack his reaction was real.

“Who?” he asked.

“Chris fucking Driscoll. I should have known, the bastard. I got him a fucking job, I set him up in a studio in my apartment building. I told him, hey, pal, let’s go score some chicks. He never came with us when we went out. Always doing his own fucking thing. Except that day. He came to the bar, had a beer with us. Now I know why. So he could set me up. Steal my truck. He’s a fucking pervert scumbag.”

Every hair on Zack’s neck rose. This was it. He felt it. He spoke much more calmly than he felt. “What do you know about Driscoll? Where is he from? Did he serve with you?”

“We were in the same unit for six months. He was a machine. Neat freak. Don’t fucking touch his stuff. That’s why he set me up. I touched his precious
stuff
. He said if I touched his stuff again he’d kill me. I didn’t believe him; everyone talks tough in the jungle, you know? All talk, no action. Except when we engaged Charlie; then we acted.”

“You think he didn’t like you because you touched his belongings?”

“He was wound real tight, but everyone had their own ways, you know? But it’s him. He got out four weeks after me. I told him, come by, we can share a pad, I’d get him in good with the warehouse. He did see me, but didn’t want to room. I found him a studio in my building. I tried to get him to lighten up. He was three years in Vietnam; I think it messed with his mind. But a guy I knew there, my sarge, said Driscoll was always like that. Cool most of the time, then
wham
! Something would set him off and he’d be ready to kill you for no fucking reason.”

“Why do you think it’s him and not someone else?” Though there was no doubt in Zack’s mind that something had triggered Hall’s memory of Driscoll and his belief that Driscoll framed him.

“ ’Cause I didn’t keep in touch with any of the other guys. A bunch of them got themselves killed, a couple reenlisted, most went home. Driscoll didn’t have a home to go to.”

“Why not?”

“ ’Cause he was a ward of the court, or something. Foster system. Some guy his ma was living with killed her or something.”

He was in the system. Zack had to get his records, but juvie records weren’t easy and they wouldn’t come quickly.

“Where was he from?”

Hall shrugged. “All over, he’d said. That Bruce was a sick bastard. That’s probably where Driscoll got it from.”

“Bruce?”

Hall paused. “He talked about Bruce all the time, and how he was going to kill him when he got out of the Army, and no one would know it was him. One of the guys asked who Bruce was, you know, like did he steal his girl or something? He said Bruce was in prison for killing his mother.”

“Can you remember anything else about Bruce? Where they might have lived? Where Driscoll’s mother was killed?”

Hall shook his head to every question. “Wish I could help, but I don’t know. Driscoll got all uptight whenever he talked about it, so we didn’t push him, you know? Except Driscoll did say once that Bruce was in San Quentin. Yeah, San Quentin.”

Hall didn’t have any other information about Bruce or Driscoll’s activities. He’d never heard from Driscoll while he was in prison, or since he’d been released.

As Hall was getting ready to go, Zack asked one last question. “Does ‘angel’ mean anything to you?”

“Angel? You mean Driscoll’s sister? Shit, man, we just didn’t talk about her. When one of the guys in the unit found a picture under his pillow, we all thought it was weird. The kid was like nine or ten, you know? Driscoll went off about Angel this, Angel that, and we figured out she was his sister. We asked what happened and all he said was she was dead and to fuck off.” Hall rolled his eyes.

“And he has a tattoo like yours, correct?”

“Exactly like mine. I should know—he took me to the same guy who did his over in Saigon.”

Chris Driscoll was The Slayer. No doubt in Zack’s mind.

“When was the last time you saw him?”

Hall paused, thinking. “That day at the bar. He came in, had a beer with us, left. I never saw him again after that.” Hall stared at Zack. “You’re going to find him, right? He’ll go to prison for framing me, right?”

“He’ll go to prison for killing thirty children,” Zack said, his voice surprisingly calm.

“Right.” Hall nodded. “I got it.”

Zack used Perdue’s office to call Chief Pierson and tell him everything they’d learned. “We need an APB out on Chris Driscoll. We need his military records, his last known address, any living relatives. Maybe the Feds can help us out getting his juvie records. I’m thinking California. His stepfather is in prison in California for murder; Hall thinks he killed Driscoll’s mother. And I need to have a face-to-face with his stepfather, Bruce. His last name might be Driscoll, but we can’t count on it. He was probably arrested in the late sixties.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Pierson said. “He could be dead, he’d probably be in his seventies by now. Are you going to stay down there tonight?”

“Not if I can help it. I have a feeling Driscoll is going to act. From the patterns Doug, Olivia, and I identified, he moves quickly at the end of his killing spree.” Zack glanced at his watch. “It’s eleven o’clock. San Quentin is only an hour or so away, just north of San Francisco. We’ll drive, then head back down to the airport. Our flight leaves at three-fifteen, I should be back there two hours later.”

“I’ll call the prison and set up visitation for you.”

“If the guy is dead, I want to talk to anyone who knew him—the warden, any guard he might have talked to, a prisoner who buddied up with him.”

“I’ll call you within the hour.”

Zack hung up and looked around for Olivia. They were outside the San Mateo County Courthouse in Redwood City. Olivia stood under an oak and stared at a line of rose trees off to the side of the main steps. He didn’t think she was seeing anything; she appeared lost in her own thoughts.

He hadn’t had a chance to talk to her after interviewing Hall. He walked up, touched her shoulders. “Liv? How are you holding up?”

“I’m okay.”

He didn’t doubt she would be, but this experience was still painful for her. “I’m waiting for Pierson to call back and see if we can get into San Quentin and talk to Driscoll’s stepfather. They might have had contact over the years.”

When Olivia didn’t say anything, Zack continued. “We have an APB on Driscoll and Pierson is getting the Feds to jump on any military benefits this guy has. He probably has a pension, or medical benefits at the minimum. Even killers need a doctor once in a while.”

“I don’t think he cares. He’s too methodical to get trapped in the system. He’s probably not using his own name. And you know as well as I do how easy it is to establish a new identity, if you know what you’re doing.”

“Pierson is trying to track down a photo. It’ll be old, but we can get a forensic artist to extrapolate what he might look like today.”

“Good. I want to see the pictures. Before and after.”

“Are you sure?”

She turned to face him, her face a mask but her voice tinged with emotion. “Of course I’m sure. I need to see it. Do you think I can’t handle it? I’m not going to fall apart here.”

“I didn’t think you would. I just want to spare you.”

She looked like she wanted to argue with him; her jaw worked, then she closed her eyes. “I have to see his face,” she whispered. “Maybe that’s why I came to Seattle in the first place. For thirty-four years I pictured Brian Hall as the man who destroyed my family. I want to see who was really responsible.”

He pulled her to him, holding her close. She tensed, then relaxed in his embrace. Would she ever be comfortable with his touch? Then her arms wrapped around his back and she held him tightly, a wealth of trust in that one small gesture. Not something she gave lightly, he realized, as he kissed the top of her head.

Then she stepped back. “Thank you, Zack. For understanding. And for letting me do what I have to do.”

Furious, Brian stormed out of the courthouse. His damn attorney said it would be
at least
another month before his restitution came through. Probably three. But “definitely by January.”

January! He had no money, his job paid next to nothing, and he had to get out of town. Just in case someone figured out he’d whacked the cop and the attorney.

He thought if he came down here today, did his fucking
civic duty
, they’d at least give him a friggin’ reward.

Chris Driscoll had set him up. Motherfucking asshole let him rot in prison while
he
walked away free.