PRIMAL FEAR by William Diehl BALLANTINE BOOKS 9 NEWYORK Sale of this book without a front cover may be un- authorized. If this book is coverless, it may have been reported to the publisher as “un- sold or destroyed” and neither the author nor the publisher may have received pay- ment for it. Copyright 0 1993 by Gunn Productions, Inc. Excerpt from Show of Evil copyright 0 1995 by Gunn Productions, Inc. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. 3/998 Grateful acknowledgment is made to El- izabeth Barnett, literary executor, for per- mission to print “First Fig” by Edna St. Vin- cent Millay from Collected Poems, Harper- Collins. Copyright 1922, 1950 by Edna St. Vincent Millay. http://www.randomhouse.com Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 92-5728 ISBN 0-345-38877-1 This edition published by arrangement with Villard Books, a divi- sion of Random House, Inc. Villard Books is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc. Manufactured in the United States of America First U.S. Ballantine Books Edition: May 1994 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 77tis book is for my children, their hus- bands and wives, and my grandchildren: Cathy, John, Katie, Emily and Chelsea Bill 4/998 and Lori Stan, Yvonne, Nicholas and Jordan Melissa, Jack and Michael and Temple And always for Virginia ACKNOWLEDGMENTS The author wishes to thank Dr. Everett Kugler of the Georgia Mental Health Depart- ment, for his invaluable assistance in the re- search of mental disorders; attorney Brett Merrill, of Swainsboro, Georgia, for his guid- ance in law and trial procedures, and for his continued encouragement; Chip and Kath- leen, and Steve Collura, for their patience; the members of Save the Beach and the Gunn Committee, for their concern and sup- port; and author Stanley Booth, who couldn’t write a bad sentence if he tried, for the in- spiration of his words and for making even the darkest days a little brighter. Salud. I believe in the law. I believe in the sanc- tity of the courtroom and in the majesty of justice. I also believe that things are not al- ways as they appear, that sometimes facts 6/998 can be manipulated the way a magician ma- nipulates an audience. He distracts you with this hand, while the other hand does the tricks. It’s called misdirection. The prosec- utor in this case is a magician. He has mis- directed your attention from the facts of the case with flashy tricks and information that really have very little to do with my client’s guilt or innocence. He has produced a body of what he calls evidence-all of it circumstan- tial. He says my client had motives, oppor- tunities, desires, but produces no hard evid- ence connecting him directly to the crime. He says my client is immoral, that he is a li- ar, that he was caught cheating the victim, that he was desperate. My client does not deny these allegations - but does motive or opportunity or desire make him a murderer. Is he being tried for being immoral? Or for lying? Or for cheating? Will you send this man to the electric chair because he is des- perate? I say in the interest of justice you 7/998 must ignore the wizard’s card tricks and look in his other hand-the hand where the real evidence should be, because if you do, you will see that it is empty. This is a court of law, not a magic show. My client faces the death penalty. Can you twelve ladies and gentlemen honestly say that my opponent has proven this man guilty beyond the shadow of a doubt? The system makes mistakes because no matter how finely crafted it may be, it suf- fers the weakness of human fallibility. My client is human and he is fallible-but so is the magician who seeks his death. So I ask you not to be deceived by misdirection. Study the evidence carefully and when you do, I am convinced you will have no other choice than to find my client not guilty of this crime. Martin Vail Summation to the Jury The State vs. Nicholas Luma September 3, 1979 THERE IS NO CRUELER TYRANNY THAN THAT WHICH IS PERPETRATED UNDER 8/998 THE SHIELD OF LAW AND IN THE NAME OF JUSTICE. MONTESQUIEU, 1742 ONE FEBRUARY 26, 1983 When Archbishop Richard Rushman, known to Catholic, Prot- estant and Jew alike as “the Saint of Lakeview Drive” because of his great charit- able works, stepped out of the shower, he had less than ten minutes to live. Death stood in the doorway. The hot shower had relieved the bishop’s tension, and he started to hum along with the stereo playing in the bedroom. Beeth- oven’s Ode to Joy-possibly his favorite piece of music. The majesty of the chorus never ceased to thrill him. It was so loud he did riot hear the apartment’s kitchen door open. The kitchen door’s unlocked. Good. The room so spotless, so sterile-clean, stainless steel and tile, like the autopsy room at the hospital. The music. 10/998 So fitting. Lovely. Overpowering. Volume all the way as usual, he won’t hear a thing. In the bedroom, conducting the orchestra, eyes closed, imaginary baton in hand, humming along. So fucking predictable. The archbishop stood in the doorway of the bathroom, dabbing himself dry with the plush Turkish towel. He was a tall, hand- some man, muscular and hard, with a tan line from shoulder to shoulder where his T- shirt usually ended. Dark, thick hair tumbled down over his forehead. He flexed his bicep, admiring the bulge as he dabbed under his arm. When he finished, he threw the towel on the bathroom floor and began to sway with the music as he stood naked in the middle of the room. Chocolate for energy. Can almost feet it zooming up like an electric charge, down there, too, swelling me up, preparing the big 0. That’s what he calls it, the big 0. Don’t screw up, hold your hand against the big six- 11/998 foot refrigerator door so it doesn’t make that little popping sound when it opens. Like that, perfect. There they are, all those little pony bottles of chocolate milk. Soldiers on the door shelf. The intruder twisted the small bottle up- side down, right side up, upside down, right side up, watching the drink turn to thick, chocolatey brown before he twisted off the top and drunk it. Then instead of pressing the foot pedal on the garbage container, he lifted the cover by hand and placed the bottle silently into the plastic liner. So neat, so clean. So fucking sterile. The archbishop sprinkled tale into a fol- ded washcloth and, closing his eyes, rubbed it into his body. He was lost in the music, us- ing his voice like a bass fiddle as the brass came in. Bum bum bum bum bumbumbum buuum 12/998 … God, I love the way the knives feel. Light, balanced, cold. So smooth, slick, oily, like she is when she wants it, when she’s ready. The intruder slid open the hidden tray under the cabinet where the carving knives were stored, ran his fingertips lightly across the handles, so carefully rubbed with linseed after they were washed. He stopped at the largest one, the carving knife, its broad, long, stainless blade honed until the cutting edge was almost invisible. It shimmered in the soft rays of the night light recessed under the cabinets. He removed it, ran his middle fin- ger down the length of the blade, leaving a thread of blood on its ridge from the slice in his finger. The intruder licked off the blood. The chonis is beginning to build. And me, tightening, tingle in my belly, pulse in my temples, the spasms. Not much time left be- fore it’s time to explode. 13/998 Fie walked through the living room with the knife held down at his side. The bedroom door was open. Sanctum sanctorum. Scarlet drapes and bedclothes, blood of the Father. The carpet- ing, purity of soul. Candles glowing, clean the air. Incense … And the ring, lying on the night table where he always put it when he showered afterward. Here he is. All purity and light. His Emin- ence, His Holiness … His Crassness. Blessed saint of the city? Saint, where is thy halo? On the bedpost? In a drawer somewhere? Evil he stands and naked, conducting his imagin- ary symphony of angels, anointed with self- righteousness. The music was building. The intruder walked to the table, took the ring and slipped it on his finger. His Excellency was rapt in the music, eyes closed, unaware. The in- truder closed in, 14/998 reached out with the knife and tapped the bishop on the shoulder with the flat of the blade. Startled, the bishop turned. His eyes widened with surprise. The bishop started to smile, saw the knife. Questions floated across his face. The intruder held out the hand with the ring on it and pointed the knife toward the floor. The bishop was stunned, began to smile. The intruder jabbed the knife sharply toward the carpet and His Holiness slowly lowered to his knees. Fear replaced curiosity. The bishop slowly leaned forward to Idss the ring on the hand outstretched to him.