Eight Perfect Murders(60)

Chapter 25




With the whiskey between us, I listened to Brian tell the story of the weekend he spent getting drunk with Charles Willeford in Miami. Brian knew I was a fan of The Burnt Orange Heresy, so he’d told me the Willeford story many times. It changed a little bit every time.

I’m not a connoisseur of scotch but even I could tell that the Talisker was good stuff. Still, I’d bring the glass to my lips and only sip the tiniest amount. I needed to think about the significance of those bottles of Dimple Pinch I’d seen in the cabinet upstairs. Could Brian Murray be Charlie? My immediate answer was a definitive no. He was one of those men who could talk a good game, but who couldn’t actually do a whole lot of things. He didn’t drive, he couldn’t cook. I’m sure he didn’t make his own travel arrangements or file his own taxes or figure out his own bills. He could write, he could drink, and he could talk. There’d be no way for him to plan, then execute, actual murders.

But what if he had help?

While we drank, I could see through into the kitchen, where Tess was cleaning up, humming to herself. She seemed happy, relaxed almost. There was a break in Brian’s story and I said, “Did you ever read the blog posts that I wrote for the website?”

“What website?” he said.

“Our website. The Old Devils site. The blog that’s attached to it.”

“Oh, right,” he said, remembering. I’d pestered him over the years to write something for it, just an occasional book recommendation, or a list of his favorites, but he never did. “What about it?”

“Do you remember a list I wrote, a few years back, even before you were an owner, called ‘Eight Perfect Murders’?”

He scratched at the inside of his eye, and I studied him. “That list, I do remember,” he finally said. “I think the first time I ever knew your name was from reading that list. And you know what I thought?”

“No.”

“I thought: ‘I can’t believe the prick didn’t include one of my books.’”

I laughed. “Is that really what you thought?”

“Sure. You get to a point in your career where every ten-best list or year-end best list is a personal affront if you’re not part of it. But the thing is . . . the thing was, if I remember correctly, it wasn’t that you didn’t include one of my books, it’s that you hadn’t included The Reaping Season. I mean, Jesus, Mal, come on.” He was smiling now.

“Help me out,” I said. “The one with Carl . . .”

“With Carl Boyd, right.”

I did remember that one. It was an early book. The villain, Carl Boyd, was a psychopath out to get revenge on everyone who had ever belittled him. And that included a lot of people. If I remembered it correctly, Carl was a pharmacist. He’d kidnap his victims before killing them, give them an injection of sodium pentothal, or something similar, something to make them tell the truth. Then he’d ask them what their worst fear was, ask them to describe the death that terrified them most. Someone would admit that he was claustrophobic, for example, so Carl Boyd would bury him alive in a box.

“How could I forget that one?” I said.

“Apparently, you did.”

“It wouldn’t have fit in on that list I was doing, anyway. That was specifically for perfect murders. Unsolvable murders.”

“What are you two talking about?” It was Tess, coming in from the kitchen, wiping her damp hands down her thighs.

“Murder,” I said, at the same time that Brian said, “Disrespect.”

“Good times,” Tess said. “I was thinking of brewing a pot of coffee and wanted to know how much I should make. Brian, yes, I know you’re not interested.”

“I’ll have some,” I said.

“Regular? Decaf?”

“I’ll have the real stuff,” I said and wondered if I’d slurred a little on the word stuff.

She turned back to the kitchen and Brian said, “There’s no such thing, really.”

“No such thing as what?” I said.

“I’m talking about the list you wrote,” he said. “There’s no such thing as a perfect murder.”

“In fiction, or in real life?”

“In both. Too many variables, always. Let me guess what you had on that list. Strangers on a Train, right?”

“Right,” I said. Brian was sitting up a little taller now, seemed a little less drunk.

“Of course you did. I actually remember this list now, and not just because I wasn’t on it. Strangers on a Train, no disrespect to Pat Highsmith, is a stupid idea for a perfect murder. What makes it clever? That you get some stranger to do your killing for you? And that way you can have a rock-solid alibi? Not a chance. The minute you get some stranger to kill someone for you, you might as well turn yourself in to the police. It’s too unpredictable. If you’re going to kill someone, kill them yourself. You can’t trust someone else with a killing.”

“What if you knew for a fact that the person would never turn you in?”

Brian made a face, lowering his brow and tightening his mouth. “Look,” he said, “I don’t pretend to be an expert in psychology, but I do know one thing, and it’s the one thing I remind myself over and over when I write a book. No one knows what’s going on in another person’s mind, or in their heart.” He touched his head and his chest. “They just don’t. Not even a married couple that have been together for fifty years. You think they know what each other’s thinking? They don’t. None of us know shit.”