The modern killer is like a warrior of old. Every success makes him stronger. He may not have to eat anyone’s brains or heart or make a sandwich out of a vanquished victim’s genitals. But he achieves the same effect without dinner.
The Wolf stood up from his desk, pushed his chair back, and punched the air like a shadow boxer. He reached down and plucked the stack of printouts from the box where he kept them, and he fanned them in the air as if his thumb could accurately measure the number of pages. He was convinced that his latest chapters, describing the special way he’d terrorized each Red, would rivet readers. He knew instinctively that his fascination would be shared by anyone reading the pages. He understood that readers’ obsession with him would mirror his obsession with each Red.
They will want to know how the Reds die, just as much as I want to kill. They will want to be standing right beside me, experiencing the moment precisely the same way I do.
Murder would make him rich. In more ways than one, he thought. He could feel energy coursing through his body. If it hadn’t been miserable and wet outside, he probably would have dug out some old running shoes and sweat clothes and gone jogging. It had been many years since he’d actually exercised, but he could feel the need surging through him. Then he laughed out loud.
“That’s not what you’re feeling,” he said out loud.
It’s closeness, he told himself. He was very close to accomplishing so much. For an instant, he no longer felt old. He no longer felt ignored.
He felt unbridled strength.
The Big Bad Wolf looked at his watch. His wife would be home soon. Dinner routine followed by television routine and then bed routine. He did a quick calculation in his head. Just enough time for a quick drive-by, he thought. But whom shall I go see? Red Three was not a good choice; he didn’t want to accidentally pass his wife coming home from their school. She’d want to know why he was going the wrong direction at the end of the day. Red One was probably still in her office seeing patients. She typically worked late several weekdays, and this was one of them. She’s too damn dedicated, even when she’s about to die. He didn’t want to have to hang outside the medical building waiting to catch a glimpse of her as she went to her car.
The Wolf smiled. So it’ll be Red Two. He knew she was the one with the least ability to move about. She was tethered to her house by uncontrolled emotions. Poor gal, he thought. She’s probably going to welcome death, even more than the others.
He closed up his computer. In fact, she’ll probably thank me when we have our special get-together, he told himself.
She knew it was time for her to leave the office as the workday hastened to a close, but Mrs. Big Bad Wolf lingered. She had learned much and little. She had accumulated facts that merely created more fictions. She was filled with doubt and uncertainty, and her stomach clenched with confusion.
She thought, If only I could get one piece of clarity, I could build off that. What she wanted was just a simple and neat understanding: He’s a killer. Or perhaps, He’s not a killer. He’s just a writer who steals details from real life. Like every other writer.
She looked up at the clock on the wall as if the time might provide some sort of concrete foundation. Then she reached out her hand and picked up the telephone. She had written down a name collected from a news story and coupled it with a number easily obtained over the Internet. Her fingers shook only slightly as she dialed.
“Detective bureau,” a crisp voice answered.
“Yes. Good evening. I’m trying to reach a Detective Martin Young,” Mrs. Big Bad Wolf replied swiftly.
“Is this an emergency?”
“No. It concerns an old case of his.”
“You have some information for him?”
“That’s correct.”
This affirmation was a lie. She needed information.
“Detective Young should be in within a half hour. He’s on the early night shift this week. You want me to have him call you?”
“Does he have a direct line?”
“I’ll give you that number. I’d wait at least forty-five minutes.”
Mrs. Big Bad Wolf wrote down the number and began to wait.
She continued to watch the clock. She had always thought that when someone stared at a second hand sweeping around a clock face, it made things seem longer and slower. To her surprise the opposite was true. Her imagination filled with twisted thoughts and unsettling scenes. Minutes jumped by, until she felt she could try Detective Young again. She dialed his extension.
A different gruff voice answered, “This is Detective Martin Young.”
“Good evening,” Mrs. Big Bad Wolf said. “My name is Jones,” she lied. “I’m a teacher in a private New England school.” This was less of a lie.
“How can I help you?”
Mrs. Big Bad Wolf took a breath and continued with the tale she had decided to tell. It was a reasonable falsehood, she believed, and one that the cop would readily swallow. “We have a student in a senior-year current events class who has written a paper about a crime that took place in her hometown some years back. Your name is mentioned. I just want to be sure that the student has things accurately before giving her a grade.”
“What sort of paper?” the detective asked.
“Well,” Mrs. Big Bad Wolf continued, “the assignment was to write about a crime.”
“Sounds like a pretty odd assignment.”
Mrs. Big Bad Wolf faked a laugh.
“Well, you know, with kids these days, we work really hard to come up with tests and papers that they can’t plagiarize from the Internet or buy from some term-paper service. Do you have children, Detective?”
“Yeah, but they’re off in college now. And you’re right. They’re probably buying tomorrow’s assignment with one of my credit cards.”
“Well, then you know what I mean.”
The detective half-snorted and half-laughed in agreement. “So, what’s the case?” he asked.
Mrs. Big Bad Wolf shuddered as she read a name off her spreadsheet.
The detective let out a long sigh. “Ah, man, one of my most frustrating failures,” he said. “You never forget those. And you say your student wrote about that one? She can’t have been more than a baby when it happened.”
“Apparently it happened not far from where she lived and her family talked about it growing up. Made a distinct impression on her.”
“Well, that’s not surprising. Eighth-grade kid disappears on the way home from school. It happens, but usually someplace else, if you know what I mean. We’re not the big city here. Anyway, hell, all the people in that neighborhood were terrified. Neighborhood watches got formed. Parents started escorting kids to and from all the local schools. There were meetings in every community center-you know, the “What can we do?” type of gabfest. Problem was, me and all the other detectives were pretty stymied, what with no witnesses and no body. Of course, when some hunter found the bones in the woods three years later it terrified everybody all over again.”
“And suspects?” she asked, trying to control her voice.
“A name here. A name there. We took a good look at the people familiar with the girl’s route home and every registered sex offender within miles. But we never had a case.”
“And now?”
“And now it’s history.”
Mrs. Big Bad Wolf shuddered as she hung up the phone. A missing eighth-grade girl. Dead in the woods. She paused. Missing in a small city that she knew her husband had once lived in nearby. She tried to take down some notes, but it was hard, because her hand shook uncontrollably. Nearby is not the same as murder, she told herself. She wasn’t sure whether this was true.