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Oakville, November 2
11:00 a.m.
Allan looked into the face of the man who had murdered Mary Driscow and Kate Saint-Pierre, who had probably murdered twenty-two others, and altered the lives of all the families involved. Hundreds of people forever affected by the actions of one man.
“Detective Al,” Stark said. “Come back to finish the job?”
Allan clenched his jaw, trying to control the slow, sick anger pushing through his body.
Stark’s lawyer sat at the table beside him. His name was Donald Bright, a short, heavyset man with a soft face. A bushy thatch of black hair circled the glistening bald patch on the top of his head.
Stark turned to him and said, “This is the cop I told you about.”
Bright looked up at Allan. “Mr. Stark claims you—”
“I know what he told you,” Allan interrupted. “I heard all about it.”
“Your client is telling you lies,” Denis said, walking into the interview room behind Allan.
Stark tipped his head back over the chair and snorted.
“This is how you cops never get charged with your crimes,” he said. “You all lie and cover for one another.”
“We read your journals,” Allan said. “Twenty-four people you murdered.”
Stark brought his head off the chair, one side of his lips pulled up in a smug smile. He gave the impression that he was a man completely at ease with his surroundings.
Bright said, “Nothing’s been proven, Detective. I might remind you of that.”
Allan ignored him. He held Stark in his eyes.
“You’re probably wondering what led us to you. What mistake you made.”
Stark lifted his shackled hands, turning up the palms, as if he didn’t care.
“Kate Saint-Pierre,” Allan said. “You thought you were being smart by cutting off her fingertips. We wouldn’t find your DNA, right? But you couldn’t just leave it at that. You had to pose her like Mary Driscow. You had to let us know it was you. Your narcissism became your undoing.
“Cutting off Kate Saint-Pierre’s fingertips allowed us to link her murder to Li Chen’s. And that made us look into other unsolved murders out there.
“The rest, as they say, is history.
“If you’d left Saint-Pierre’s body be, yes, we would’ve had your DNA. We would’ve compared it to the DNA left on Mary Driscow and known it came from the same man. But you’re not in the DNA Data Bank. You weren’t on any police department’s radar.
“That one mistake cost you everything.
“Remember that while you’re sitting in your prison cell at nights. No more enjoying the great outdoors. No more hiking in nature. No more freedom for you.”
The smug smile melted away. “I have my memories,” he said. “That’s what I’ll be remembering most.”
Denis came around the end of the table. He placed his hands on the top, leaning in close to Stark.
“How do you murder twenty-four people?” he asked. “Don’t you feel any remorse at all?”
“Careful how you answer that,” Bright warned.
Stark cocked his head to the side, and Allan saw a change cross his eyes; they became colder, dead almost.
“We only matter to ourselves,” he said calmly. “And the few people who love us enough to remember us when we’re gone.”
“And who’s going to remember you?” Denis said. “Your wife who you nearly murdered? How about your daughters? When they get old enough to realize what you did to all those people, how will they feel about you? Will they love you then?”
Bright said, “Detectives—”
Denis flashed his palm at him. “Shush, Mr. Bright. I’m talking here.” He kept his eyes fastened to Stark. “I never believed a person could be born evil until I met you.”
A faint smile appeared on Stark’s face again. “Tell me something. Is the Kojak look intentional or did you happen upon it by accident? It must be intentional, right?”
Denis kept his composure. “Your own mother even hated you.”
Stark paused. “She used to call me the devil. A monster. She knew what I was long before I did.”
“She saw it in you, didn’t she? At seven years old, you stood outside her hope chest, smiling, while your twin brother thrashed around inside. Clawing to get out. He nearly suffocated because of you.”
“But good ol’ Mom saved him. Bless her heart.” Stark’s face went slack, and his eyes became distant. “Joshua died two years later. It should’ve been me who fell off the swing that day.”
“Yeah,” Allan said. “It should have.”
Stark shifted his gaze to him. “Such is fate.”
“I’m done here,” Allan said.
Denis nodded, pushing back from the table. “Me too. I’ll tell you something, Mr. Stark. I’m glad Canada doesn’t have the death penalty. It would be too good for you.”
They walked to the door.
“So long, gentlemen,” Stark said. “Oh, wait. Detective Al. There’s something I wanted to ask you.”
Allan held the door open with one hand as he looked back.
“Did she matter to you?”
Allan frowned. “Who?”
“Mary Driscow.”
Allan stared at him and suddenly felt the same crazed fury he’d felt at the hotel. Turning away, he slammed the door behind him.
As he stomped down the hallway, he heard Stark laughing inside the interview room.
Black, mocking laughter.
