“I don’t want the wife seeing me like this,” he said, looking at his shaking hands.
“Don’t worry. I’ll tell her you’re here.”
“You don’t mind?”
“Of course not,” I lied.
“Thanks. I had to get out of there, you know …”
“I know.”
“I know you do. Seeing that … it was the worst thing I ever …”
“Tell me what you know,” I said. I knew I had a small window of opportunity to ruthlessly pick his brain, having caught him in a highly weakened state. I needed everything he had.
“It was horrible,” he mumbled, settling further into the soft chair.
“Don’t pass out on me. Sleep will come, but you need to talk to me.”
“Oh, Marley, always digging for information. You’re like Nancy fucking Drew.”
“Yeah, that’s right,” I said. “Make me happy, man.”
“It was horrible. He ripped her up, man, like when you gut a fish. He just opened her up …”
“Were the others like that?”
“Yeah. Most of them.”
“They told you this?”
“Pictures. They have pictures of all of ‘em.”
“Do you have the pictures?”
“Marley …”
“Are they in your car?”
He nodded.
“You got anything else in the car?”
“Just my files.”
Once he passed out, I’d snatch his keys and do a little research of my own.
“And it was the same thing this time as all the others? Flowers in the eyes?”
“Yeah,” he said.
“White?”
“Red.”
“Red? They were white for Judith Myers, there were white roses. Was this the only time they were red?”
“No. It’s always some color or other. Like, whatever he could find, what was around. Or whatever struck him. That’s what they said.”
“Who’s they?”
“The feds.”
“The feds are here? Do they have a suspect?”
“They have what they called a ‘profile.’ They have a basic idea of what kind of person this killer is, but they don’t know who. They don’t have a suspect.”
“What the fuck is the profile?”
“It’s complicated.”
“But they don’t have a suspect? Is that what they said, or is that what you know?”
“No, I know it. They said the same. You should’ve been a cop.”
“Not with my track record,” I joked. “Were any of these girls drugged at all?”
“No. Some are known to have a drink now and then, like Gloria Shaw, but it doesn’t seem to be relevant to anything.”
“Any religious articles left around the body?”
“No. Why?”
“In Edenburgh a church was busted into the same night that Myers got it. Same thing happened here. Just an idea. Do the feds see any religious connection at all?”
“No. They see a sick fuck. Like you do.”
“How else was she hurt?”
“No bruising, really. Just some about the head, the mouth, like he’d grabbed her, but she was bound.”
“How?”
“Hands, mouth, feet.”
“With what? Cords? Ropes? Socks? What?”
“It seems to be twine,” he said. “It cut into her. Tape on the mouth.”
“Any fingerprints on the tape?”
“No tape left behind. Just the sticky residue. I guess he took the tape with him. And the bindings.”
“And they’re all like that?”
“Yeah, most of ‘em.”
“Was there a weapon left behind? Anywhere?”
“No.”
“What happened to the eyes?” I asked. He swallowed and said, “No one knows.”
“What’s he doing the cutting with?”
“Something sharp, Marley, I don’t fucking know. Talk to a fucking metallurgist.”
“Same injuries every time?”
“No.”
“What’s changed?”
“Jesus, it’s gotten so much worse,” he said, his eyes as sad as they’ve ever been.
“It always does,” I said. “Was anything left behind? Anything
at all?”
“No. Well …”
“What?”
“There was an empty film box on the dirt road that runs along the edge of the property.”
“Like what? Like, for a video? A tape?”
“Film. For pictures. Color. Polaroids.”
“Pictures,” I said.
Polaroids: a scumbag’s best friend. Any lowlife in the world with a few extra dollars can pick one of those cameras up and document whatever heinous act he could possibly think of, and no one would ever know it.
“There was a spent cartridge, and the cardboard box for a new cartridge, like he had used one up and had to load another.”
“Was the box new? Like, it rained last week, so … was it rainedon? Was it moist at all?”
“No,” he said, “the box is in as good a condition as it could get.”
“But the little black screen that shoots out of a Polaroid when you put the thing in the cartridge … that wasn’t around?”
He didn’t answer me. I looked over at him, and his hands weren’t shaking anymore. He was out cold. I put my hand on his and squeezed. He was a fucking saint.
“Arright, Detective. Enjoy the hospitality,” I whispered. “I’ll call the wife.”
His cigarette still burned in the ashtray. I put it out and drew shut the curtains. After that, I worked my nerves up a bit and called Martha from the kitchen.
“Pearce residence,” she said in her squeaky, little voice.
The man had married a mouse.
“Hey, Martha, it’s me,” I said softly.
She didn’t say anything right away. She didn’t have my voice memorized unless I said something vulgar. “It’s Marlowe,” I said. “He’s not here,” she said briskly.
“That’s why I’m calling. Just to let you know that your man’s passed out on my recliner over here on King Street.”
“Why?” she asked accusingly, as if to say, “What did you do to my man?”
“He’s in a bad way here because of the case, and he told me to tell you that he doesn’t want you seeing him this way.”
“Is he hurt?”
“No, but he looks like shit, Martha. I kid you not.”
“Oh, my baby …” she said, referring to her husband. I couldn’t help but smile.
“But how’s the tyke?” I asked. “Coming along well?”
“Quite,” she said.
“You guys pick a name yet?”
“No.”
“You’re running out of time, Martha. How about ‘Marley’?”
“No, I don’t think so,” she said. “We’re expecting a lady….”
“Arright. At least I tried. I’ll have him call when he wakes up, okay? Take care.”
“Yes, you too,” she said, not meaning it.
“Good night,” I sang.
She hung up, obviously disgusted.
It comforted me to know that I could still have that effect on women.
I checked to make sure Pearce was still in sleepy land. He was. I could have wrapped him in Christmas lights if I wanted to. I went through his pockets till I found his car keys. Then I went over to the window and peeled back the dusty curtain. His car was halfway up my driveway, blocking in my truck.
I went out. The night was dark and cool. The wind carried in its waves the smell of cooked food from somewhere close by. I peeked in through the windows of Pearce’s car and saw nothing. I opened the trunk.
There, between the extra tire and the first-aid kit, was a cardboard accordion folder stuffed to the gills with papers. It was held shut with one of those giant rubber bands that only mailmen seem to have access to. I lifted the folder out and was surprised at the weight of it.
The night was still and quiet. I heard the beating of wings, and a lone cricket singing, but the sounds of men were nowhere to be found. Then, off in the near distance, somewhere behind me, I heard a noise like a twig snapping. I was immediately brought to attention—a leftover symptom of being in war—and couldn’t help but think that I was being watched, that someone had misplaced a step. That a gun was pointed at me.