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.”
“I was aware your attorney tried to point some blame at the police. It didn’t convince a jury.”
“No shit. But it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.” He leaned over, his chains clinking. “The most likely dirty cop is Sam Durette. He was determined to see me go to prison.”
“Why? What was his motivation?”
“Who knows with cops?” Jerry shrugged.
“You’ve had twenty-five years to think about it. Surely you have a better reason than ‘Who knows.’”
Jerry looked away. “I think he wanted me in prison for what happened to that boy.”
“Malcolm Wolff.”
“Yeah.”
“You admitted he died in an accident, and that you buried him in a panic.”
“Yeah.”
“And you tortured him and his sister after kidnapping them. Broke her leg.”
Jerry met his eyes. “You trust the word of a five-year-old? I didn’t hurt them. Durette planted all that shit in her head. I don’t know how she broke her leg. She’d run off.”