Chapter Sixty-two
“I should be in the hospital,” Henry complained as he sat cuffed in the interrogation room, his voice not much more than a mumble due to his injured jaw.
Walsh shrugged and said, “When we’re done here. Unless you don’t want to talk to us now.”
“As good a time as any.” Henry’s lips folded into a severe frown as he looked around the room. “I’m surprised Brick isn’t here.”
“He’s with his family. You met his wife and daughter when you abducted them.”
“Yeah, but still, I would’ve thought he’d want to be here.” He raised an eyebrow. “Unless he’s observing this from behind that two-way mirror.”
“He’s not back there.”
“That’s too bad,” Henry said as if he were truly disappointed.
Walsh had been standing with her arms crossed, but she took a seat across from Henry and dropped a folder onto the table. “We’ve already got enough to convict you for two of the murders,” she said.
“The neighbor I left in the kitchen,” Henry said.
“That woman’s name was Leanna Crowley. You admit to killing her?”
“Yeah, sure. It would be pretty silly of me saying otherwise.”
“Forensics also found evidence at your home linking you to Brenda Maguire.”
“That was the blonde waitress?”
“Yes. How much do you want to bet that the hammer and chisel you brought to Morris Brick’s home also ties you to Freeman’s and Hawes’s murders?”
“A bet? Sure. A million bucks that it does.”
“You admit you murdered them too?”
“Yeah, why not? You got me dead to rights. I killed them all. The ones here and the ones in New York.”
“Susan Twilitter also?”
“Yeah, her also.”
“Your wife had no involvement?”
Henry squirmed in his seat. His voice held a cautious note as he said, “That’s absolutely true. Sheila knew nothing about what I was doing.”
“Except that you told Natalie Brick that you were killing them for your wife.”
“I made that up. Sheila had nothing to do with any of this.”
Walsh pulled from the folder several creased and weathered pages that had been torn out of a diary over five years earlier. “We found these when we searched your home. What your wife wrote implicates her for the New York murders.”
Henry winced noticeably as he stared at the pages he had kept as a souvenir.
“Nothing to say about that?”
Henry’s eyes shifted back to meet Walsh’s. A dull, inscrutable look had formed over his face. An impenetrable mask. “I wrote that,” he said. “I’d like to see you prove otherwise. And fat chance you’ll ever get a sample of Sheila’s handwriting to prove otherwise since she’s paralyzed now on her right side. I’m done talking.”