Two hours later, a sports jacket thrown over (and a tie added to) the short-sleeved blue shirt and jeans he’d worn staking out the coffee shop, Mark drew his Equinox up in front of the writer’s home. A broad two-story in need of paint, its front porch sagging slightly, the house itself had a melancholy cast, as if it hadn’t weathered the atrocities that took place in these walls any better than its owner had.
Mark climbed the few steps to the porch, which creaked under his shoes, then rang the bell and waited. His fingertip was poised to try again when the door opened and Elkins stood before him.
Mark had seen photos of the writer, in the papers and in the case files; he’d watched interviews of the confident, even charismatic writer being interviewed about his latest book, before the world had crashed around him. This was a shell of that man, the navy polo and jeans loose on him, like clothes on a hanger.
“Yes?” Elkins said.
Mark already had the fold of leather out, open to his gold shield. “I’m Detective Mark Pryor.”
Elkins nodded, barely. “Detective Pryor. How can I help you?”
“I’m doing some follow-up on the recent homicides in Strongsville, exploring some similarities to previous crimes in the greater Cleveland metro area.”
“All right.”
Man, this guy was making him work.
Mark said, “I’d like to talk to you about the perpetrator responsible for the loss of your family.”
Elkins’s eyes were unblinking and distant. “I don’t think so.”
“Sir?”
“Detective... frankly? I’d really rather not put myself through it again. Can you understand that?”
“Well, certainly, but—”
“I’ve told this story too many times over the years, to an endless succession of detectives, and it just never leads anywhere except to another sleepless night. I’m going to pass.”
The writer started to close the door, but Mark gripped its edge, like a pushy solicitor, and said, “Mr. Elkins! I’ve been anxious to talk with you for a very long time. It took a devil of a long time for me to get the authority to do so. Please, sir, don’t deny me.”
The strained earnestness of that, the desperation, embarrassed Mark even as the words careened out; but at least it gave his reluctant host momentary pause.
“... Look, son, I’m sure you’re a real go-getter, but I am just not interested in the betterment of your career. And if your superiors refused to let you talk to me, maybe they had good—”
“Sir,” Mark interrupted, and the words came out in a tumbling rush, “I’m convinced your wife and daughter were murdered by a serial killer, who is still at large, and very much active. You can’t wish what happened to you and your family upon anyone else. Help me stop him.”
Elkins just stared at the young detective — though Mark not getting the door shut in his face was a start, anyway.
“Give me five minutes,” Mark said. “I’ll share my theory with you, and if it strikes you as nonsense, just show me to the door. I’ll go away and never bother you again.”
And still the writer just stood there, with a poleaxed expression.
Then Elkins did something that Mark could never have expected: he smiled, just a little.
Then he stepped back, and motioned Mark inside.
“Thank you, sir,” Mark said, “thank you.”
The interior of the house somehow matched the outside, nothing really wrong, but something off-kilter. The living room was orderly. A television sat on a low stand to the left of the door; bookshelves rose almost to the ceiling on either side of it. On the far wall, a doorway led to the dining room, a formal table and a couple of chairs visible from the front door. The wall on the right was home to a sofa and a recliner, both facing a flat screen on a stand, an end table nestled between them.
Ordinary enough.
“Have a seat,” Elkins said, gesturing casually toward the sofa.
“Thank you,” Mark said, sitting.
“I can offer you a beer.”
“No thank you, sir.”
“Well, I’m having one.”
And his host exited. For a moment Mark wondered if Elkins would return with a shotgun and run him off his property.
As he waited, Mark put together what it was that didn’t feel right about this place. Though everything appeared neat enough, a thin patina of dust covered most surfaces — bookshelves, end tables, base of the TV, the stand itself. The carpeting, a high grade, hadn’t been vacuumed in some time. The recliner nearby had regular wear patterns; the sofa on which Mark perched appeared barely used.
Like the exterior, the interior of the Elkins house remained in mourning.
Elkins returned with a bottle of Michelob and sat on the edge of the recliner, like a football fan studying an instant replay. The thriller writer had, on closer inspection, an even rougher look than had been obvious in the dim porch light. Dark circles camped under Elkins’s blue eyes in a face drawn and pale.
“I’m very sorry for your loss, sir,” Mark said.
Elkins managed an unenthusiastic nod.
Okay, Mark thought. So much for sympathy. Down to business.
“Mr. Elkins, I’ve followed your case from the beginning.”
He frowned, half in irritation, half in curiosity. “You couldn’t have been on the force back then, not unless you’re older than you look.”
“I’m twenty-eight, sir. I was a rookie, fresh out of the academy.”
“So, then... you didn’t work any part of the investigation?”
“No, sir,” Mark said, well aware he’d gotten on the wrong end of the questioning. “My interest was because I was already looking — quite unofficially, I have to admit — into the somewhat similar murders of another family.”
“Really. What family is that?”
“The family of a friend of mine.”
“Don’t be evasive, son. Not good interview technique. No way to open up a subject. What’s your friend’s name?”
Elkins was a thriller writer — he knew police procedure, even if only from research.
“Jordan Rivera,” Mark said, not anxious to reveal that he had seen Elkins with her just hours ago, but having no choice, really.
Elkins was frowning again, this time in thought. “You and Jordan must be about the same age. Were you—”
“In high school together,” Mark said, nodding, but wanting to finally get on the right side of this questioning, he added, “Sir, since I’ve never been able to question her about her family tragedy — she’s reticent, as you must know — I thought talking to you about your case was, uh—”
“Better than nothing?” The writer was smiling again, a wry one this time, still barely enough to register.
“No! I, uh—”
“You could call not saying a word for ten years ‘reticent,’ I guess.” He took a swig of Michelob. “Before I consider answering any of your questions, I’ve got a couple more for you.”
“Okay.”
“Have you seen Jordan since she got out?”
“Once.”
“When?”
“A few days ago. We, uh, ran into each other at the grocery store.”
“You mean, you tailed her there and arranged a meeting. I’ll bet she saw right through it.”
Now Mark smiled a little. “Yeah, she did.”
“You really aren’t very good at this, are you, son?”
“Not yet, sir. But I will be.”
Elkins studied him. “Maybe. Maybe you will. You have tried talking to Jordan about her family?”
Mark shook his head. “She says she’ll let me know when she’s ready.”
“The reason I ask is because she’s in my support group.”
This was delicate. If Mark pretended ignorance, and got caught at it, this interview — maybe any interview with Elkins — was over.