The challenges of this writing week have been the death of my desktop (ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!) and the return of wrist problems AND a surprise visit from my pop on a day set aside for nothing but research and writing.
Which wouldn't be so bad if I wasn't already behind.
But I am. Mostly due to circumstances outside my control, but that's life. Or the writing life.
Writing a first draft is just the weirdest thing. You start with basically nothing. Even when it's a series book and you have the advantage of knowing the characters and their dynamic...there's this feeling of trying to make a snowman out of sand. I hate this stage. It is all blood, sweat and tears. And Sam-E and motrin and sleeping with wrist braces and typing with copper thread gloves and begging my computer not to leave me...
I'll do anything you ask, just don't die, my little graphics card...
CHAPTER ONE
“I knew you’d come.”
Andrew Corian, dubbed “The Sculptor” by the national
press, was smiling that same old smile. Supremely confident and a little
scornful. For a moment it was as almost as if he was seated at his desk in his
old office at PSU and not in this dingy
interview room at The Federal Detention Center in Sea-Tac.
“Sure you did,” Elliot said. He had been second-guessing
the decision to meet with Corian from the minute he’d acceded to SAC
Montgomery’s request, and Corian’s supercilious attitude just confirmed his
doubts. They were not going to get anything useful out of The Sculptor.
Corian’s big hands, wrists handcuffed, rested on the
resin table top. He spread his fingers, palms up in a have a seat
gesture as Elliot took the chair across the table.
“How could you
resist? A chance to play hero one last time. A chance to convince yourself you
got the better of me.”
“You’ve been hitting the psych shelves in the prison
library pretty hard,” Elliot commented, folding his arms on the table top. He
glanced casually around the room. He’d been in plenty of these interview rooms back
when he’d been with the FBI. Neutral colors. Durable furniture. Mesh over the
windows. Generic right down to the two-way mirror behind which stood Detective Pine
of Tacoma Homicide and FBI Special Agent Kelli Yamiguchi.
Just in case they missed anything, the cameras overhead
were recording the interview.
Corian’s eyes, a weird shade of hazel that looked almost
yellow in the institutional light, narrowed at Elliot’s jibe, but his broad smile
never faltered. He seemed to be a in great mood for a guy looking at a multiple
life sentences.
“I don’t need to read a psychology book to understand
you, Mills. There’s nothing complicated about your psyche.”
“But enough about me,” Elliot said. “Let’s talk about
your favorite subject. You. Or more exactly, why you wanted to see me.”
Corian sat back in his chair. He looked a bit like a
cartoonist’s idea of the devil. Gleaming bald head and immaculately trimmed
Vandyke. He was a big man and prison had made him bigger. Leaner. Harder. He
looked like he ate steroids for every meal and spent all his free time
body-building. Maybe the body-building wasn’t far from the truth. There wasn’t
a hell of a lot to do while sitting around waiting for trial. Not when you’d
been caught red-handed, as it were, in a series of brutal slayings and
mutilations spanning more than fifteen years.
He said, “I didn’t want to see you, Mills. I gave
you permission to visit. That’s all.”
“Two letters in two months? We’re practically pen pals.
Come off it, Corian. You want me to sit here and listen to you explain in
detail how brilliant you were. How brilliant you still are compared to the rest
of us.”
Corian’s smile widened. “That wouldn’t be the only reason.”
“It’ll be the main reason. You’re sure as hell not
interested in bringing closure to the families of the victims.”
“You’ve never understood me, Mills.”
“You’re right about that.
“But you’re afraid of me.”
Elliot sighed. “No, Andrew. I’m not.”
They had never been on first name terms. Corian replied,
“You should be, Elliot.”
“This is bullshit.” Elliot made sure his tone revealed
nothing but boredom. “If the idea was to get me here so you could practice your
bogeyman routine, you’re wasting both our time.” He pushed his chair back as
though to rise.
Corian sat back and expelled an exasperated sigh. “Goddamn,
Mills. Can’t you at least buy me a drink before you screw me over?”
“Look, you wrote me. I’m not looking to continue
our relationship--if you want to call it that. I don’t need closure. I got my closure
when they slammed those cell doors on you.”
That wasn’t completely true. Like everyone else involved
in the case, Elliot wasn’t going to truly breathe a sigh of relief until Corian
was tried and convicted. He wanted the reassurance of knowing Corian was locked
up in a maximum facility until the end of time. The numerous court date postponements
were wearing on everyone’s nerves.
Corian had the gall to look wounded. It was only partly
an act. Being a psychopath, his own pain and his own frustrations were very
real to him. It was the suffering of other people he was indifferent to.
“I’d appreciate a little courtesy. A few minutes of intelligent
conversation. Or as close as you can manage.”
Elliot eyed him without emotion. “All right. But we
don’t have all day. If you’ve got something to say, you’d better say it.”
Corian leaned back in his chair, smiling. “How’s the
fall session shaping up? Have they hired someone to replace me yet?”
“Oh, no one could
replace you,” Elliot said sarcastically.
“True.” Corian grinned. “How’s Rollie? I read his book. When
you think about it, it’s pretty ironic. The only child of a celebrity sixties
radical joining the FBI.”
“Yep. Ironic. Are
we done with the chitchat?”
Corian’s smile faded. “All right. Ask your questions.”
“As of this date, sixteen bodies have been removed from
the cellar of your property in Black Diamond, bringing the number of victims to
twenty-three. Is that it? Is that an accurate headcount? Or are there more?”
“Headcount.” Corian’s smile was pure Mephistophelian. Partly
he was acting. Partly he was simply…evil.
