Murder Takes the High Road(82)

“But enough about me,” Elliot said. “Let’s talk about your favorite subject. You. Or more exactly, why you wanted to see me.”

The rough material of Corian’s prison khakis rustled as he 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 with every meal and spent all his free time bodybuilding. Maybe the bodybuilding 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. 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.”

It was quiet in the interview room. On the other side of the heavy soundproof door a symphony of discordant sounds were reaching crescendo level: guards yelling, televisions blasting, prisoners shouting, the incessant thunder of an industrial-strength plumbing system, the chatter and buzz of walkie-talkies, the jangle of keys and slamming of steel doors.

“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 to keep his tone bored, indifferent. The last thing he wanted was for Corian to know just how tense he really was. “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. Can’t you at least buy me a drink before you screw me over?”

The indignation was almost funny.

“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 the cell door 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.

“You want something from me. So be it. 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 spit it out.”

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.”

“True.” Corian merely grinned at the sarcasm. “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 head count? Or are there more?”

“Head count.” Corian’s smile was pure Mephistophelian. Partly he was acting. Partly he was simply...evil.

An old-fashioned concept, but what else did you call someone who was technically—well, legally—sane and yet a ruthless, remorseless predator? Maybe the problem was with the way the legal system defined insanity, but mostly the problem was how society dealt with monsters like Corian once they were identified and captured. Elliot had grown up believing the death penalty was barbaric, an anathema in a civilized society. But was warehousing monsters really a better plan?

“If you want to go there,” Elliot said. “What did you do with the heads of your victims?”

“That’s an interesting question. Why do you think some of the bodies were buried and some were used in sculptures?” Corian was equally aware that they had an audience, both human and mechanical.

“No clue. Like you said, I’ve never understood you. Why did you only target young men? You’re not gay. Why did you never target women?”

“Where’s the sport in that? Besides, I like women.” Corian didn’t wait for Elliot’s response. “My turn. Why do you think all the bodies were headless?”