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“Not comfortable, huh?”
“Uck. E-U.”
Milo leaned in closer. “We know you killed your sister and your brother. What we don’t get is why.”
Rooney Gilmore’s eyes turned to paper cuts. BP and pulse soared, beeps and burps moving pastallegrotopresto.
“I-sis,” he said.
Milo said, “You’re an Isis guy? Not quite sure what that means, Rooney.”
The eyes opened again. Emotion fighting fatigue as they widened to the max.
Muddy-brown irises, yellow sclera. Plenty of acreage but no lighting. When I looked close I saw yellow fingers curling at the periphery of his face. Notable jaundice; liver function disrupted.
He said, “Mish…in.”
“You were on a mission.”
Rooney Gilmore tried to nod, achieved only a minuscule downturn of crushed nose that vibrated the oxygen tubes. His lips worked better and he managed a smile. Closed his eyes.
The bulk of his body sank. Settling. BP began sliding back down. His chest rose and fell slowly. Took on a steady rhythm.
Sleeping. Easy for psychopaths.
—
Outside of the room, Milo said, “What just happened?”
I said, “He expressed himself and it relaxed him.”
“I’m his therapist, huh?”
“You do have the touch.”
We left the hospital.
—
After we got back to my house, he called to see if Gilmore had woken up and said anything.
The nurse he spoke to said, “Just that he hates my guts. It’s mutual.”
A call two hours later revealed the fact that the patient had spiked a fever.
Milo’s next attempt to get information was met by voicemail.
He said, “Nothing more to do, I’m going home.”
I walked him down to the Impala, watched him drive away slowly.
Just after eleven p.m., he texted me.
He got sepsis and died.
CHAPTER
49
