Dead Even - Mariah Stewart [42]
“I remember that book,” Will told him as Regan handed him an ice-filled glass and a bottle of spring water. He thanked her and continued. “It followed the careers of several serial killers who had committed most of their murders right under the noses of their unsuspecting neighbors.”
“Yes.” Landry nodded. “People always seem to have this idea that serial murderers are evil-looking men whose very appearance gives them away. The truth is, there is no type; there is no look. It can be—and often is—the boy next door.”
“In every case—at least, in every case you wrote about in that book—when the arrests were made, the neighbors all said, ‘But he was such a nice young man. . . .’ ”
“Exactly the point of the book,” Landry told him.
“Why did Channing write to you?” Miranda asked.
“Because he’d read the book. He said that at first he’d picked it up because he thought perhaps there was some connection, some psychic nonsense—my middle name happens to be Channing—that our having the same name was a sign that he should read the book. Later I realized he probably meant, his being a serial killer, and my studying, writing about them.”
“He told you he was a killer?” Miranda’s eyebrows rose.
“No, no. It wasn’t difficult to figure out over time, though. Of course, by the time I figured it out, he’d disappeared.” Landry stirred his tea absently. “The first letter, he took me to task, telling me where I’d gotten it all wrong.”
“Where you’d gotten what all wrong?”
“I delved quite deeply into the backgrounds of the four men I’d written about, which, of course, one would have to do if one was looking to explain such violent, aberrant behavior. All of these men were from terribly abusive homes, and had all either run away from home or had been shoved out of the nests by the time they were in their early teens. I stressed environment as the determining factor in making them what they had become.”
“And Channing disagreed?” Will asked.
“Channing believed you were born bad and stayed bad. That environment played no part,” Landry explained.
“He must have been in denial.” Miranda set her cup on the saucer. “You’d think that coming from his background—where his own mother had traded him, as a very young child, for drugs—he’d know damned well what part environment played.”
“Ah, but he never mentioned any of that to me. He spoke of his parents as exemplary folks, loving, kind. Perfect parents,” Landry said.
“Those would have been his foster parents,” Miranda told him. “They knew of his background and made every effort to help him overcome it. They were, by all accounts, wonderful people. But by the time he’d gotten to them, he’d been irreparably broken.”
“Of course, I didn’t know that at the time.” Landry nodded. “It certainly explains a lot. He was very adamant that I did not know what I was talking about and insisted that I should write another book and admit I was wrong.”
“How many times did he write to you?” Will asked.
“Several times, but he stopped writing when I started asking him questions about how he knew so much about the criminal mind. I invited him here to chat, offered to give him an opportunity to explain his point of view, but I never heard from him again. After a time, I just chalked him up as a crazy and forgot about him,” Landry said. “Then, a few months ago, I read about his long life of crime, and I looked up the letters—”
“You still have the letters?” Miranda appeared surprised.
“Yes. I don’t know why I kept them, frankly. Must have subconsciously suspected I’d hear of him again.”
“May we see them?” Will asked.
“Certainly. They’re in my office.” He started to get up, and Regan stopped him.
“I’ll get them, Dad. I know exactly where they are.” She turned to Miranda and Will and said, “I’ve reviewed them several times over the past few weeks, ironically, in preparation for a new book.”
“R. J. Landry,” Will said. “You’ve cowritten several books with your father.”
“Yes.” Regan nodded and appeared to be pleased by the recognition. “I’ll be right back with the letters.”
“She’s the real brains.