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narcissism.Carolee and her cohorts had taken on the mission of cleaning up
child abuse in Half Moon Bay acting as the whole judicial package: judge,
jury, and executioners. And the way she described it, it almost made sense.
If you didn t know what she d done.
Carolee. You killed eight people.
We were interrupted by a knock on the door. The detective cracked it open a
few inches, and I saw the chief outside. His face was gray with fatigue. I
stepped out into the hallway.
Coastsidehospital called, he told me. Hinton administered the coup degrâce
after all.
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I stepped back into the chief s office. Sat down in the swivel chair.
Make that nine,Carolee . Ed Farley just died.
And thank God for that, Carolee said. When you people open the barn at the
back of theFarleys yard you re going to have to pin a medal on me.
TheFarleys have been trafficking in little Mexican girls. Selling them for sex
all across the country. Call the FBI, Lindsay. This is a big one.
Carolee sposture relaxed even as I grappled with this new bombshell. She
leaned forward confidingly. The earnestness in her face was absolutely
stunning.
I ve been wanting to tell you something since I met you, she said. And it
doesn t matter to anyone but you. Your John Doe? That terrible shit had a
name. Brian Miller. And I m the one who killed him.
Chapter 144
I COULD HARDLY ABSORB whatCarolee had just told me.
She d killed my John Doe.
That boy s death had been on my mind for ten full years.Carolee was my
sister s friend. Now I tried to grasp that John Doe s killer and I had been
traveling on adjacent paths, paths that had finally converged in this room.
It s traditional for the condemned to have a cigarette, isn t it, Lindsay?
Hell, yes, I said. As many as you want.
I reached on top of a filing cabinet for a carton of Marlboros. I broke open
the box and placed a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches besideCarolee s
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elbow with a casualness I had to fake.
I was desperate to hear about the boy whose lost life I d been carrying with
me in spirit for so many years.
Thank you, saidCarolee , the schoolteacher, the mom, the savior of abused
children.
She peeled cellophane and foil from the mouth of the packet, tapped out a
cigarette. A match sparked, and the smell of sulfur rose into the air.
Keith was only twelve when he came to my school. Same age as my son, Bob,
she said. Lovely boys, both of them. Tons of promise.
I listened intently asCarolee described the appearance of Brian Miller, an
older boy, a runaway who gained her confidence and eventually become a
counselor at the school.
Brian raped them repeatedly, both Bob and Keith, and he raped their minds,
too. He had a Special Forces knife. Said he d turn them into girls if they
ever told anyone what he d done.
Tears slipped fromCarolee s eyes. She waved at the smoke as if that was what
had made her tear up. Her hand shook as she sipped at her container of coffee.
The only sound in the room was the soft sibilance of the magnetic tape
spooling between the reels of the Sony.
WhenCarolee began speaking again, her voice was softer. I leaned toward her
so that I wouldn t miss a word.
When Brian was finished using the boys, he disappeared, taking their
innocence, their dignity, their self-worth.
Why didn t you call the police?
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Look, I reported it, but by the time Bobby told me what had happened, time
had passed. And the police weren t so interested in my school for runaways. It
took years to get Keith to smile again, Carolee went on. Bob was even more
fragile. When he slashed his wrists, I had to do something.
Caroleefooled around with her watchband, a dainty, feminine gesture, but fury
contorted her features, an anger that seemed as fresh now as it had been a
decade ago.
Go on, I said. I m listening to you,Carolee .
I found Brian living in a transient hotel in the Tenderloin, she told me.
He was selling his body. I took him out for a good meal with lots of wine. I
let myself remember how much I d once really liked Brian, and he bought it. He
believed that I was still his friend.
I asked him nicely for an explanation. The way he told it, what he had with
the boys was romantic love. Can you believe it?
Caroleelaughed and tapped ashes into an aluminum foil tray.
I went back to his place with him, Carolee continued. I d brought his
things with me: a T-shirt, a book, some other stuff.
When he turned his back, I grabbed him. I slashed his throat with his own
knife. He couldn t believe what I d done. He tried to scream, but I d cut
through his vocal cords, you see. Then I whipped him with my belt as he lay
dying. It was good, Lindsay. The last face Brian saw was mine.
The last voice he heard was mine.
An image of John Doe #24 came to me, animated now into a living person
byCarolee s story. Even if he was everything she said he was, he d still been
a victim, condemned and executed without a trial.
The final coincidence, and it was a killer, was thatCarolee had scrawled
Nobody Cares on the hotel wall. It was in all the newspaper stories. Ten
years later, the clippings were found in Sara Cabot s bizarre collection of
true crime stories. She and her brother had ripped off the catchphrase.
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I flipped a notepad across toCarolee s side of the desk and handed her a pen.
Her hand was shaking as she started to write. She cocked her pretty head. I m
going to put down that I did it for the children. That I did it all for them.
Okay,Carolee . That s fine. It s your story.
But do you understand, Lindsay? Someone had to save them. I m the one. I m a
good mother.
Smoke curled around us as she held my gaze.
I can understand hating people who have done terrible things to innocent
children, I said. But murder, no. I ll never understand that. And I ll never
understand how you could have done this to Allison.
Chapter 145
I WALKED ALONG THE dreary alley called Gold Street until I reached the neon
sign,Bix , in huge blue letters. I entered through the brick-lined doorway and
the blue-note chords of a baby grand thrilled me.
The high ceilings, the cigarette smoke hanging above the long sweep of
mahogany bar, and the art deco fixtures and trappings reminded me of a
Hollywood version of a 1920s speakeasy.
I stepped up to themaître d , who told me that I was the first to arrive.
I followed him up the stairs to the second floor and took a seat in one of
the richly upholstered horseshoe-shaped booths overlooking the jumping bar
scene below.
I ordered a Dark & Stormy Gosling s Black Seal rum and ginger beer and was
sipping it when my best bud in the world came toward me.
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I know you, Claire said, sliding into the booth, wrapping me in a huge hug.
You re the gal who went and solved a wholebuncha murders without any help
from herhomegirls .
And lived to tell the tale, I said.
Just barely, the way I heard it.
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