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Gary arched his eyebrows. “Do you know how many voluntary confessions turn out to be people chasing fame or the result of mental illness? What makes you think this one is for real?”
“I don’t. I’ve heard enough of these guys to know when something doesn’t ring true. And we know how to deal with them. But you remember that painting Marius Eisler was working on? The one on the easel?” Gary nodded, and Riley inclined his head toward the door. “It’s the guy in the painting.”
Gary finally got why Riley was buzzing. “He knew the victim. He might know something that could help us.” Riley nodded slowly. “What has he said so far?”
Riley consulted his notes. “He gave his name as John Reynolds at the desk. I’m running a background check. I just wanted to prepare you before you walked in there.”
Gary patted his arm, opened the door, and walked in.
John Reynolds sat at the table, Lewis facing him, and a police officer stood with his back to the wall. The first thought to slip into Gary’s mind was that Marius Eisler had been a truly gifted painter; he’d captured his model to perfection. An average-looking man of middle age, the kind of man you wouldn’t look twice at.
John pointed to the camera high in the corner above the door. “Are you recording all this? Because I wouldn’t want you to miss anything.” He leaned back, his arms folded.
Gary took the empty chair next to Lewis, then gave a nod. Lewis glanced at the sheet in front of him. “This is Detective Mitchell, and I’m Detective Stevens. Your name is John Reynolds, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“You’re forty-nine years old, and you live on Park Street in Dorchester.”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s me.”
“What do you do for a living?”
“I’m an accountant.” John stared at Lewis. “How come I’m not under arrest? Don’t you need to read me my rights or something?”
Lewis flicked a glance in Gary’s direction, then returned his attention to John. “So far we have nothing to arrest you for. You walked into the precinct and told the desk sergeant you’re responsible for the deaths of six men.” He leaned back, mimicking John’s body language. “So we’d like to hear more.”
Gary had a feeling the only thing they might possibly charge him with was wasting police time. It could be the only tool available to get him involved in mental health treatment if he needed it. He trusted his instincts. This wasn’t their man.
And now to prove that supposition.
“Fine. You want details?” John counted off on his fingers. “March 2016, I killed Trey Hopkins. December same year, Denver Wedel. June 2017, Geoff Berg. December, Vic Zerbe. May this year, Marius Eisler. And last week, Cory Peterson.” He smiled, as if he was expecting praise.
“Marius Eisler was painting your portrait.” Gary focused on John’s face. “You killed him before he finished it. Why was that?”
A shrug. “I didn’t like the way it was turning out. I don’t think he captured the real me.”
“On the contrary. I think he nailed you,” Gary remarked.
“Did you have sex with him before or after one of the sittings?” Lewis asked.
John flushed. “No.”
“Then it was purely business? Your sole purpose in going to his apartment was to be painted?”
He swallowed. “Yeah.”
Lewis smiled. “Ah. You went hoping for more, and he turned you down. Is that it?” When John didn’t respond, Lewis leaned forward. “So why’d you kill the others?”
“Isn’t it obvious? They were gay.”
“And that was enough motive to kill them?”
John glared at Lewis. “That was all the motive I needed. They have to be wiped off the face of the earth.”
“How did you kill them?” Gary didn’t break eye contact.
John yawned, covering his mouth with his hand. “You already know how.”
