that her son was a monster.
“I always knew something was wrong with him,” she told a reporter from People magazine. “There were always dead animals around the house and lots of weird pornography. People being tortured, that sort of stuff,” she said. “Deep down I always thought I’d given birth to some sort of devil. No wonder his father ran away from us.”
Although she never expressed sympathy for any of her son Timothy’s victims, she did express relief and gratitude to the judge and jury that sentenced her son to death by lethal injection.
“I never should have had him in the first place,” she said.
Douglas Hampton knew all about parents who were quite fond of pointing out their children’s faults. From an early age, his mother had lamented how worthless he was, that he wasn’t deserving of the Hampton name. Later, he realized that she was furious with her husband and was taking it out on their son. But that realization was too late. The seeds of a black hatred were sown in his very soul. And when the first faint stirrings of sexuality appeared, those seeds ignited and blossomed like a mushroom cloud inside him.
Now, he stood on the doorstep of Frances Knowles’s pathetic little house in some godforsaken little town in Ohio. He had a briefcase in his hand and was dressed in a nice Armani suit, a charcoal pinstripe.
He rang the doorbell and waited. When there was no response, he banged his fist on the flimsy wooden door and called out to her. “Hello, Mrs. Knowles?”
Hampton heard movement, and then the door opened. The old woman stared at him.
“I’m with Brochman, Evans and Leverett,” he said, naming the high-powered law firm that, according to the Commissioner’s notes, her son had hired to defend him at his trial.
She stared at him without speaking or registering his comment.
“The good news is, I have a substantial check for additional revenues generated by your interview with People magazine,” he said. “The bad news is, you have to sign a few forms.”
He gave his best smile and when she looked into his eyes he kept them as wide open and friendly as he could. If he had been able to “think” a little twinkle into them, he would have done so.
Hampton knew that the woman had never been able to escape her son’s notoriety. According to his notes, Frances Knowles was approached at least once a month, either in person or on the phone, for an interview. She had declined them all.
However, the woman had recently called a repairman to look at the boiler in her house. The Commissioner figured that she needed money.
Hampton watched the old lady struggle with her decision.
“Okay, why don’t you come in,” she said.
79.
Nicole
Nicole stood in the kitchen at Thicque. Everyone had left for the night, but she had dawdled, wanting to enjoy the satisfaction of another great evening. She loved it here. This was her place and even now, over the soft sounds of jazz from the sound system, she could still hear the voices and laughter of the people who had come here for a great meal, good wine and the company of good friends.
Sometimes that’s how she hoped her restaurant felt to people who came here, like a friend you’ve just met but feel like you’ve known all your life.
The thought of friends triggered a brief flare of anger in her mind over Kurt. When the investigator had told Nicole her new “friend” was actually married, it had briefly thrown her for a loop. Especially because he had clearly given off the vibe that he was interested in Nicole as more than just a friend. Despite that she hadn’t been looking at him in a romantic sense, it made her upset that he had lied to her. Well, he hadn’t lied, but he clearly omitted the fact that he was married. If it wasn’t being dishonest, it was grossly misrepresenting.
She went through the dining room, straightened a few chairs that weren’t quite lined up perfectly with the others. Lifted one of the linen curtains whose bottom hem had snagged imperceptibly on the wooden window sill.
Satisfied, Nicole went back into the kitchen. She turned off the stereo, pulled a stool up to the small stainless steel table situated near the dining room door.
This was where she kept her travel notes, files, menu plans and other paperwork that wasn’t private. In fact, she encouraged her kitchen staff to peruse recipes, her descriptions of meals she’d had