Page 32 of Sworn to Silence
Turning on my computer, I pull the “Slaughterhouse Murders” file from my drawer and set it in front of me. I grab a legal pad and as the computer boots, I jot the things I want to review with my officers.
Assignments. T.J.—condoms? Glock—footwear imprints? Tire-tread imprints? Mona—abandoned properties. Me—similar crimes. Background checks—Connie Spencer. Donny Beck. People at the bar. Suspect list.
My hand pauses. I think of the killer. I ponder his mind-set, and I write.
Motive. Means. Opportunity. Why does he kill? Sexual gratification. Sexual sadist. Where does he kill? A place he feels safe—remote, i.e., no gag. Not worried about victim’s screams. Basement? Soundproof room? Abandoned property?
I think of opportunity and wonder if he has a job, and I write:
Does he work?
A knock interrupts my thoughts. “It’s open.”
The door opens a few inches and a hand clutching a paper bag from Ellis’s Burger Palace appears.
“I come bearing gifts.”
“In that case come in.”
T.J. enters and approaches my desk. “Hamburger with pickles, hold the onions. Large fries and a Diet Coke.”
The aroma elicits a grumble from my stomach. I smile as I reach for the bag. “If you weren’t already engaged, I’d ask you to marry me.”
“Sustenance, Chief. You gotta eat.” But he blushes.
Behind him, Glock appears holding four biggie coffees in a cardboard carrying tray. “I got the caffeine.”
I unpack my lunch as Skid drags in a folding chair. I steal a few bites of the hamburger as the men take their seats. “We’ve gotta catch this guy,” I begin.
Glock sets his coffee on the edge of my desk. “So is it the same guy from before or not?”
I shake my head. “We can’t operate under that assumption.”
“Why not?”
“We don’t want to limit ourselves.” I don’t believe that. But I can’t reveal that the murderer from the early nineties is dead—if that is the case. I hate it, but I have no choice but to lie to my team. “We could have a copycat.”
“That’d be pretty fuckin’ strange,” Skid says between bites.
“The one thing we can assume is that we probably have a serial murderer on our hands. This was no crime of passion. He was organized. Deliberate.”
The room goes so quiet I hear the buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead.
“So you think he’s going to kill again?” T.J. asks.
“That’s what he does. He kills. He’s good at it. He likes it.” I sip my Coke. “And it’ll happen right here in Painters Mill unless he moves on to another town.”
“Or we get him first,” Glock adds.
I set my drink on my desk. “We’ve got to pull out all the stops, guys. That means mandatory overtime.”
Three heads nod, and it’s reassuring to know I have the support of my small force. I look down at my hastily scratched notes. “I’ve got Mona working on a list of abandoned properties in the two-county area. T.J., where are you on the condoms?”
“Manager of the Super Value gave me the names of the two guys who paid with checks.” He glances at his palm-size notebook. “Justin Myers and Greg Milhauser. As soon as we finish up here I’m going to talk to them.”
“Good. What about the cash guy?”
“Manager is going to get me copies of video first thing in the morning.”
