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Detective Frank Knox walked through the front door of his house at 9:15 p.m.
Exhausted, this had been one of the longest days of his career. Thanksgiving was usually an easy day to earn time-and-a-half and not worry about too much trouble. He’d planned his day around the football games. But fate had intervened. Three homicide investigations in one day must’ve been a new record.
All he wanted to do now was veg out in front of the TV and drink a few beers.
Frank grabbed a brewski from the fridge, popped the top and took a long pull. The cold bit the back of his throat. He plopped down in his well-worn recliner and flipped the television on.
The New Orleans Saints were driving the ball down the field. They were leading the Atlanta Falcons 21-to-3 in the third quarter. At least his day hadn’t been a total loss. He’d take in some football after all.
The house phone interrupted his relaxation time. When he got up to get another cold one, he’d take the phone off the hook. He took another long pull of his beer.
The answering machine clicked on. “Detective Knox, this is Jeffrey Devers.”
Frank almost choked as he swallowed. Jeffrey Devers was on trial for seven murders. The man hacked his victims with a machete. Their remains were found in shallow graves at an abandoned park.
The trial was being covered by Court TV and every news channel wanted a piece of the sensational story. Even Hollywood wanted in on the action. Rumor was a big-name director was penned to turn the tragedy into a box office hit.
Somehow Devers’ attorney managed to pull the first of many miracles during the trial by convincing the judge his client deserved to be out on bond.
The judge thought forty million would keep the man incarcerated, but miraculously Devers came up with the ten percent.
Frank snagged the phone. “What do you want, scumbag?”
“I see we’re in a mood this evening, Detective. Must be the full moon. All the cop shows say the crazy stuff happens on a full moon. Is that true?”
Frank didn’t want to get into a debate with this asshole, but the man was right. The full moon did seem to cause more havoc around the city than any other night. Or at least that had been his experience.
“Why did you call me? I’m sure your lawyers would have advised against it.”
“Ah, lawyers. The bane of my existence. Want to hear a joke?”
Frank squeezed the phone. He didn’t have time for games. Instead, he wanted to reach through the phone and choke the life out of Devers.
“Come on detective. At least give me the common courtesy and at least play along.”
“All right, I’ll play, but I want to make sure you understand your rights.”
“There’s no need to bring up Miranda. Not that anyone cares.”
“Have a great day. And don’t call here again. Ever.”
“Fine, fine. Has anyone ever told you that you’re a pain in the ass?”
After Frank read him his rights, Devers asked, “What do you call a hundred lawyers at the bottom of the ocean?”
“A head start.”
“You’re no fun. You’re such a buzz kill.”
Frank ignored his remark. “Why did you call?”
“Can’t a man gab it up with an old friend?”
“We’re not friends, Devers. So, get to the point.” He knew the serial killer was too smart to fall for the common interrogation tricks, so he figured his gruffness might do the trick for now.
“Okay, then tell me why I killed those people. After all, you’re a hotshot detective, aren’t you?”
“Am I?”
“You go first,” Devers said.
“You enjoy seeing your victims beg for their lives as you kill them in the most sadistic way possible.”
“Why would you call me sadistic?”
“So, you don’t deny killing them?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Now who’s being the party pooper.”
“Say I did kill them. Why would you call me sadistic?”
“Because you hacked them up with a hatchet.”
“Not bad, detective. But I wouldn’t consider the act sadistic.”
“You’re right, but you hacked them to pieces while they were still alive and that makes you sadistic.”
“I’m impressed. You’re a modern Sherlock Holmes. Does that make me your Moriarty?”
Frank didn’t see himself as Holmes and this guy certainly wasn’t Moriarty. But he decided to play along.
“You don’t get off that easy, Devers. Tell me something only the killer would know.”
“They did scream. And those screams were music to my ears.”
This was good, but Frank needed more to bury this guy. A piece of evidence or a confession his lawyers couldn’t destroy on cross-examination. “How did you select your victims?”
“I’ll never tell.”
“Guess you really aren’t my Moriarty after all.”
“You must think I’m an idiot.”
“Well, every village has one.”
Devers laughed. “Touché. But why should I tell you how I found them?”
“Call me old fashioned. I like to open doors for women, pay for dinner on a date, and never kiss and tell.”
“You’re a straight shooter. Boring, but a straight shooter.”
“We all have our weaknesses.”
“Pray tell, detective.”
“Tell me how you selected your victims, and I will.”
Devers sighed on the other end. “Fine. They were all born on February 29th. Happy?”
He was. Only the age had been leaked to the media, but not their birthdays. A shot of adrenaline coursed through him.
“Not that any of this matters, Detective. No one will ever hear my confession. It’s a moot point. Not to mention, it’s your word against mine. Add to the fact I’m calling you from a throw-away phone. Guess this does make me the smarter man. Until next time Sherlock.”
Devers hung up, leaving Frank to consider the last statement. The man was right. No one would ever hear his confession.
Then Frank realized Devers made a mistake. One that could be used in court. Did you find the mistake?
Frank Knox would be able to use the confession because it was recorded on his answering machine.
The only sticking point would be to get a professional to verify the voice on the recording as belonging to Jeffrey Devers.