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That part, the end of their story, was one long four-minute shot that might be even more bittersweet with music. Something classical, he thought. Albinoni’s “Adagio in G Minor.” Better yet, Ravel’sPavane for a Dead Princess.Yes, that was more appropriate, a fitting homage to a killer he’d often thought of as a teacher, almost a friend. He was sure his mentor would like the results of the day’s work and pictured him now: a superior executioner confined to a cell at San Quentin. A man named Evan Burke.
TWO DAYS EARLIER
CHAPTER 1
CINDY THOMAS SAT in the back seat of a Lincoln Town Car heading toward Book Passage in Corte Madera. It was Saturday afternoon, the first stop on her book tour, and she had every reason to be excited.
It had been a whirlwind since she’d sold the project. Given the hot subject matter, her publisher had accelerated the production schedule to push out finished copies in record time.
Prepublication reviews had been outstanding. Industry buzz had it that her book could hit number one on theNew York TimesBest Seller list. If that came to pass, it would be an honor and a miracle, but she wasn’t feeling the buzz, not even close.
In the course of writing Evan Burke’s authorized biography, she’d been repeatedly shocked by Burke’s ruthlessness, the pleasure he took in killing. Unable to wall herself off from the sickening details of his crimes, Cindy had come to know Evan Burke too well. And that knowledge had changed her.
Cindy held the book in her lap tightly with both hands.She flipped it over to look again at Burke’s photo on the back cover. He looked ordinary: A white man with an unlined face and a full head of hair who could be anywhere from his fifties to his seventies. He’d had work done, too, getting his face sculpted and chemically abraded. That rolled back his age by ten to twenty years. His brown eyes looked kind. But Evan Burke had never felt kindness. He was a psychopath, a serial killer who’d racked up over a hundred murders before he was finally caught in the act.
Injured in a shoot-out with police, he’d been arrested, hospitalized, and charged with murder in the first degree.
That should have been a full stop, the end of the story, but Evan Burke’s narcissism couldn’t be stopped. While still being treated for his injuries, cuffed and shackled to a hospital bed, he’d asked to see Cindy Thomas, star crime reporter with theSan Francisco Chronicle.
Cindy hadn’t known that Burke was a fan of her work, but he’d told her that he read her column daily and that she would be famous one day. She had gone to the hospital hoping for a quote, and he’d pitched his big idea.
“I want to cement my place in history. What do you say, Cindy? Let’s write a book together.”
An investigative reporter with an earlier true-crime book to her credit, Cindy remembered being a little dazed in Burke’s presence.
It was only later, after she’d seen his vision of a compelling read that would showcase her talent and boost her career, that she’d said, “Okay,” to his proposal and even “thank you.” Evan Burke would savor his standing in the serial killer Hall of Fame from his cell in solitary confinement.
Early into this agreement with Burke, she’d changed the original title fromEvan Burke’s Last Standto a new one:You Never Knew Me: The True Story of Evan Burke, “The Ghost of Catalina.”Bob Barnett, Cindy’s agent and lawyer, had said, “Great title. Very selling. Your name goes first.” That’s how Cindy Thomas became Evan Burke’s confidante, coauthor, and conduit to the world beyond San Quentin State Prison.
Now, holding the finished product, the book looked small when compared with Burke’s hellacious crime spree. He confessed to a half dozen murders and helped law enforcement crack multiple unsolved serial killings in exchange for his demands, namely TV, a no-Wi-Fi laptop, a radio, and private time in the shower. And he wanted an attorney-client room where he could meet with her.
And that’s how Evan Burke got monthly access to Cindy’s previously wide-open and very fertile mind.
Cindy stuffed the book into her handbag and stared out at the view blowing by without actually seeing anything. She hadn’t slept a full night since meeting Burke and her waking thoughts were consumed with bloody murder and the pantheon of Burke’s so-called peers; Bundy, Gacy, Dahmer, BTK with a little Son of Sam thrown in. Burke liked the comparisons because by his calculations he stood above them with a gold medal hanging from a ribbon around his neck.
But one unexpected and redeeming feature had come of this total immersion in all things Burke. Cindy had a platform and a bullhorn, and ifYou Never Knew Mebecame the success her friends and supporters believed it would be, she might actually save lives.
The driver said over his shoulder, “We’re here, Miss.”
As the car came to a stop, Cindy reapplied her lipstick, ran her fingers through her cloud of blond curls, then got out of the car without waiting for the driver to open her door.
The driver worked for her publisher, had been vetted, validated, and approved. He had expressed no interest in her whatsoever.
But Cindy Thomas no longer trusted men she didn’t know.
CHAPTER 2
THE DOOR TO Book Passage swung open before Cindy touched the handle.
She heard Richie call out, “She’s here.”
Richard Conklin, Cindy’s good-looking, good-tempered fiancé, a homicide inspector with the SFPD. He greeted her with a hug and a kiss. Then he held her by the shoulders and looked into her eyes.
“You okay, hon?”
“How do I look?”
“Like a TV personality. Prime time.”
