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I said, “What do you think?”
Burke said, “I think someone is trying to give me a shout-out. Is that what you mean? Because I don’t know that girl. Or her babe. How were they killed?”
I said, “Have you heard from a fan bragging about kills, or asking for advice, or anyone trying to copy you? Is someone outside trying to compete with your record? Have any thoughts that would help us?”
“And what’s in it for me?”
Brady said, “Let’s hear what you’ve got.”
I was thinking,God, if you’re listening, let this human waste of oxygen lead us to Blackout.
“I’ve got nothing,” Burke said, grinning, showing me his big yellow teeth. A violent thought came into my mind and evaporated before Burke saw that murderous impulse on my face.
Brady said, “Nice meeting you, Burke. Let’s go, Sergeant. The warden is waiting for us.”
“Wait,” said Burke, getting to his feet, still safely locked behind the walls of his narrow interview cell.
Brady and I turned to face him.
“Speak,” said Brady, as if he were addressing a dog.
CHAPTER 50
“SHOW ME THE pictures, again,” Burke said. He took off his glasses and wiped them with the hem of his blue shirt. Then, he looked expectantly at Brady.
Brady removed the photos from the envelope and pressed one of them against the wall of the cage. It was an image that I would never forget: the body of Catherine Fleet, lying face-up on the beach, her coat sleeves and long skeins of her dark hair being lifted by the outgoing waves.
Josephina Fleet looked almost alive. Attached to her mother by the straps of the front-facing carrier, her pale eyes were open, as if looking at seabirds flying overhead.
Burke asked the victims’ names and Brady shook his head “no.” He returned the pictures to his pocket.
Burke said, “Well, I see why you showed that to me. I guess there’s a similarity to Tara and Lorrie. But I give the killer a B minus. You spoke of a garrote. No ligature mark on this girl, so I’d say it was manual asphyxiation. Which I think is more personal and therefore better, though thesetwo were put down fast and with no style. That lowered his score.”
Burke scratched at a cheek and said thoughtfully, “Do I know whodunit? Nope. I wish I could take some credit—but you know, I can’t. Actually, I’d do anything to be this guy for a day.”
Brady called the guards.
They came, removed their prisoner by the rear door of his cage. Burke turned his head and called back to us. “Lieutenant? If you want me to consult for you, you know where to find me. I think we can make a deal.”
I heard his laughter as he was escorted roughly out of our view. A buzzer sounded. A metal door clanged shut. Brady said, “He doesn’t know Blackout. He would’ve baited the hook.”
“He’s going to hate that someone is trying to steal his thunder.”
“Let’s go see the warden,” said Brady.
Warden Hauser’s office door was open. He had a small, one-window office with a bay view. His desk was tidy, file cabinets taking up much of the floor space, nothing on the walls but a picture of the warden transferring Charles Manson to a prison van marked California State Prison-Corcoran, where Manson was incarcerated until he died.
The warden looked up and, recognizing me, stood to greet me. I introduced Brady and we were invited to sit down.
I said, “Warden, we have a serial killer on a spree. We believe he’s killed six people in under two weeks. A man, woman, and infant in San Francisco. Another man in Corte Madera,a woman in Pasadena, and a third man on Friday night in Las Vegas.”
“It’s the same doer? You’re sure?”
Brady said, “He makes videos of some of his kills and pretties them up with classical music and lighting effects before sending them to Sergeant Boxer.”
Warden Hauser expressed shock, had many questions, including, “And you came to see Burke why?”
Brady said, “The recent Baker Beach double homicide resembles Evan Burke’s MO, and there’s something else. Half the time, the killings seem to revolve around Cindy Thomas, the journalist who wrote Burke’s authorized biography.”
