They had no choice but to call the police. A woman had been shot during their pursuit of a supposedly dead killer, and they had to explain themselves. The only good thing to come out of that night was that Bill had pull with the police, and he hid behind that badge to save them both. Mason just wondered how long he could keep up the act.
By the time one police car had arrived, so had many others. The ambulance came with them, though they were barely needed. The CSI techies had the hardest job, their reports linking to what Bill had told them with very few differences. That was the benefit of being vague.
Mason gave his own statement to an incompetent but brand-new officer who was on his first day on the job. Mason knew this benefitted him, and he treated the man with the last piece of kindness he would ever see in this line of work. The officer—although bumbling and constantly dropping his pen—continued to listen politely until he was done.
“Thank you, Mr. Black,” he said. “We’ll be in touch.”
Mason nodded his gratitude, found Bill in the crowd, then stormed toward him. Bill, who had been staring at the ground where the RV sat only minutes ago, snapped out of his dumb trance and looked up at Mason, who clamped a hand on his shoulder.
“We need to talk,” he said.
“Sure.”
He and Bill strode to the far edge of the crime scene, away from prying eyes and bending ears. They had something serious to discuss, and Mason had to ensure none of it got out. Not to the police, and especially not while the killer was still free.
“You know what?” Mason began. “I’m having a hard time believing this killer isn’t Marvin Wendell. It sounds like him. It looks like him. I’ll grant you the fact that I only ever see him in the dark, but it’s pretty convincing. You know what isn’t convincing?”
Bill stared. Shrugged. “What?”
“That a man was burned alive but still managed to survive.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“What isn’t? Are you telling me he has some kind of healing capability?”
“Of course not.”
“Then how,” Mason pleaded, “how is Wendell still alive?”
Bill looked around at a couple of heads that started to turn. Flaring his nostrils—his telltale sign of stress—he stepped closer to Mason and lowered his voice. The shocking secret came out in a bare whisper, as if it wasn’t supposed to destroy the trust between them.
“I didn’t burn him,” he said.
Mason stepped back, stunned. If Bill hadn’t burned Wendell’s body, what else wasn’t true? “But you told me you did. You told me you took him to a junkyard, set him alight, then called the police in to close the case.”
“No.” Bill shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
“What the hell did you do?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Uncomplicate it.”
Bill wrapped his arms around his torso, providing only himself with comfort. “Look, I didn’t want the Homicide Department asking too many questions. We were too close to it. So rather than burning the body, I just buried it.”
“You have to be joking.” Mason fought the urge to strangle him. “Seriously?”
“It’s true.”
“Then the case has—”
“Gone cold. It was never reported. Legally speaking, Wendell is still alive out there.”
The bombshell hit him harder than he ever could have imagined. It opened whole new doorways of possibilities. All this time, he’d thought the Lullaby Killer was dead, when really it was quite possible he had crawled out of his grave and begun plotting his revenge. Now he was out there somewhere, somehow, with a whole new list of people to kill.
Mason wondered how long until someone he knew was on that list.