Peter Gregory had been watching the woman in the FBI ball cap and jacket. He’d never had the FBI join his crime scenes before. He wasn’t sure whether to be thrilled or disappointed. Or terrified.
It usually got boring after they took the body away. What did he expect? He chose throwaway victims for a reason. There was little follow-up. Cops didn’t waste much time on dead people nobody missed. In fact, this morning, everyone looked more upset about the garbage spilled all over the street.
Although finding his throwaway bag in the Dumpster was something he didn’t expect. It was a good thing he was so careful.
Nothing to see in there.
He’d made sure of that. Ended up being anti-climactic. All their thrills would quickly dissipate.
Even the FBI woman had already gotten bored and taken a coffee break. She was so desperate to escape the cold, she bribed one of the street people to join her.
The FBI? He had to admit he was intrigued. What did that mean?
He pulled out his pocket-sized notebook. His new gloves were bulkier than the ones he’d just thrown away, but these were nice and toasty. Without taking them off, he jotted down a couple of details he found interesting. Then he underlined the top one. Usually he avoided D.C.’s souvenir shops, but he bet he could buy an FBI ball cap in one of them.
He tucked the notebook away. This new jacket was warmer, too. The last one drove him crazy with too many pockets, most of them with zippers and some pockets with hidden pockets inside. The only thing he hadn’t replaced yet was his shoes. He glanced up at the coffee shop windows as he walked by.
Around the corner, and up the street, was his favorite secondhand store. Miriam’s Thrift Shop had the best selections and still gave out hand-written receipts from a pad, perforated at the top, where they tore it off and handed it to you. He didn’t know such a thing still existed. He’d asked about it once, pretending to make small talk with the old woman named Miriam who owned the store. She told him their donated inventory changed too much to entertain computerizing it. Then she added, “I’ve been doing it this way for thirty years, and I’m not fixing something that’s not broken.”
It was one of the genuinely honest things anyone had said to him in a long time. It was Gregory’s experience that people lied more often than they needed to. And in a city known for its professional liars, he appreciated the woman telling it like it was.
The winter gear was mostly picked through. He’d bought extra jackets and gloves three weeks ago. His locker at the YMCA was stocked. It helped that the two places were so close.
He bought things one at a time. Always cash, crumpled and saggy dollar bills and an assortment of coins, so it looked like he had to scrape just to buy whatever he chose that day. He went on different days and at a variety of times, so the store clerks didn’t recognize how often he came in.
He kept his presence on the down low, but he took time to check out the clerks and even the regular customers. Today, a balding guy named Randy was working close to the sneakers. He wore a sweater vest, purple-framed glasses, and scuffed loafers.
Gregory picked at a few pairs before selecting the ones he already knew he wanted. He was about to head to the checkout stand when Randy decided to be helpful.
“Those are a bit too big for you. We have some more in the back if you want me to check.”
“No, these are good. They’re for a buddy.”
“Oh sure. Have a great day then.” And Randy headed off in the other direction.
Would Randy remember him? Would he remember the shoes? He’d obviously paid enough attention to notice they were too big for Gregory.
He wandered around the busy store. It was better that it was crowded. No time for guys like Randy to pay him much attention. Especially when some of those coming in were just getting out of the cold. Miriam’s regular bargain hunters didn’t necessarily appreciate mingling with street people.
Gregory grabbed a couple pairs of thick socks to roll into the toes of his new shoes. These were a size smaller than the ones he’d tossed in the Dumpster. That FBI woman looked excited when they found his tossed bag.
He smiled at the thought of CSU techs casting the shoe print, searching retailers and hoping to find the killer by tracking down his footprint and footwear. How long would it take them to figure out he’d worn the slightly used thrift store shoes for less than three hours? Shoes that weren’t really his. That didn’t even come close to the size of his foot.
Big flakes fell covering the sidewalks as he walked the three blocks to the parking garage. The adrenaline was already dissipating. By the time he slipped behind the wheel of his Mercedes, he was cold and hungry. He hadn’t eaten since last night. He’d go back to the house, take a hot shower, then order his favorite takeout. And if he was lucky, he’d sleep, spent and exhausted for a few hours before the reel in his brain began all over again.