He’d never had himself down as a rubbernecker. The others he’d slain and left, glad to get away despite the compulsion to stay and adorn the settings in the chosen pattern. He’d enjoyed the act of getting away without detection and picking up the threads of his ordinary, if privileged, life. Yet, here he was, watching law enforcement go about its business. He had a vantage point few knew about. He’d discovered it on a reconnaissance visit and it was here he’d returned to when he could keep away no longer. He could still smell the soap he’d used to scrub himself clean. He’d needed the shower as the killing had proved distressingly gory. Perhaps not as much as number three, but he could not stand the smell of burnt flesh clinging to his body. Even this far, when the wind took an ill turn, he caught whiffs from the body in the distance.
He’d disposed of his clothes from the previous night by burying them in the copse behind his house. It was a dank, unimaginative place. As houses had gone up in the neighbourhood, the arc of new roads had circled the clump of trees, developers too wary of the deep roots and watery pit to concrete over the patch. He would have liked to have kept the clothes. For the others he had simply washed what he was wearing at the highest setting, hoping the boiling eradicated any forensic evidence. But no amount of washing would rid them of that smell.
He wondered why he’d been so set on the burning. Any form of killing would have done. The pattern, as he’d suspected, had not been noticed and the flames had only served to bring himself into danger. He was, however, enjoying the puzzlement of law enforcement as they measured, photographed and pondered the site. He was also nearing the end and now was the time to show his cards a little more. There would be no satisfaction without a little reveal towards the conclusion.
He recognised the detectives, Baros and Perez. The pair were well known in Jericho even if they weren’t particularly competent. The woman with the flame-red hair was also familiar, but he couldn’t, from this distance, place her. He focused on a slight figure, probably a woman, making notes on a clipboard or notebook. She wasn’t wearing the white overalls of the CSI team; probably a consulting expert hoping to make her mark by helping solve the case. He was so nearly there now it made no difference. He had nothing to concern himself with, but still he watched.
Sometimes, the women’s ghosts came to visit him at night. He’d awoken the previous week with the familiar shape of number one, her face featureless as it had been that fateful night. He’d turned on the light and there had been no one there. His imagination was proving trickier to control than the women concerned.