Page 108 of Holmes, Margaret and Poe

“Fat lady’s singing,” I said. “But I still want some answers.”

“If he’ll talk.”

“He’ll talk. I can see it. He wants to tell us all about it.”

Because the murders occurred across multiple state and district lines, we decided to take the confessed Dead Hours killer to the federal detention facility in Alexandria until a judge could determine which jurisdiction to try him in. Filson said little during the drive, even when we passed groups of television reporters outside the campground and near the detention facility. We used the underground entrance and had Filson booked and then taken to an interrogation room, where we let him stew until two in the afternoon.

When Sampson, Detective Marilyn Hanson, and I entered, Filson had changed into an orange jumpsuit and was shackled to his chair by his ankles. His wrists were in handcuffs, and he was forced-smiling, as if he were trying to enjoy himself or cover some pain.

“Padraig Filson,” I said.

“Call me Paddy,” he said in a brogue, sitting back in his chair with a grim expression on his face. “Everyone does.”

Sampson said, “You turned down legal representation?”

“Public,” he said. “I’ll go private if need be. How did you get me?”

“Your earlobe,” I said.

“Damn thing,” he said, wincing. “Al-Qaeda sniper shot it half off in Afghanistan twenty years ago.”

Detective Hanson said, “Are you in pain, Paddy?”

He forced the smile again. “Twenty-four/seven from various causes.”

Sampson said, “You’re sick.”

“Terminal,” he said. “Matter of months now, and there’ll be a big slide before a crash, and then I’ll be free again, beyond your reach.”

I said, “You believe in life after death?”

“I do. We are spirits having a physical experience.”

Sampson said, “Do you expect to be judged for what you’ve done?”

Filson shrugged. “Don’t know. But if I am, I believe I’ll be found justified.”

Hanson sat back in her chair with an angry look on her face. “Justified? You feel you were justified in killing seven men in cold blood?”

Filson nodded, smiled at her. “One hundred percent. And beyond that, I’m not saying another word without a glass of Jameson in front of me.”

I said, “Booze? We can’t do that.”

“Look, Cross, I am dying. Oxy doesn’t do a damn thing for the agony I get in. The only thing that kills the pain is Jameson. The good stuff. Bring me a bottle of that, and I’ll talk all day and into the night.”

CHAPTER 90

IT TOOK A LITTLEwhile, but soon enough we had a bottle of the “good stuff,” Jameson Black Barrel Irish whiskey, and set it on the table in front of Filson.

He looked at us snobbishly. “Well, it’s not Rare Midleton, is it?”

Detective Hanson looked disgusted. “You think we’re going to spring for a three-hundred-dollar bottle for a confessed assassin?”

“Aye, once you’ve heard the evidence against him,” he said. “But Black Barrel will do in the meantime. Can you pour me more than a wee bit, Dr. Cross?”

I opened the bottle, poured two fingers into a paper cup. Filson picked it up with his handcuffed hands and poured it slowly into his mouth. As he did, his shoulders dropped and his core relaxed in a way that made me realize how tight he’d been holding himself. There was no doubt the man was suffering.

When the whiskey was gone, he put the cup back on the table and nodded. I poured him a second round and he left it there.

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