They paused while the waitress deposited the thick white plates topped with burgers and fries in front of them. She asked if they needed anything else. Kennedy requested mustard and ketchup. Jason requested ranch dressing for his french fries.
Drinks were refilled, the condiments were delivered, and Kennedy said as though there had been no interruption, “He’s also allowed two phone calls a month.”
“Does anyone call?”
“Yes. His fiancée, Coral Nunn, and—”
“His fiancée?”
Kennedy said through a mouthful of burger, “She was a student involved in one of these Innocence Project organizations.”
“Why the hell would they waste their time on someone like Martin Pink?”
Kennedy swallowed hastily, cleared his throat, and said, “Clarification. Her class did not take on Pink’s case, but that’s how they met. Although met is not exactly the right term. They do correspond, and she does phone him.”
“He raped and murdered seven teenage girls.”
Kennedy’s brows drew together. He said, “I know. But everyone in this restaurant doesn’t need to.”
Jason glanced at the astonished faces in the booth across from their table, and grimaced in apology. “Right. I just can’t believe—”
“Yes you can. You had all the psych classes. You know it happens. Hybristophilia. Also known as Bonnie and Clyde Syndrome.”
Yes, Jason did know. Every serial killer seemed to have some woman who loved him—though usually not the one he was married to before his crimes were discovered.
Kennedy said, “He also gets the occasional call from a doctor in Boston. Doctor Jeremy Kyser.”
“Never heard of him. What’s his field of medicine?”
“He seems to be a psychologist. He’s working on a book about the brains of serial killers.”
“Why is he allowed contact with Pink?”
Kennedy said mildly, “Presumably because the more we know about the brains of serial killers, the safer we’ll all be.” He took another large bite of his burger.
Jason
dunked his skinny fries in the ranch dressing and brooded. He admitted finally, “I didn’t play it right. I didn’t play him right. I should have buttered him up, appealed to his worser nature.”
Kennedy studied him. “Not necessarily. It’s what he’d expect, yes. What he would look for. He’s going to want to talk. He’s been waiting to talk for ten years. I think he’ll take what he can get. Unless he thinks you were bluffing.”
“I was bluffing.”
Kennedy’s eyes met his. Kennedy grinned. The effect of that broad white display of perfect teeth was startling. He looked younger and a lot friendlier.
“Everybody bluffs. You were willing to walk away from the table. That, he won’t have expected.”
“We’ll see.”
Kennedy remained unconcerned. “We couldn’t shut him up in the old days. He’s spent most of the last decade all by his lonesome. I think we’re going to hear from Martin Pink before the day is out.”
As it turned out, they heard from Pink—or at least the warden—before they finished eating lunch.
When Kennedy clicked off his cell phone, his smile was his usual sardonic one. “Congratulations. You’ve been granted another audience.”
Jason was relieved. Partly. He hated thinking he’d blown it. At the same time he wasn’t looking forward to another meeting with Pink. He wasn’t afraid for his personal safety. And he wasn’t afraid he was going to lose control and try to strangle Pink. It wasn’t anything like that. There was something disturbing, unsettling, about Pink. In simply knowing what the man was capable of. Man? Pink was a monster. A monster in men’s clothing. Of course it wasn’t the politically correct or psychologically informed view, but it was the truth as far as Jason was concerned. To do what Pink had done to Honey and the others was inhuman. Worse than animal.
A good portion of his unease was knowing Pink was still capable of monstrous acts. Age hadn’t softened him. Solitude and reflection hadn’t redeemed him. You had only to look into those dead eyes to know that if he got the chance, Pink would do it all again. Only he’d try a lot harder not to get caught.