Page 22 of Unhallowed Murder (A Paranormal Halloween #2)
Chapter Nineteen
Ronnie awakened to her cellphone alarm and instantly missed Josef’s cool strength in bed beside her. He’d worried about leaching her heat, but in truth, she slept better with him beside her — like holding onto chilled granite, so she slept cool and not so hot.
She changed into slacks and a silk t-shirt, put her holster belt on, weaponed up, and slid her feet into dress shoes.
As promised, a werewolf brought her a plate of eggs and bacon along with a pitcher of orange juice, and she sat out on the balcony to eat.
She was only a block and a half from work, so she’d walk.
She’d driven her personal car to Josef’s, and her county car was in the lot, if she needed it.
Josef’s note had been cryptic. “I want the murdering bastard to suffer through deciding whether to confess or not, so he will confess in the next three days. The FBI is going to get him no matter when he confesses.”
She’d asked him not to give her details, so she’d question Griffin blind. Now, she wanted to know more, but knew it was better this way. As agreed, she ripped the note into tiny pieces and flushed it.
Once in her office, Ronnie hit the ground running, continuing the search to find people who’d entered Griffin’s life and mysteriously died or disappeared, and she found three more.
A college girl he’d dated and broken up with, who three months later left Lee College on the way to her family in Townsend, and never arrived.
He’d been questioned by the Cleveland police but had never been a suspect, since they’d broken up months earlier, and since he had an alibi — a new girlfriend who said he’d been with her the whole time.
He’d also gone on a missionary trip to South America with another church, and one of the women had gotten sick and died before they could get her into a town with a hospital.
No reason to suspect him or anyone else.
Cause of death was listed as dysentery. Had that been him?
Ronnie didn’t know, and there was no way to prove it.
On the same trip, a woman was found while being eaten by a black caiman, which was apparently a giant crocodile. No one knew whether the animal had killed her or had found her dead. The church had ceased all missionary trips as a result.
Towards the end of the day, she decided to take another crack at him. She really wanted to be the one to get the confession. Even if she had to hand him over to Graham, she wanted the confession first.
Ronnie needed to put this to bed for all the women he’d killed. They mattered, dammit.
Griffin was sitting in a chair, chained to the table, when she walked in. He looked haunted. His attorney was beside him, and she acknowledged him with a nod, but didn’t speak to him.
“I’m Lieutenant Woods, you’re Micah Griffin, accompanied by your attorney…”
She looked to the attorney, who filled in the name. “Jim Barabas.”
She’d seen him plenty, but didn’t remember his name.
She met Griffin’s gaze again. “You’ve been read your rights, and I’m sure your attorney has coached you in them as well, yes?”
He nodded without looking at her.
“I need a verbal answer, sir.”
“Yes. I know my rights, which apparently don’t include the right to stay out of this damned box.”
“Answer all my questions and there’s a decent chance you won’t have to come back.” Well, back to this one, anyway.
Ronnie settled a picture of the woman who’d been eaten by a crocodile on the table.
Then of the woman who’d died of dysentery.
Then the woman who’d drowned in Cancun. She arranged pictures of five of the missing women in front of him.
“Women who leave the country with you have a bad habit of not returning. ”
One hadn’t left the country with him. Would he correct her?
When he’d silently stared at the women’s images long enough she felt certain he wasn’t going to comment, she said, “You find women in different states and counties, so law enforcement won’t pick up on how often you show up in an investigation.
Just asking questions of someone we don’t think did it doesn’t get you into a national database. ”
She touched the pictures and noted, “Bradley County Tennessee, Walker County Georgia, Catoosa County Georgia, and Hamilton County. It won’t be hard to prove a pattern, now that we have it. I found these in twenty-four hours. How many more am I going to find, Mick?”
“You’re fishing,” said his attorney. “Ask him about the crimes he’s been charged for, but this isn’t—”
“We’re building a case, Mr. Barabas, and your client needs to understand just how much hot water he’s in. Are you aware you’re representing a serial killer?”
“That’s ludicrous. His girlfriend was murdered. He feels responsible because he didn’t check on her as soon as she went missing. He confessed not because he killed her, but because he feels guilty.”
Ronnie rolled her eyes. “Nice try counsellor, but no dice.” She looked back to Griffin.
“I wondered, last night before I dropped off to sleep, why you put Wendy in the zombie diorama. Did you decide she was evil, after all? Did she deserve to be displayed as evil? Did the bullet not cleanse her of her sins, as stoning would have? ”
“She went there without telling me. I looked through her phone and saw pictures of her with her friends, earlier in the week. She was a harlot.”
Ronnie actually felt a little sorry for the attorney, who tried to talk over his client and get him to be quiet, but Griffin was determined to make Ronnie understand how Wendy deserved what she got.
“I see.” She leaned back, looked at the stylus in her hand.
“No, actually, I don’t. If I’d killed all these women, I don’t think I could sleep.
” She met his gaze. “I think I’d have nightmares.
My guilty conscience would eat me from the inside out.
The only way to cleanse your guilt is to confess, isn’t it?
God’s everywhere, Mr. Griffin. He sees everything, knows everything. ”
Griffin stared at his hands as if he could see the blood on them, and whispered, “No.”
Fifteen seconds later, he looked up. “I’d like my attorney to leave, please. Can you ask him to do that?”
The attorney threw his hands up, stood, gathered his tablet, and left. Ronnie figured someone would set him up down the hall so he could watch the proceedings. Everyone was being careful to cross every T and dot every I.
“He’s gone, Mr. Griffin.”
“I don’t know all their names. I don’t even know how I got to seventeen. How can so many women be so sinful?” He sighed. “And the one who most deserved to die is still alive.”
Carter and Henderson had interviewed the ex-wife, found out he’d accused her of having sex with her boss because they’d had dinner at work while they finished a project.
He’d beaten her up when she got home, and she’d filed for divorce.
She’d dropped the request for a restraining order because the attorneys had negotiated — he’d give her the house and a fast divorce along with standard child support and visitation if she dropped her request for a restraining order and didn’t press charges.
She did, and the divorce happened fast. A restraining order would’ve meant more problems at work, and he was already in anger management classes for what his supervisor termed an explosive temper.
Six months later, he slapped her in front of the kids during pick-up for his visitation, and he agreed to supervised visitation if she wouldn’t press charges. He stopped even trying to see his kids a few months later, and had been out of their lives ever since.
Sergeant Perry had found out Griffin had been moved into the passport office because he mostly worked alone in there, and thus didn’t have to get along with his coworkers.
Everyone tiptoed around him, but it’s hard to fire someone from federal employment once they’ve made it through the first couple of years.
Ronnie decided not to bring the ex-wife into it — the danger was too great he’d go off track and not come back. He’d known he’d be the first person questioned if his ex-wife went missing or turned up dead. He might be a murdering asshole, but he was smart about how to do it without getting caught .
“Seventeen women? Who do you want to tell me about first?”
“She’s buried under the patio at 5327 Stuart Street, in Ringgold. I buried her that night, and went and bought the paver stones, gravel, sand, and concrete the next morning. She’s under the back patio. She was my first. A whore. Whores don’t deserve to live.”
Georgia . Josef had been right. Graham was getting him. She’d already known he would, but this cemented it. Didn’t matter anymore — she needed to get as much of his confession as she could.