A Time for Secrets by marshall thornton

resume.
    “How many people did you tell when you were Christian’s age?” Harker asked me.
    I could have asked how many people Harker had told by the time he was forty, but I decided not to be mean or, at least, meaner than I was already being.
    “Point taken.”
    Christian crossed his bare legs and tilted his pretty little head. “Do I really have to tell people I’m gay? I think it’s pretty obvious.” And he was right; despite the East Coast prep school image he attempted to project, it was very obvious. At least, if you knew what to look for.
    “Never underestimate a heterosexual’s ability to deny we exist,” I said.
    Christian blushed. “So, if I go down there and tell them I’m gay will you give me an interview?”
    I shook my head. “No. I don’t care what you do. I just wanted to talk about something other than my giving you an interview.”
    He frowned. “I’m persistent, I know. Some people call that rude.” When I didn’t jump in and correct him, he added, “Would you at least think about it?”
    “I think about a lot of things.”
    He smiled and said, “You guys are a really great couple. I admire you both.”
    I took a mouthful of fried rice and wondered why the sudden change of subject.
    “Thank you, that’s sweet,” Harker said.
    Christian flushed then said, “Bert and I were talking about the van.”
    “Good for you,” I said. It had taken him twenty whole seconds to get back to talking about the Slasher. Complimenting our couplehood was some kind of feint.
    “What do you think about Bert’s van theory?” he asked me.
    I had no idea what he was talking about, and my curiosity was piqued. “What do you think about Bert’s van theory?” I asked to avoid answering.
    “I think it’s pretty brilliant.”
    I was hoping Christian would tip a little more of what Harker’s theory actually was. I turned and stared at Harker. For a moment I thought he might be having too much fun at my expense to actually explain his theory, but then he began, “I’m assuming the Slasher lives within five miles of the area in which he’s dumped the bodies. I mapped that area, and I’ve been calling body shops to see if anyone repainted a white Chevy van in August, September, or October of last year.”
    “There are a lot of assumptions there,” I said, even though it wasn’t a bad theory. “What if he lives six miles from the body dump zone? What if he chose a body shop five miles in the other direction from where he lives? What if he painted the van himself?”
    “Those are all possibilities,” he acknowledged. “If my initial search doesn’t yield anything interesting, then I’ll expand it.”
    “What if he lives in Milwaukee and drives down?” I suggested.
    “He doesn’t,” Harker said confidently. “If he did, the murders would take place on the weekends and holidays when it would be more convenient for him to drive down.”
    If there was any doubt in my mind what this conversation was really about, it was answered by the rapt look on Christian’s face. Harker was flirting by talking murder to the boy and doing a damn good job of it.
    “Why not just get a list of every Chevy van in Chicago?” Christian wondered. “I know there are probably thousands, but if you focus on the five-mile area…”
    “Connors has already done that. Didn’t come up with much,” Harker said.
    Christian chewed on his lip in an obvious way. I wanted to slap him.
    “It’s not a registered vehicle,” I said, “or at least it’s not registered in Illinois.”
    “How do you know that?” Harker asked.
    “Because the Slasher is smart. He’s known from the beginning you’d eventually be looking for the van. He’s made sure you can’t find it.”
    “So, you think all of this is pointless?”
    “Not at all,” I said. “There’s a van. It exists, so it can be found. The question is how. How has he screwed up?”
    “Don’t most serial killers want to be caught?” Christian asked, quoting