Eleventh Hour by Catherine Coulter
“No, not just on my hands, Agent. There was usually so much blood it would work its way into the lines and hunker down and live there. No matter how hard I scrubbed, I couldn’t get it all out. Then I really looked at my hands one day and knew I liked it. It was always a reminder to me of how much fun I had.”
Nick stepped up to the wheelchair, leaned down, and clasped her hands on the wheels, got to within an inch of his face. “You killed people, didn’t you, sir?”
“Well, of course, young lady. I was the sheriff.”
“No, not as a sheriff. You killed people. You liked it. You liked seeing the remnants of their blood in your hands. You got away with it. And that’s what Weldon doesn’t want you to tell the world, isn’t it?”
“Ain’t you a cracker. Of course I got away with it. I might be old now but I’m still not stupid. It was easy. Once they even got a picture of me, but it didn’t lead them even close to me. I was that good.” He raised his hand and snapped two of his bony fingers together. “I’m eighty-seven years old. You think I care now if everyone knows? Hell, I deserve the attention, the recognition of what I did. What will they do? Put me on trial? Sentence me to the death penalty? Judging by the way I’m feeling these days, the blood I keep spitting up, I’m ready for the needle already. Not that they’d ever get the chance, a man of my age with cancer. Hey, you think I’m senile. Listen to this.” And the old man started humming “Eleanor Rigby” again, saw the shock on their faces, and laughed.
Nick said, “And Weldon didn’t want you to tell anyone, did he?”
“No, he claimed it’d ruin everything. He didn’t want it known that his pop was a serial killer. Weldon was always afraid of me, terrified of me when he discovered what I was doing, but he kept quiet, particularly after I told him I’d nail him upside down to a tree and skin him alive if he ever told anyone. He didn’t.”
It was Dane who said slowly, “I remember when I first went to San Francisco Homicide after my brother’s murder. Inspector Delion said they’d found out from the bullet that the gun that killed my brother was like the gun the Zodiac killer used.”
Captain DeLoach laughed again, whistled something no one knew through his teeth. “I’m impressed, Agent. I read about it at the time and it kind of got me started, you know? I wanted to be better than him. The least I could do was use the same kind of weapon he used. A fine gun—my JC Higgins model eighty.”
Captain DeLoach sighed, rubbed his old hands together. “Nope, I wasn’t the Zodiac killer. I was really a bit more basic than the Zodiac killer was. But I liked his style. Isn’t that a kick? What a handle. Trust the media to always come up with a good sound bite. If only I’d been open about what I did, maybe I would have gotten a handle, too.”
The old man frowned, looked off into nothing at all, said, “Hey, do you think he’s still around? Maybe he’s in a nursing home, just like I am. Maybe he’s here, you think?”
No one said anything, just waited.
Captain DeLoach continued singing, then he said, his voice sharp, “Your guy didn’t use my gun. Nope, mine’s hidden, and I’ll be glad to tell you where.” He gave them a big smile.
Dane said, “Weldon knows. He has to.”
Savich said, for the third time, “Tell us why your son wanted to kill you, sir.”
The old man laughed, smacked his lips together, and started singing again.
Nick moved close and said right in his face, “I saved your life, sir. I figure you owe me. Tell us the truth.”
Captain DeLoach gave her a big smile, raised his veiny old hand, lightly touched his fingertips to her cheek. “So soft,” he said. “You want to know, do you, little girl? Yeah, I guess I do owe you. Weldon wanted to protect his boy.”
“His boy?” Dane said. “Weldon has a son?”
“Sure. Didn’t let me near him when he was young, but then he came here to meet me. I took care of him really good, now didn’t I? I got him all juiced up and now, here he is, following in his granddaddy’s footsteps. Weldon wanted to protect his boy, didn’t want to see him ruined, hounded by the media.”
“Who is his boy, sir?” Savich said.
“You’re FBI, son, it’s your job to find out. I don’t want to make things that easy for you.” He coughed, and a trickle of blood snaked out of his mouth.
Sherlock said, “I don’t want to salute you, sir.”
Captain DeLoach said, head cocked to the side, “Well, after all, you’re just a girl, when it all boils down to what’s important.”
“And I’d say that you’re an evil old man.”
“Oh yeah,” he said. “Oh yeah, I really am. And I’m eighty-seven years old and sitting real pretty. Ain’t life a kick?”
When they reached the Ventura County Community Hospital, they saw Weldon, who didn’t look too good. He was pale, still in pain, and he knew the dam had burst. Everything he’d been struggling with was over now, and he knew it. Dane lightly laid his palm on Weldon’s shoulder. “I’m very sorry, Weldon. We’re all very sorry.”
“You know,” Weldon said, his voice dead. “That wretched old man told you all of it?”
Savich said, “Yes, your father finally got around to telling us in simple English, once I asked him to do it, with no crazy allusions or cover-ups. He’s really quite mad. I don’t think he’s senile, not for a moment, but he’s fooled everyone else. He’s a fine actor.”
“He’s been mad all my life. So he’s finally done it. I didn’t know whether or not he really meant it.”
“How old were you when you discovered what he was?” Sherlock asked.
“I was ten years old. I couldn’t sleep one night, and he’d left early in the evening, supposedly on a call. I waited for him. I saw him drive into the garage. I heard the kitchen door open. I started to go to him, but something stopped me, something that had scared me about him for a good long time. I stayed hidden behind some of my mother’s favorite curtains in the living room.
“I heard him come in and he was whistling. I crawled to the kitchen. I saw his clothes, saw his hands—he had blood all over him. So much red, and even as I watched, it was turning darker and darker, almost black. His shirt was stiff with blood. At first I was terrified that it was his, but not for long.
“I watched him scrub his hands in the kitchen sink, watched him strip to his underwear, wrap up his bloody clothes, and tie them up in a neat bundle. It was practiced, everything he did, like he’d done it many times before. He never stopped whistling. I watched him take that bundle of bloody clothes out in the backyard. He paced off six steps from a big old elm tree. He dug down and dumped the bundle in. I saw that there were maybe half a dozen bundles down there. Then he shoveled dirt over all of it. He never stopped whistling.
“When I was twelve, I wondered if he was the one they called the Zodiac killer. I saw all about the murders on TV, but they weren’t on the same days he was gone. And that insane whistling—it was always the same, always “Eleanor Rigby.” He still hums or whistles that damned song now, only he uses it to fool people, to make them think he’s senile.”
“What did you do?” Dane asked.
“Oh man, I was never more scared in my life. I didn’t know what to do. I was just a kid. He was my father.”
Nick said, “You confronted him, didn’t you? You just couldn’t stand it anymore and you confronted him.”
“Yes, and do you know what he did? He just stood there, looking down at me, and began to laugh. He laughed until there was spittle on his mouth. Then he just stopped and went cold. Like, with no warning, his body went perfectly still and his eyes were dead. There was no one behind those eyes and I knew it. I was twelve years old and I knew it.” Weldon paused, took a shuddering breath. There wasn’t a sound in that small room. “He told me in this cold, dead voice exactly what he would do to me if I said anything to anyone.”
“You were brave to confront him,” Nick said. “Very brave.”
“Turns out I was a coward, turns out when I was old eno
He looked at each of them in turn. From Inspector Delion to Detective Flynn, to the FBI agents, in a circle around him. The pain meds had finally kicked in completely and there was only a dull throb in his foot. He looked at Nick. “I don’t blame you for trying to protect an old man. You didn’t know.”
“I wish I had shot him instead,” Nick said. “But if I had, we wouldn’t have learned the truth.”
Weldon was shaking his head, back and forth, his eyes on each of their faces in turn. “I left home on the day I turned eighteen. I came to LA because I was a good writer and I wanted to write TV and movie scripts. I met a girl, Georgia, and we fell in love. I got her pregnant. We got married. A drunk driver killed her when our son was only three years old.”
“You raised your son alone just like your father did you?”
“Of course, but I wasn’t like my father, I really loved my boy. I would have done anything for him. It wasn’t long before I got work writing for a TV sitcom and started making enough money so I didn’t have to worry about it all the time.” He paused a moment. “I kept up with the old man. Do you know that long after he was in his sixties, the people still wanted him to stay on as sheriff?”
“Why?” Dane asked.
“The old man was so mean he could face down drunk bikers. Once, I heard he’d pistol-whipped a man for hassling a woman, all the while yelling at him, ‘No one fucks with my town!’ That’s what he always loved to say, and then he’d spit out a wad of tobacco.
“I’ll bet you’re all wondering why I’ve kept him in such a nice place for the last ten years.”
No one had actually really thought about it yet, but Nick knew they would have, sooner or later.
She said, “Why did you?”
Weldon said simply, “He told me if I didn’t keep him sitting real pretty until he kicked off, he’d contact the press and tell them where bodies were buried that no one even knew about, tell them where his gun was hidden, tell them all about the bundles he’d buried beneath that elm tree. There’d be so much proof, they’d have to believe him.
“I agreed. What else could I do? There was my own growing career to think about, but most important, there was my boy, my own innocent boy.”
Nick said slowly, “I guess I can understand that, but was he still killing people? Didn’t you realize you had to do something once you were an adult and out from under his thumb?”
Weldon said, “I tried never to think about it. He’s right. I was a coward, and he knew I wouldn’t say anything once I had my boy. He was still the sheriff thirteen years ago when something went wrong with an arrest, and a car ran over him, smashing his legs. He’s been confined to a wheelchair ever since. So I knew the world was safe from him.”
Savich started to say something, but Nick shook her head, said, “He started his threats recently, didn’t he? He knew he was getting close to the end and he wanted recognition for what he’d done. He wanted the world to know just what had walked among them for years and years.”
Weldon nodded, his hands clasped, so pale, so deadened, that it broke her heart. “Yes. After he told me what he was planning to do—you know, make his announcement to the press, tell everyone everything—I didn’t know what to do. I reminded him that he’d sworn to keep quiet for as long as I kept him in that home. He just laughed, said he was going to croak pretty soon so it didn’t matter. I knew his madness was beyond control then.”
Weldon stopped cold. Then he seemed to look deeply inside himself, drew a deep breath, and said, “That’s when he told me he’d had a nice little visit with his grandson. And that’s when I hit him and knocked his chair over. I should have killed him then but I just couldn’t do it. I threatened him, hoped to scare him into silence like I already told you, but I knew that wouldn’t work. After I left, I thought about it and knew I had to kill him, there was just no other way. I failed.”
Dane said very gently, “Weldon, your father visited with your boy and confessed what he was to him?”
“Yes.”
“Weldon, who is your son?”
Weldon shook his head. “Listen, Agent Savich, my son isn’t a murderer, he isn’t.”
“But you believe he is,” Sherlock said, “and it’s eating you alive. You think your son killed the people in San Francisco and in Pasadena, copying the scripts you wrote.”
Finally, Weldon DeLoach said, “I just couldn’t make myself accept that he was like his grandfather, that his head wasn’t right, that something was missing in him.”
Dane said, “We’ve got to bring him in, Weldon, you must know that. You can’t let him continue doing what your own father did for so many years.”
Weldon was shaking his head. “Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t figure it out until just a couple of days ago. And even then I didn’t figure it out for myself. The old man actually bragged about how he’d finally gotten a real man in the family, how he didn’t have much to teach his grandson, because—like his granddaddy—he was born knowing what to do and how to do it. He told me that his grandson came to see him, brought a Christmas present, a nice tie with red dots on it. And how perfect that was, and so he told the boy he was going to die soon and he wanted to tell him all about himself. And he laughed and laughed at how stupid everyone was, the cops especially.”
Weldon fell silent, looked at them again. He said at last, “I haven’t known what to do. I just knew I had to kill that obscene old man, get him buried, and gone.”
Sherlock said very gently, “But what were you going to do about your son?”
“Get him help. Stop him from doing any more harm. Turn him over to the police if I had to.”
Sherlock said, “We’re the cops. What’s his name, Weldon?”
But Weldon just shook his head. “I couldn’t let him continue, not like my father had done. He was a good boy, really. I know something must have happened to make him snap, to turn him into a monster like his grandfather. I don’t know what it was, but there just had to have been something. He was doing so well. He’s very smart, you know, extraordinarily talented. But then there were some signs—he struggled when he was in high school, didn’t like his teachers, couldn’t make friends—it was enough to make me pay attention. He was violent once, when he accidentally killed a girl in college, but it could have happened to any guy, you know? Things just got out of hand. It was involuntary manslaughter. I got him help. They made him well. My son promised me he was just fine, and I wanted desperately to believe him.
“Something happened. The old man did this to him, somehow.”
He looked up at each of them in turn. “Do you know I still don’t know how many people that old monster killed? There were people he killed that were never found by anyone. Oh Jesus.”
He put his head in his hands and sobbed very quietly.
THIRTY-TWO
“Wait! You can’t go in there!”
As she pushed past him, Sherlock said, “Jay, it’s time for you to go away now. It’s time to take your custom suits from Armani, get another job, and pay off your credit cards.”
“But he’s meditating! He specifically told me he didn’t want to be bothered. And I love Armani. When I wear Armani everyone knows it’s Armani.”
Suddenly Arnold Loftus came roaring forward. He didn’t try to bar their way, he rounded on Jay Smith. “Shut up, Jay. They’re here for a reason. Don’t try to stop them.”
“You’re the damned bodyguard. Don’t let them go in there, you moron, you’ve—”
Arnold very gently picked up Jay Smith beneath his armpits and simply walked away with him. He said over his shoulder, “The Little Shit fired me. Whatever it is, go for it.”
Dane gently
Arnold let Jay down, watched him like a hawk as he went to his desk, got down on his knees, and untaped a key beneath the center drawer. He handed it to Dane.
“Thank you,” Dane said.
Dane quietly unlocked the door, slowly pushed it open. The huge office was dark, like a movie theater, and indeed, there was a movie showing, on the far white wall. Linus Wolfinger was seated in the chair behind his desk, his chin propped up in his hands, watching.
It was an episode of The Consultant, one they hadn’t seen. He didn’t look away from the screen even after all six of the people who’d come into his office were standing around his desk.
He said in a calm, conversational voice, “My dear old dad blew the whistle, I take it?”
“No,” Delion said. “Your dad told us about how he’d found out that his son was a murderer, but no, he didn’t tell us your name.”
“That crazy old pile of bones told you then.”
Savich said, “Actually, we managed to figure it out. MAX, my computer, verified for us that you were born Robert Allen DeLoach, and you attended Garrett High School here in LA. Here’s a photo of you.”
Savich laid the photo faceup on Wolfinger’s desk. Linus didn’t bother to look at it.
Sherlock said, “We also found the real Michael Linus Wolfinger. Here’s his photo. He isn’t you.”
Linus waved a hand. “The guy died in a skiing accident, nothing more. He was an orphan. Taking his identity wasn’t a problem. I wanted to work in the studio. With the year in that institution, I knew no one would hire me.” Linus shrugged. “Who the hell cares?”
“Tell us about the girl in college,” Dane said.
Linus shrugged again, his fingers were tapping on the desktop. He couldn’t seem to keep himself still. “Silly little twit, told me she wouldn’t go out with a nerd. I twisted her neck until it broke. Unfortunately my father came in before I could get rid of her body. But he helped me, told me that I wasn’t like my grandfather, that he was going to get me help. I argued with him but he told me I had no choice. For my own good, he was putting me in an institution. If I didn’t agree, he’d turn me over to the police.”