31
That night, Archibald took a cab to the police station in Minnetonka. It was a long way from his home in Prospect Park, a historic section of Minneapolis, where many professors lived. The ride cost him an arm and a leg, though it was better than allowing his car, a silver Audi Q5, to get rained and sleeted on. It was setting up to be a beast of an evening.
As he entered the station, he stepped up to a counter and waited for the uniformed officer behind it to finish his phone call. The man looked bored.
“Help you?” asked the cop, after placing the receiver back in its cradle.
“I need to talk to Neil DePetro.”
“Not here.”
“This is a matter of some urgency.”
He pulled out a clipboard and studied it. “He’s on tomorrow. Any time after eight in the morning.”
“But I need to talk to him now. Call him and tell him that Archibald Van Arnam is here and needs to speak with him right away.”
“Can I ask what this is about?”
“I’d rather speak to Sergeant DePetro in private.”
“If you expect me to call him and interrupt his evening, you’re going to have to give me a reason.”
With his lips twisting in annoyance, Archibald said, “I’ve come to turn myself in. I’m the man who murdered Jordan Deere last Sunday morning.”
The cop eyed him. “You’re … turning yourself in?”
“That’s correct.”
“Uh-huh. Okaaay. Why don’t you have a seat over there.” He pointed to a series of chairs. “I’ll give the sergeant a ring, see what he wants to do.”
“Thank you.” Archibald walked over and sat down. There were a few magazines on offer, though they all looked greasy and unappealing.
Twenty-two minutes later, DePetro arrived wearing jeans, a heavy red wool shirt, a long black raincoat, and a baseball cap. “Mr. Van Arnam,” he said, motioning for Archibald to follow him into a back hallway.
In less than a minute, Archibald found himself in a small interrogation room, sitting at a round white laminate table. The room smelled like sweat and dirty gym socks. When DePetro sat down across from him, Archibald said, “You could use an air freshener in here.”
“I’ll make a note of it. Now, I’m told you’re here to confess. You murdered Jordan Deere.”
“That’s right.”
Drumming his fingers on the table, he looked at the digital recorder. “Oh, hell,” he said, switching it on. “It’s nine thirty, Wednesday night, October twenty-eighth. With me is Archibald Van Arnam. Mr. Van Arnam, could you take me through last Sunday morning?”
Archibald unbuttoned his sport coat and tried to relax. “It’s common knowledge that Jordan Deere liked to do his morning run at Bayview Park. I confirmed this by following him there—”
“When was that?”
“Maybe a week ago.”
“What do you mean, you followed him?”
“I … parked in the lot and waited for him to arrive, taking care to make sure he didn’t see me. And then I followed him, at a distance, to see what route he took.” Archibald tried hard not to stare at DePetro’s enormous, almost grotesque, Adam’s apple. He’d noted it the first time they’d met—at Kit’s house last Sunday.
“You’re a runner?”
“On occasion.”
DePetro’s gaze dropped to Archibald’s big gut. “Uh-huh. How far did you run that morning?”
“A mile, maybe a little more.”
“Pardon me, but you don’t look like a guy who could run a mile without stopping half a dozen times to catch his breath. Or without falling over.”
With icy correctness, Archibald said, “I saw which path he took. Maybe it wasn’t a full mile. I simply needed to locate the path. Once I had that, I scoped it out at my leisure, decided where the best place would be to ambush him.”
“Ambush him.”
“Yes.”
“Sounds like you’ve watched a lot of cowboy movies.”
“It’s really very simple. I hid in the bushes. When he came past I stepped out. He was surprised to see me. We talked for a few seconds and then I shot him.”
“He didn’t try to stop you?”
“It happened too fast for that.”
“You shot him once? Twice?”
“Twice.”
“Where?”
“The forehead and the chest.”
More finger drumming. “When you stepped out, what was said?”
“Just … he asked what I was doing there.”
“And?”
“I said I needed to talk to him. He rested his hands on his thighs to catch his breath. Wanted to know if it was about the family reunion. I said yes. And then I pulled out the gun and shot him.”
“Where were you standing in relation to Jordan?”
“Right in front of him.”
“How far away?”
“I don’t know. A couple yards. Maybe a little more.”
“Where was the gun?”
“In my jacket pocket.”
“Did you get any blood blowback on your clothes?”
“Yes. I burned them.”
DePetro cupped his hands and gazed languidly at his fingernails. “You weren’t afraid someone would hear the gunshot? That you’d be found out?”
“I used a silencer. I had my escape route planned and I took off running right away. Nobody saw me.”
“What kind of gun?”
“I don’t know the name. I bought it illegally.”
“Where?”
“In St. Cloud.”
“Where in St. Cloud?”
“It was in a parking lot on the edge of town. I could probably find it again. The guy sold the guns out of the trunk of his car.”
“How did you find out about him?”
“I refuse to comment on that.”
“When did you buy this gun?”
“A few months ago.”
“You were planning the murder that long in advance?”
“I was thinking about it, yes.”
“Tell me more about the gun. What did it look like?”
“It was silver colored, with a black handle.”
“You mean stainless steel?”
“I suppose.”
“Small?”
“Yes.”
“And the bullets?”
“They were gold. Other than that, I can’t describe them because they were inside this piece of metal that fit inside the handle. The dealer showed me how to remove the safety latch and fire it. He told me I had seven bullets. I practiced, fired two or three shots out in the woods one afternoon. That seemed like enough.”
“So you’re not a marksman.”
“No.”
“You fired a gun and hit a man square in the forehead and then dead center in the chest. Must have been lucky shots.”
“I wasn’t far away.”
“How did Jordan fall?”
“Excuse me?”
“On his back? On his stomach.”
“I can’t remember.”
“On the path? Off the path? Did you pull him off the path, or leave him right where he fell?”
“I left him and I ran off.”
“Did he say anything to you after you shot him?”
“He just looked surprised.”
“Where is the gun now?” DePetro’s freakishly large Adam’s apple continued to bob.
“I threw it in a Dumpster on the way home.”
“Where?”
“Is that important? It’s gone by now.”
“What part of the city?”
“Honestly, I don’t recall. I was quite upset, Sergeant. I’m not a killer.”
“Tell me why you did it?”
“To protect Kit. Jordan was going to leave her. He was planning to come out of the closet, which would have, in effect, made Kit look like a liar.”
“She is a liar.”
Archibald flashed his eyes at DePetro. “Until you’ve walked in another person’s shoes, unless you know the full story, I believe it’s best not to defame another human being in such a glib way.”
“You see yourself as her savior.”
“I wouldn’t put it that way, but yes. I suppose, in a way, I do.”
“You love her?”
“Without question.”
“Are you infatuated with her?”
“What? No, of course not.”
“Were you ever?”
“I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”
“I’ll take that as a yes. Are you married, Mr. Van Arnam?”
“Not at the moment.”
“But you have been.”
“Several times. It never seemed to take.”
“You were unfaithful?”
“As a matter of fact, no. I’ve never been unfaithful to any of my wives.”
“They were unfaithful to you?”
“I’m not answering that. Could we, perhaps, get back to my reason for coming here tonight?”
“To turn yourself in, to admit to murdering Jordan Deere.”
“Correct.”
Folding his arms, DePetro, who looked seriously unimpressed, said, “You see, I have some problems with that. First, I think you’re here to give yourself up in place of the actual guilty party.”
“No. Absolutely not so.”
“I think your story has so many holes in it that there’s no chance in hell it would hold up in court.”
“You’re calling me a liar?”
“And here’s another problem. We’ve come into possession of evidence connecting Mr. Deere’s murder with three others. We believe the same person committed them all. Would you like to confess to four homicides, Mr. Van Arnam? You’ll need to do that, and give me details, in order for me to believe you.”
Archibald stared back at him.
“You said in an earlier interview that you were working with Cordelia Thorn at her theater, doing research on the history of the building.”
“That’s right.”
“Then you must have heard about the bodies found buried in the walls. Can you tell me about those victims? How you did it?”
“Obviously, with a gun.”
“And why?”
“That’s my business. No comment.”
“If you recently bought a gun to use on Jordan Deere, it couldn’t be the murder weapon.”
“I’m the one who should know. I shot him with it.”
“The same gun was used in all four murders.”
“How could you possibly know something like that?”
“It’s called ballistics.”
“Whatever. You have to take this seriously. I did it. I confess to everything.”
“Okay, Mr. Van Arnam. You did your bit. But I’ve got better things to do with my evening than indulge your personal superhero fantasy. I suggest you leave now, before I arrest you for misdemeanor theft—of my time.”