chapter seven

“You’ve scarred me for life, you horrible bitch.” George drove one-handed while he rubbed his ear with the other.

“Yes, but that was years ago.” Unmoved by George’s sweaty whining, I stared out the car window and tried not to feel like his car was digesting me. “Tell me.”

“Well, here’s the recap: horrible bitch, I hate you, my ear feels hot and cold at the same time, Cadence is an idiot, her house is stupid—”

“About the murders, you tongue-flapping imbecile.”

“Ooh!” The strangest things delighted this man. “That’s a good one. I’m putting that one in my blog and you won’t get any of the credit. And it’s another Sue Suicide. Which I’m now gonna start calling Sussudio, because Phil Collins is a living god and, also, is old enough to almost be God.”

Ah. “Sue Suicide” was George’s pet phrase for pseudo suicide. The victims—this would be number three—were killed by a person or persons unknown who made the scenes look like assisted suicides. It was a new one for both of us, and several of BOFFO’s in-house psychiatrists and profilers were nearly in ecstasy at the chance to interview such a killer. If we caught him/her/them, they would likely black out from joy.

But first we had to catch him/her/them, and so far we had not. Not only was the person or persons unknown still killing, we had no idea who or where or why. When was a little easier, thanks to current forensic methods. I would have traded a when for a who in a cold moment.

George brought us to Wentworth Apartments, a large, neatly kept three-story apartment building in West St. Paul. The neighborhood was doubtless rather peaceful when there weren’t multiple police units parked haphazardly in the parking lot, and several police officers, ME staff, and paramedics walking briskly back and forth across the wide expanse of lawn in front of the building. The victim had no use for paramedics, of course, but policy was policy; if the body had been pronounced, they would be leaving soon. The ambulance must needs make way for the ME’s car: the circle of life. Or, ah, death.

Though it was winter, several of the people on the scene wore only light coats, and not just because it had been the mildest of seasons thus far. The adrenaline kept one warm, even if all one did was observe the crime scene. It sounds odd, but it’s true.

“All locals, I see.” I said this in a neutral tone, but George knew what I was pondering.

“Yeah, lucky us … the first Feds out here. Don’t sweat a thing, Shiro, I’m super-duper sure they’ll play nice.”

I snorted but made no comment. As I escaped from George’s car, I saw a young couple—she as dark as he was blond—who had been on their way to the rental office. They stood still and made no sound, hands clasped like an adult version of Hansel and Gretel as they took in the choreographed chaos, but their big eyes told the story, and as one, they turned and hurried back to their car.

I did not judge. Although I would not let proximity to a murder dissuade me from renting in the suburbs (once I ascertained the mechanics of the crime and whether it affected rental rates), I did not expect average citizens (as if there were such things) to feel the way I did.

“Another apartment.” George, who had escaped his car just behind me, was looking over the building. “Again with this guy. He’s got the luck of a pro athlete dodging rape charges.”

“He does,” I agreed.

“Ah! But! The dream team of Pinkman and That Crazy Lady are on the case, and the bad guys are doomed to sooner or later be arrested and run over. Maybe even in that order this time.”

I had to laugh. He was exasperating and awful, but so amusing when he wished to be.

We found and introduced ourselves to the OIC and made our presence known to various other law-enforcement types. Officer Lynn Rivers, an almost-friend who knew there were three people in our body, saw us and hurried over. “You lost the coin toss?”

“Her entire life,” George agreed. “What’s up, Rivers?”

Lynn blinked, momentarily hypnotized by George’s wretched tie du jour: bees bleeding out their eyes against a bright-green background. Then she managed to snap back to the crime scene. Because that’s how dreadful George’s ties were; the scene of a homicide is easier to bear. “More of the same, I’m sorry to say.” Lynn had half a dozen years of law enforcement experience and was known to pray wife-beaters would resist arrest, but her bright-blue eyes were dull with apprehension as she jerked her head toward the building. “You’ve got a secret FBI-sanctioned plan, right? What with all the evidence from the other murders?”

“All what evid—” George began, but my elbow-jab to his side made him hush. “Argh! Ribs!” Or at least talk about something else.

Lynn ignored our lack of professionalism, thank goodness. “And you’re mere hours from closing in on the killers but can’t tell us because we’re locals and you’re Feds, right? All part of your secret plan, though, so there’s nothing to worry about? Right?”

“Yes indeed,” I said at the same time George said, “You bet.”

She found a smile from somewhere. When Officer Rivers wasn’t fretting over serial killers in the neighborhood, she was quite a lovely young woman, a Minnesota stereotype with long legs, shaggy blond hair, the complexion of an eighteenth-century dairymaid, and of course lively blue eyes, the finest feature in a host of them. Some of her prettiness came back as she cheered herself up—you could actually see her making herself be less glum. It was interesting, and a talent I lacked.

“Golly. I feel safer already. You guys won’t believe this; this time our guy—”

“Shhhh!” George held a finger in front of his lips, smiling. That simple motion and sound and expression drew attention to his long fingers, clear green eyes, and psychosis (not that pure sociopaths were psychotic, technically speaking). No psychologically intact human looked and sounded so anticipatory on the way to see something ghastly. “Don’t spoil the surprise.”

“You’re scaring the lady,” I said mildly.

Lynn shook her head. “You guys. I’d be horrified right now, George, and pulling you aside to ask you when you’re gonna break your partner’s neck, Shiro, except I think you’re our best chance at getting this fuck-o.”

Hmm. Officer Rivers tended to go with “weirdo” or “nutjob” or “wife-beating jerkoff.” “Fuck-o” was new, and it told me all I needed to know about what had happened at Wentworth Apartments that day.

Officer Rivers turned and led us to apartment 4A, which, if law-enforcement officers were ever encouraged to use their imaginations, should also be known in all paperwork, reports, and various memorandum as Where the Ghastly Thing Happened.

Perhaps it was just as well that such hyperbole was discouraged.