The First Death (Columbia River, #4)(47)

“Aren’t you going to ask about your sister?”

Malcolm’s eyes flew open. The bearded man looked very sorry, and Malcolm’s stomach heaved. His mouth went completely dry, and he couldn’t speak.

Something happened.

“We couldn’t tell if it was a bear or cougar that got her, but—”

Malcolm leaned to one side and retched. Nothing came up. His stomach heaved over and over, and finally a tiny bit of bitter fluid came up his throat. He spit it out.

He could see Rowan in his mind, terrified and screaming as she was attacked.

Malcolm heaved several more times, but his gut was empty. He covered his face with his hands and bawled.

I left her and she died.

“You shouldn’t have run away,” he said. “It’s all your fault she’s dead. She was safe in that shed, but you made her leave, didn’t you? She couldn’t have done it on her own with that leg.”

Malcolm fought for breath between sobs and felt as if his tears were drowning him.

“Good thing your parents won’t ever know. They’d hate you forever for leaving their daughter to die. The police would arrest you for taking a little girl into the woods and abandoning her. This is all on you.”

He’s right. I did it.

Malcolm coughed and choked, and the tears kept coming. Something made a wailing sound, and he realized it was him.

“You’re lucky we saved your life today. The animals could have killed you next. We didn’t have to go looking for you. I could have spent my day barbecuing or shooting on my gun range. You should show some gratitude.”

“Thank you. Thank you for saving me.” He wailed and immediately vomited again as the man closed the lid.

I’m going to hell. I got my sister killed.

“Don’t get too comfortable yet,” said the bearded man through the lid. “We got another boy yesterday, and we don’t need two. We’ll have to decide which of you to keep. Maybe have you compete for the honor of being part of our family.”

Visions of Rowan and himself competing assaulted Malcolm’s brain. The fights. The pinching. The rocks.

Her broken leg.

I can’t do it again.





25


It took Evan a few hours to drive from Bend to the Oregon State Penitentiary. He always enjoyed crossing over the Cascade Range from Oregon’s high desert into the greener Willamette Valley. The scenery changed from highways edged with sparse ponderosa pine trees and sagebrush to dense, dark forests of firs.

FBI special agent Mercy Kilpatrick called him during the drive, and he shared his suspicions about a serial killer in his county. She agreed and promised him FBI resources. He asked her to contact Noelle to get plans rolling since he was on his way to the prison. The FBI could speed up the processing of the evidence recovered at each murdered woman’s crime scene and hopefully pinpoint a lead to direct them to the killer.

Before he murdered again.

The number of cases on Evan’s plate had been wearing on him. Noelle had brought some relief, and the FBI would bring more.

But first he needed to do this interview.

Jerry Chiavo was waiting for him. Instead of using the usual visitors’ area, Evan had asked for a small interview room. Jerry sat, the chain from his cuffs looped around the bar on his side of the bolted-down table. Evan had handed over his weapon, passed through two metal detectors and several controlled doors, and listened as a guard told him not to give the prisoner anything or move to the opposite side of the table. The guard left, closing the door behind him, and then stood watching through its large glass window.

Evan was keenly aware of the absence of his gun as he eyed Jerry across the table, even though the seventy-five-year-old man didn’t look like a killer. He looked like an off-season Santa in prison garb instead of a red velvet suit. His hair was white and his nose and cheeks red. But not red in a jolly way—they were red in a poor-health way.

“What can I do for you, Detective?” Jerry’s eyes were sharp, probing.

Evan was surprised the man had spoken first.

He’s immediately taking charge of the interview.

Evan would let him think he had done so—if it meant Jerry opened up more. He set a thick folder on the table and added a yellow pad he liked to use for notes. “It’s been a busy few weeks in Deschutes County. Maybe you’ve heard some of what’s happened?” He raised a brow at Jerry and picked up his pen, ready to write.

“I don’t follow news from over there.”

“Okay.” Evan rubbed his chin, trying to look thoughtful. “Let me back up a bit, then. You were convicted of three young women’s deaths twenty-five years ago. I assume you remember where each body was found?”

“I was told their locations.”

Still won’t admit to their murders.

“You had to be told the locations they were dumped because you weren’t the one who put them there, correct?”

“Correct.” Jerry shifted in his seat, his brows coming together in annoyance. “I didn’t kill those women. All the evidence against me was circumstantial, and their primary evidence was planted.”

“Planted? Who would want to set you up?”

“I suspect the police did it.” Annoyance filled his tone. “This can’t be new information to you, Detective.”