“Wait a minute,” called Molly. She walked into the room holding one of the new hand towels. It was dangling between her thumb and index finger like a used diaper.
“What is it?” said Serge. “I’m running late.”
“Did you use this?”
“Yeah, I washed my hands.”
“You’re not supposed to use this.”
He grabbed the doorknob again. “Right, right… what?”
“You weren’t supposed to use it.”
“It’s a towel.”
“You don’t use these.”
A car honked.
“Sure thing.” He opened the door.
“You don’t care.”
“I do so care.”
“I’m not finished talking about this.”
“Can we deal with it when I get home? I’ve got people waiting.”
“They’re more important than our marriage?”
“Of course not. But the meeting starts at a specific time. We can discuss your towels later.”
“What do you mean, ‘your towels’?”
“I didn’t mean anything….” Glancing at his watch. “…Come on, don’t stare at me like that.”
Honk.
“Shit.” He stuck his head out the door. “Coleman, knock it off. Be down in a minute.” He closed the door. “Okay, let’s talk.”
She stood there.
“I thought you wanted to talk.”
Still standing there.
“Okay, see you tonight.” He opened the door.
“You never liked these towels.”
Serge closed the door. “What?”
“I knew it.”
Serge gritted his teeth. “The towels are fine. I may eventually grow to hate them at this rate. But right now they’re still okay by me…. Can I leave now?”
“Go ahead. Go off with your friends.”
“It’s a trick. That means stay.”
“I want to make a nice home for us.”
“And I’m all for that.” He looked at his watch and emitted a high-pitched whine of anxiety. “I understand completely. I promise I won’t use the towels.”
“No, just the guest towels.”
“What’s the difference?”
“You don’t use them.”
Honk.
“I really gotta go.”
Molly’s silence said not to.
“Okay, you win!” Serge dropped into a chair. “Let’s talk about it. Are there any other movie props around here that I can’t touch or I’ll get a ration of shit?”
Molly ran crying into the bedroom and slammed the door.
“What did I say?”
Monday evening: six-thirty. Sheriff’s substation, Cudjoe Key
“I HATE THE night shift,” said Walter. He dumped an old pot of coffee in the sink.
Gus highlighted a textbook with a yellow marker. “It’s always slow on Monday.”
Walter went through mail at his desk while new coffee trickled. Gus swivelled his chair and taped another fax to the wall.
Walter came over with his coffee mug. He had an envelope in the other hand. “I got a piece of your mail by mistake.” He handed it to Gus. “It’s from Internal Affairs.”
“How do you know?”
“I opened it.”
“Thanks.”
“Someone filed a complaint about you having marijuana evidence that was supposed to be destroyed.”
Gus tossed the letter aside and resumed reading. Walter took a sip and stared at the wall. “New bulletin?”
“They connected another possible murder to the Duster.” Gus made a yellow line in his book. “And the missing woman’s green Trans Am was spotted in Marathon.”
“Looks like trouble.”
“I know,” said Gus. “They’re probably both headed our way.”
“No, I mean you’re not supposed to tape stuff to the walls. Department rule.”
Gus looked up dubiously at his partner, then back to his textbook.
“I’m just trying to help,” said Walter. “You’re already under investigation. Is it true you were even showing drugs to kids?”
“Walter, you were there. It was a class.”
“I’ll say whatever you want me to. We’re partners. You just tell me what the line is, and that’s how I’ll testify.”
“Testify?”
Walter pointed back at his own desk. “Got a letter myself from Internal. They want me to turn on you. They can stick their rules. This is about loyalty.”
“Let me see that letter.”
“I’m not allowed to show you.”
Gus returned to his book.
Walter took a sip of coffee. “What are you reading?”
“Psychological profiles,” said Gus. “I’m getting a strong feeling that something big is about to happen around here.”
“Looks boring.”
“Actually, it’s quite amazing.” Gus tapped a page. “Check this out. They’ve developed a written test that’s ninety-nine percent accurate in determining whether someone’s a potential serial killer.”
“Baloney,” said Walter. “If it’s a written test, they’ll just lie. People are going to answer the way they think you want them to.”
“That’s the fascinating part,” said Gus. “There are a bunch of obvious questions on the test where people will answer like they think they’re supposed to: ‘If you could get away with it, would you shoot someone who slept with your wife? Stole ten thousand dollars? Got you fired?’ But those are the null questions. Scattered in between are a handful of innocuous ones a person would never suspect — those are the real questions. Any answer would appear benign. But they’ve empirically prescreened the test, administering it to hundreds of murderers in prison, as well as people of unimpeachable character, boiling down the questions until they arrived at a short list with a ninety-nine percent mutual exclusion rate between the two groups.”
“Like?”
“Like this one. A woman is at her mother’s funeral and she meets this hunk of a guy. It’s love at first sight. The next week the woman murders her sister. What was her motive?”
“I don’t know,” said Walter. “Her sister made a move on the guy?”
“No.”
“The woman started dating the guy, and her sister told some horrible lie that made him dump her?”
“No.”
“I give up.”
“Here’s the red-flag answer that says you think like a killer: She wanted to meet the guy again at the next funeral.”
“But that makes no sense.”
“That’s why normal people don’t give that answer.”
“It’s a stupid test.”
Gus grabbed the keys to the cruiser. “We need to get going.”
Seven o’clock, plus a few minutes
AN ECLECTIC BLEND of people in “I Follow Nobody” T-shirts milled around the base of the Bogie Channel Bridge, where Serge’s notice on the community center’s bulletin board had told them to assemble for their first field trip. They were joined by several regulars from the pub and some clowns from a local carnival who were buying pot from Coleman.
A ’71 Buick Riviera skidded up, and Serge jumped out. “Welcome to the Night Tour!”
He reached in the backseat for camera equipment. “Truly apologize for being late. Hate it when people do that to me. Unavoidable personal emergency. Okay, I’m actually having marriage problems. But that’s confidential; I can’t reveal any details. Even I don’t know the details. And I definitely don’t want anything getting back to her in such a small town that might make it worse. So all I can tell you is I think my wife is getting her period. Is everyone ready?”
They nodded.
Serge began leading them on foot over the bridge.
“…Observe the stars, their concentration and brightness almost like special effects this far from the light pollution of the cities…. And now we come to the night fishermen. Can’t say enough about the night fishermen! You see them throughout the Keys, every night, all night. How can they spend so much time like this? When do they sleep? What about their jobs?…” The fishermen stared at Serge as he walked by talking loudly. “…Don’t they know how to form relationships? What killed their life ambition? Keep it up, guys!… And now we come to No Name Key, best viewing location for miniature deer, especially at night when it’s cooler and they come out to forage….”