The Old Deep and Dark (28 page)

“Pardon me, but you don't look like a guy who could run a mile without stopping half a dozen times to catch his breath. Or without falling over.”

With icy correctness, Archibald said, “I saw which path he took. Maybe it wasn't a full mile. I simply needed to locate the path. Once I had that, I scoped it out at my leisure, decided where the best place would be to ambush him.”

“
Ambush
him.”

“Yes.”

“Sounds like you've watched a lot of cowboy movies.”

“It's really very simple. I hid in the bushes. When he came past I stepped out. He was surprised to see me. We talked for a few seconds and then I shot him.”

“He didn't try to stop you?”

“It happened too fast for that.”

“You shot him once? Twice?”

“Twice.”

“Where?”

“The forehead and the chest.”

More finger drumming. “When you stepped out, what was said?”

“Just … he asked what I was doing there.”

“And?”

“I said I needed to talk to him. He rested his hands on his thighs to catch his breath. Wanted to know if it was about the family reunion. I said yes. And then I pulled out the gun and shot him.”

“Where were you standing in relation to Jordan?”

“Right in front of him.”

“How far away?”

“I don't know. A couple yards. Maybe a little more.”

“Where was the gun?”

“In my jacket pocket.”

“Did you get any blood blowback on your clothes?”

“Yes. I burned them.”

DePetro cupped his hands and gazed languidly at his fingernails. “You weren't afraid someone would hear the gunshot? That you'd be found out?”

“I used a silencer. I had my escape route planned and I took off running right away. Nobody saw me.”

“What kind of gun?”

“I don't know the name. I bought it illegally.”

“Where?”

“In St. Cloud.”

“Where in St. Cloud?”

“It was in a parking lot on the edge of town. I could probably find it again. The guy sold the guns out of the trunk of his car.”

“How did you find out about him?”

“I refuse to comment on that.”

“When did you buy this gun?”

“A few months ago.”

“You were planning the murder that long in advance?”

“I was thinking about it, yes.”

“Tell me more about the gun. What did it look like?”

“It was silver colored, with a black handle.”

“You mean stainless steel?”

“I suppose.”

“Small?”

“Yes.”

“And the bullets?”

“They were gold. Other than that, I can't describe them because they were inside this piece of metal that fit inside the handle. The dealer showed me how to remove the safety latch and fire it. He told me I had seven bullets. I practiced, fired two or three shots out in the woods one afternoon. That seemed like enough.”

“So you're not a marksman.”

“No.”

“You fired a gun and hit a man square in the forehead and then dead center in the chest. Must have been lucky shots.”

“I wasn't far away.”

“How did Jordan fall?”

“Excuse me?”

“On his back? On his stomach.”

“I can't remember.”

“On the path? Off the path? Did you pull him off the path, or leave him right where he fell?”

“I left him and I ran off.”

“Did he say anything to you after you shot him?”

“He just looked surprised.”

“Where is the gun now?” DePetro's freakishly large Adam's apple continued to bob.

“I threw it in a Dumpster on the way home.”

“Where?”

“Is that important? It's gone by now.”

“What part of the city?”

“Honestly, I don't recall. I was quite upset, Sergeant. I'm not a killer.”

“Tell me why you did it?”

“To protect Kit. Jordan was going to leave her. He was planning to come out of the closet, which would have, in effect, made Kit look like a liar.”

“She is a liar.”

Archibald flashed his eyes at DePetro. “Until you've walked in another person's shoes, unless you know the full story, I believe it's best not to defame another human being in such a glib way.”

“You see yourself as her savior.”

“I wouldn't put it that way, but yes. I suppose, in a way, I do.”

“You love her?”

“Without question.”

“Are you infatuated with her?”

“What? No, of course not.”

“Were you ever?”

“I don't see what that has to do with anything.”

“I'll take that as a yes. Are you married, Mr. Van Arnam?”

“Not at the moment.”

“But you have been.”

“Several times. It never seemed to take.”

“You were unfaithful?”

“As a matter of fact, no. I've never been unfaithful to any of my wives.”

“They were unfaithful to you?”

“I'm not answering that. Could we, perhaps, get back to my reason for coming here tonight?”

“To turn yourself in, to admit to murdering Jordan Deere.”

“Correct.”

Folding his arms, DePetro, who looked seriously unimpressed, said, “You see, I have some problems with that. First, I think you're here to give yourself up in place of the actual guilty party.”

“No. Absolutely not so.”

“I think your story has so many holes in it that there's no chance in hell it would hold up in court.”

“You're calling
me
a liar?”

“And here's another problem. We've come into possession of evidence connecting Mr. Deere's murder with three others. We believe the same person committed them all. Would you like to confess to four homicides, Mr. Van Arnam? You'll need to do that, and give me details, in order for me to believe you.”

Archibald stared back at him.

“You said in an earlier interview that you were working with Cordelia Thorn at her theater, doing research on the history of the building.”

“That's right.”

“Then you must have heard about the bodies found buried in the walls. Can you tell me about those victims? How you did it?”

“Obviously, with a gun.”

“And why?”

“That's my business. No comment.”

“If you recently bought a gun to use on Jordan Deere, it couldn't be the murder weapon.”

“I'm the one who should know. I shot him with it.”

“The same gun was used in all four murders.”

“How could you possibly know something like that?”

“It's called ballistics.”

“Whatever. You have to take this seriously. I did it. I confess to everything.”

“Okay, Mr. Van Arnam. You did your bit. But I've got better things to do with my evening than indulge your personal superhero fantasy. I suggest you leave now, before I arrest you for misdemeanor theft—of my
time
.”

 

32

Booker turned over in bed the following morning and, for a moment, thought Erin had gone AWOL. Stuffing a pillow behind his back, he sat up and looked around. When he heard the water on in the shower, he smiled.

He had to give it to his old man. He'd spared no expense, paying for a full suite on the top floor for as long as Erin cared to stay. The night they'd spent together was everything Booker had hoped it would be and so much more. In his youthful dreams, of necessity, Erin had been a cipher. Now she was flesh and blood, and the difference was astonishing.

Relaxing under the blankets, he flipped on the TV to see what was happening out in the world. His intent was to remain apart from that world for as long as he could convince Erin to stay in bed. After finding a local news station, he picked up the room service menu and began flipping through the breakfast options. He'd pretty much decided on eggs benedict when he heard the news anchor say, “Breaking news on the Jordan Deere murder investigation. Let's listen in.”

Turning up the sound, Booker watched a distinguished looking older man in a beautifully tailored suit step up to a podium. He'd been introduced as Dr. Daniel Woodson.

While dozens of cameras flashed, Dr. Woodson gazed out from the podium, giving the reporters time to take their shots.

“What's going on?” said Erin, coming out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a bath towel.

“I don't know,” said Booker, patting the bed next to him. “Some doctor's about to reveal breaking news about my father's murder investigation.”

“Good morning,” said Woodson. He glanced around without smiling.

“He's nervous,” said Booker.

“He's very good-looking,” said Erin.

“But too old for you. I'm exactly the right age.”

Woodson gazed down at a page of notes. “This past Tuesday, I contacted the police in Minnetonka. Not only did I give them a personal statement, but I offered significant evidence I felt would be important in bringing Jordan Deere's murderer to justice. I assumed this information would be released to the public right away. Since nothing seems to have come of my communication with Sergeant Neil DePetro, I decided to call a press conference to release the information myself.

“What I'm about to say may cause bewilderment, heartache, and even anger for some. I want you all to know that I'm aware of the possible repercussions, as was Jordan. It was his wish, as well as my own, for this information to be made public.”

“Oh, God,” said Booker, reaching for Erin's hand. “Here it comes. The bomb is about to be dropped.”

*   *   *

Kit and Tommy sat in the family room, ignoring their coffee, riveted by the man on the TV screen. A friend of Kit's, a woman who worked for KTWN-TV in the Twin Cities, had called her shortly after eight to give her a heads-up about the news conference. Kit had immediately called Tommy. Because there was no cable in the beach house, she'd invited him to the main house so they could watch together. Beverly refused to leave the basement, where she was riding the stationary bicycle and reading a novel. She said she intended to stay in, stay warm, and keep her head down. Booker was gone, nobody knew where. That left only Chloe, and when Kit had approached her door she found it closed, with a taped note that said
DO NOT DISTURB.

“Who is this Woodson guy?” asked Tommy. He looked a little more put together this morning. His clothes were clean and pressed, and he'd recently showered and shaved. She couldn't be positive, but she suspected that being arrested for murder had a way of focusing the mind.

“No idea,” said Kit.

They fell silent as the man began his statement.

“Jordan Deere was a gay man,” said Woodson, his voice firm and unapologetic. “He was my life partner. We'd been together for the past two years.”

The press room erupted. More photos were snapped. People started yelling questions.

“Please,” said Woodson, holding up his hands. “Let me finish.”

“Did his wife know?” called one of the reporters.

“What about his kids?” called another.

Again, Woodson held up his hands for quiet. “Please,” he said, flashes continuing to burst. Only when the room had finally quieted down did he continue. “For the last year and a half, Jordan has been working on a piece of writing, part novel, part memoir.”

“Oh no,” said Kit, feeling her heart begin to race. “That guy's read it. What if he has a copy?”

“I know that Jordan hoped it would be good enough to one day be published. I'm not a book critic, but I doubt that would have happened—unless he'd published it under his own name, which he refused to even consider. Still, I think the book should be read. I want to make it clear from the outset that the stories in this rather rough manuscript are fictional. Let me underscore that last word. They don't represent the specifics of Jordan's own life, and yet, in an important way, they do represent the emotional truth of what it was like to live as a gay man in the last half of the twentieth century while working in an industry that would never have let him get so much as the tip of his boot in the door if he'd been honest about his sexuality.”

Again, the room exploded.

“Please,” said Woodson. “I'm almost done. Just let me finish.”

This time, the news room quieted more quickly.

“I have nothing but respect for the people in Jordan's life who have supported him and loved him. However,” he said, pausing to search the faces staring back at him, “I also believe that one of those intimates murdered him last Sunday morning. It wasn't an accident, nor was it random. Someone who knew Jordan's routines was waiting for him in the park and took his life. I want that person found and dropped into the deepest, darkest, lowest reaches of hell. Jordan was the greatest gift I've ever been given. He was good and honest and true. And yes, he also lived a complicated life. I believe, fundamentally, what gave him the most joy was singing for all of you. When he was onstage, Jordan Deere was most himself. Onstage, Jordan never had any doubts about what was right and who he was.”

Taking a moment to regain his composure, Woodson began again. “I've brought along with me today twenty copies of Jordan's manuscript. No one owns the rights except Jordan himself.”

“We'll see about that,” whispered Kit, outraged at the man's audacity.

“You'll find the copies on a table at the back of the room. If you want to make more copies, feel free. Jordan wasn't a trained writer, and yet, I think you'll find that his words touch you deeply. He was about to come out to the world, tell everyone the truth about who he really was. Before he could do that, he was cut down. I believe that his desire to finally tell the truth about himself was the reason for his murder. Unfortunately, his words died with him. All we have left is his music, the memory of his beauty, and that manuscript. I, for one, want to see it read. Thank you. I won't be taking any questions at this time.”