“And you kill them,” Reddick said. “Just like you did in all those other cases. You murdered Connie Ware in Pittsburgh, Tammi-Sue Bellow in Detroit, Debra Lee Plager in Buffalo, Nina Kaye Wilken in Chicago, Jasmine Maria Santos in Indianapolis and Maylene Marie Siler in Cleveland. Where did you put their IDs?”

“This attempt to incriminate my client does not warrant an answer,” Ellsworth said.

“I’ll answer this bullshit,” Loften said. “I never took them, because I didn’t kill them.”

“You’re a sick monster,” Reddick said. “Stop giving us this crap and admit what you are, Clete.”

Loften’s jawline pulsed.

“Mr. Loften. We’ve got substantial evidence. We can put you at or near many of these crimes,” Morrow said. “The cord used in the murders is identical to the cord found in your motel room.”

“That cord can be purchased anywhere,” Ellsworth said. “My client’s supply, which was seized, was never cut, never used.”

“So?” Bogan said. “He could’ve purchased more for killing Vida. And we’ve got the note. The note that was made on your motel’s stationery.”

A long moment passed in silence as the muscles in Loften’s lower cheek spasmed.

“Clete, you’re facing execution—now’s the time to unburden your soul. Tell us how you killed Vida and all those other women,” Bogan said, “because we’ve got an army of forensic people working on the evidence, and it’s going to seal your fate at Starke and in hell, where you’re going to burn for eternity.”

78

“Bill, could you turn the TV down?” Rachel Burke called to her husband from the motel bathroom where she was fixing her hair.

Bill Burke muted CNN’s report on the forecast for the Atlantic hurricane season. Experts were predicting more storms than the previous year.

Sitting at the room’s small desk, Bill glanced at Rachel in the bathroom mirror—still gorgeous after all these years. He sipped some of the horrid coffee he’d made with the in-room machine.

Then he returned to his big laptop and visited news sites because, as a retired newspaper editor who’d worked at the New York Post and the Daily News, he liked to be informed. Much to his long-suffering wife’s annoyance, even as they vacationed in Florida, Bill had to get his news fix, often verbally rewriting stories—“They buried the lede”—as he read them.

It was books, needlepoint and puzzle games for Rachel, who was sharper than Bill. She was always right about exits, distances and landmarks during their second-honeymoon drive from Corona Park in Queens to Florida. They’d meandered through South Florida, Miami and the Keys and were now on their way home. They’d stopped for a couple nights in Miami Beach and were staying at the Sleepy Palms Motel, where Rachel was getting ready before they went out to eat.