Eleventh Hour

“Captain DeLoach,” she said, “do you pretend to be senile? Is it all just an elaborate charade?”

The old man said, “Me, senile? Hey, I haven’t seen you before, have I? Aren’t you the cutest little thing. My wife had the look of you. All sprite and fire and that lovely hair, so red, like blood, one could say.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said slowly, “I suppose you could say that, but I doubt many people would. Now, Captain, you just made a little joke, didn’t you? You know exactly who I am. You were just pretending, just continuing with your charade.”

He said nothing.

Sherlock said, “What was your wife’s name, sir?”

“Marie. Her name was Marie, French for God’s mother’s name, something that always made me smile, particularly when I’d come home and my hands would still have seams of blood in the cracks. Yep, my palms would look like road maps.”

“I know you were a sheriff,” Dane said, “but did you have blood on your hands that often?”

“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.”