“As I said, anything is possible, but I don’t really see the killing being committed by mistake. It’s like a rapist who claims he slipped and his dick accidentally penetrated the victim. This was a pretty precise thrust.”
Evans scowled then shook his head. “Thanks for ruining my day.”
“Hey, don’t blame me. I just work here.”
“As if I didn’t have enough to do, now I may have to find two killers.”
“You’ll solve the case, Keith. Remember, neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these…Oh, wait, that’s the postmen. What do you boys do when it snows and rains?”
“We go after the bad guys. Some days, though, are easier than others.”
Part Four.Rotting Corpses and Severed Digits
Oregon
Chapter Seventeen
On Saturday morning, Brad Miller drove to Salem for his second meeting with Clarence Little. Ginny Striker was riding shotgun, and he was grateful for the company. He usually didn’t have any on a weekend. He also enjoyed discussing strategy with the attractive associate. In fact, he liked everything about Ginny. The only good thing to come out of Tuchman’s assignment was the opportunity it gave Brad to spend time with her. When he was with Ginny he felt none of the anxiety and sexual tension he always felt when he’d been dating Bridget Malloy, who seemed to go out of her way to keep him on edge. Ginny seemed genuinely nice, and the only friction between them arose when he refused to let her meet Clarence Little.
“Are you nuts?” Brad had replied when Ginny broached the subject. “I don’t want you within a mile of Little.”
“I’ll be perfectly safe,” Ginny insisted. “You told me there was concrete and shatterproof glass between you. How is he going to get to me?”
“That’s not the point. I don’t want him knowing you exist. What if he gets out somehow?”
“I don’t think freedom is in Mr. Little’s future, Brad. He’s serving three death sentences.”
“I don’t want to take any chances.”
“That’s sweet,” Ginny answered in a voice dripping with sarcasm, “but your chivalrous attitude is a bit outdated. I helped subdue paranoid bikers on speed when I was working the emergency room. I know how to take care of myself. If Clarence busts through the glass I’ll protect you.”
Out of desperation, Brad played his trump card. “Look, Ginny, I know you’re tough. You’re probably a lot tougher than me. But the truth is, you’d be a distraction.”
Ginny opened her mouth, but Brad held up a hand. “Hear me out. This guy loves to play games. He’s doing it with me, right now. I wouldn’t be surprised if this whole deal with the pinkie collection is a sick practical joke that will have us running all over Oregon on a wild goose chase. God knows what he’ll want you to do if you show up with me. Little’s idea of a good time is torturing women. If he can’t get his hands on you, he’ll figure out a way to play mind games with you and that will complicate our job of figuring out if he’s telling the truth about his alibi.”
Ginny folded her arms across her chest and stared through the windshield. Her silence was a good sign. It meant she was thinking about what he’d said. Irrational as it might be, he was worried about what might happen if Clarence Little met Ginny Striker.
On Brad’s second trip to the prison there were different visitors in the waiting room, but they had the same look of tired desperation and fake joy as the women he’d waited with the first time he’d visited Clarence Little. When his name was called he felt like an old hand as he navigated the metal detector, walked down the ramp to the visitors’ area, and arrived in the noncontact room reserved for visitors to death row inmates. He should have been thinking about his meeting while he waited for the guards to bring his client. Instead, Ginny occupied his thoughts. She was still mad at him for refusing to let her go into the prison, but she’d grudgingly conceded that putting her in close proximity to a man with very odd ideas about male-female relationships might interfere with their goal of discovering the truth behind Little’s protestations of innocence. As he waited for Little, Ginny was waiting for him in a coffee shop near the penitentiary, working away on her laptop at her assignments from the partners.
The door opened and the guards escorted Little into the cramped space on the other side of the glass. When Little saw Brad he smiled. The smile might have simply been the inmate’s way of greeting a visitor, but Brad suspected that it signified Little’s satisfaction with his victory in their battle of wills.
Little and Brad picked up their phones as soon as the guards disappeared.
“Thank you for visiting again,” Little said. “You have no idea how boring it is sitting in my cell all day with nothing to do. Every break in my routine is a wonderful gift.”
“I’m glad I’ve brightened your day, Mr. Little,” Brad answered brusquely. “But I’m here to find out where you hid the pinkies so I can try to clear your name in the Laurie Erickson case.”
Little’s smile widened. “I knew I was right to trust you.”
“Yes, so, where are they?” Brad asked, anxious to get the meeting over with as quickly as possible.
“Before I tell you where I’ve hidden my keepsakes, why don’t you tell me a little about yourself.”
Brad rolled his eyes. “This isn’t going to be like Silence of the Lambs is it? You’re not expecting me to trade intimate details about my life for clues to the whereabouts of the pinkies?”
Little laughed. “Not at all. I’m just not in a rush to go back to my cell, and I think I’m entitled to know a bit more about the qualifications of someone to whom I’m entrusting my life.”
“Okay. What do you want to know?”
“Your accent suggests that you grew up on the East Coast.”
“New York. Long Island, actually.”
“And did you go to college in New York?”
“Hofstra.”
“What was your major?”
“English.”
“That’s not a very practical major. Why not something in the sciences or engineering?”
“I’m not very good at math or science and I like to read.”
“A good choice then. Where did you go to law school?”
“Fordham.”
“Didn’t you have the grades to get into Columbia or NYU?”
“My grades were fine, but I don’t do well on standardized tests. Look can we get back to the pinkies?”
“I see your patience is running thin. Impatience is not an admirable trait. I used to take a lot of time with my female friends. Here’s a tip, Brad. Never kill them quickly. It spoils the fun.”
“Okay, I’ve had enough. I don’t think there is a pinkie collection. I think you’re having fun at my expense.”
“If there’s no pinkie collection what happened to them?”
“You know, Mr. Little, I don’t care. I’m going now. I’ll do my best on your brief and I’ll argue your appeal, but I’m not going to waste my time and the time of my firm playing bullshit mind games with you.”
Brad stood up and Little started to laugh.
“Sit down. I’m fucking with you. I liked Silence of the Lambs, although it’s totally unrealistic. All those serial killer movies are ridiculous. I can’t sit through most of that shit. Watching them is like a busman’s holiday anyway.”
Brad stared through the glass, unsure of how to respond.
“Sit down, please. I wanted to see just how long I could string you along with this act. I don’t even talk like this. I even comb my hair differently when I’m not meeting with you. I was just doing my best Hannibal Lecter impersonation.”