hadn’t touched the knife.
As he pocketed his phone, Mark thought about his parents’ house at Lake Ray Hubbard. He wasn’t going to spy on the person whose prints were on the knife and try to catch him committing murder. He would torture this bastard until he confessed to killing Helen. And then he would kill him.
When Mark came home, Joan was in the living room reading a book.
“Hi, honey,” Mark said.
“Hi.”
“Where’s the knife?”
“In the study.” Joan put the book on the coffee table and rose from the couch.
“Did Chuck call today?”
“No.”
When they went into the study, Joan pointed at the yellow bubble mailer on the desk and said, “It’s in the envelope.”
Mark took a pair of latex gloves from the bottom desk drawer, slipped them on, and looked inside the mailer. Joan stood beside him, watching. He could smell her perfume; it was Paloma Picasso, her favorite fragrance. There was a plastic zipper bag in the envelope, which contained a kitchen knife with a black handle. He got the bag out, opened it, and pulled out the knife.
There were brown stains on both sides of the blade. The thought that it might be his daughter’s blood turned Mark’s stomach.
“Is it blood?” Joan asked.
“It could be blood.”
Mark stared at the knife as if hypnotized.
This knife might be the knife that had pierced Helen’s heart. The knife that had cut open her stomach.
His arms broke out in gooseflesh.
Mark measured the blade with a ruler and found that it was six inches long. The deepest wound in Helen’s body was six inches deep.
It’s not a hoax. This is the knife used to kill Helen.
From the top drawer, he retrieved a DNA collection swab, which he had brought from work two days ago. He dampened the swab with tap water, then rubbed it over one of the larger stains on the blade and placed it in a storage envelope.
“Are you taking the swab to a lab tomorrow?” Joan laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Yes.”
“When will the results be ready?”
“Thursday.”
Joan watched him for a few more seconds and then walked out of the room.
Mark put the knife in a plastic evidence bag and then examined the bubble mailer. The sender’s name was Chuck Smith, and the sender’s address was 1094 Lakeland Drive, Dallas, TX 75218. Mark entered the address into Google Maps and discovered that it was bogus. That did not surprise him at all. The name was probably bogus, too. Both the sender’s and the recipient’s names and both of their addresses were printed, not handwritten.
“Chuck” had taken all the usual precautions to protect his anonymity. And he might even have made sure to leave no fingerprints on the mailer and the plastic bag the knife had been in.
Mark picked up the knife and studied it for about three minutes before admitting to himself that he had no idea how to prove that the fingerprints—assuming there were any—had gotten on the knife during Helen’s murder.
As they sat in the living room watching TV, Joan asked him if he was going to turn the knife over to the police.
“I haven’t made up my mind yet,” Mark said.
“Are you going to dust it for prints yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t give it to the police if the fingerprints don’t belong to Phillips. I think it will be impossible to get a conviction.”
Their eyes met.
“We have to take care of this ourselves,” Joan said.
They sat in silence for a moment, then Mark said, “Do you want me to kill him?”
“Yes. And I’ll help you.”
Mark nodded. “Okay, I’ll do it.”
He felt a surge of adrenaline. He couldn’t wait to beat Helen’s killer to death, to see terror in his eyes, to hear him scream in pain.
Chapter 17
1
“They discovered a cure for cancer a long time ago, but they don’t want us to know about it. You know why?”
The guy’s name was Tony. He was young, no older than thirty. He had come to Beacon Cancer Center with his father, who had Stage II prostate cancer.
“Why?”
As he pocketed his phone, Mark thought about his parents’ house at Lake Ray Hubbard. He wasn’t going to spy on the person whose prints were on the knife and try to catch him committing murder. He would torture this bastard until he confessed to killing Helen. And then he would kill him.
When Mark came home, Joan was in the living room reading a book.
“Hi, honey,” Mark said.
“Hi.”
“Where’s the knife?”
“In the study.” Joan put the book on the coffee table and rose from the couch.
“Did Chuck call today?”
“No.”
When they went into the study, Joan pointed at the yellow bubble mailer on the desk and said, “It’s in the envelope.”
Mark took a pair of latex gloves from the bottom desk drawer, slipped them on, and looked inside the mailer. Joan stood beside him, watching. He could smell her perfume; it was Paloma Picasso, her favorite fragrance. There was a plastic zipper bag in the envelope, which contained a kitchen knife with a black handle. He got the bag out, opened it, and pulled out the knife.
There were brown stains on both sides of the blade. The thought that it might be his daughter’s blood turned Mark’s stomach.
“Is it blood?” Joan asked.
“It could be blood.”
Mark stared at the knife as if hypnotized.
This knife might be the knife that had pierced Helen’s heart. The knife that had cut open her stomach.
His arms broke out in gooseflesh.
Mark measured the blade with a ruler and found that it was six inches long. The deepest wound in Helen’s body was six inches deep.
It’s not a hoax. This is the knife used to kill Helen.
From the top drawer, he retrieved a DNA collection swab, which he had brought from work two days ago. He dampened the swab with tap water, then rubbed it over one of the larger stains on the blade and placed it in a storage envelope.
“Are you taking the swab to a lab tomorrow?” Joan laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Yes.”
“When will the results be ready?”
“Thursday.”
Joan watched him for a few more seconds and then walked out of the room.
Mark put the knife in a plastic evidence bag and then examined the bubble mailer. The sender’s name was Chuck Smith, and the sender’s address was 1094 Lakeland Drive, Dallas, TX 75218. Mark entered the address into Google Maps and discovered that it was bogus. That did not surprise him at all. The name was probably bogus, too. Both the sender’s and the recipient’s names and both of their addresses were printed, not handwritten.
“Chuck” had taken all the usual precautions to protect his anonymity. And he might even have made sure to leave no fingerprints on the mailer and the plastic bag the knife had been in.
Mark picked up the knife and studied it for about three minutes before admitting to himself that he had no idea how to prove that the fingerprints—assuming there were any—had gotten on the knife during Helen’s murder.
As they sat in the living room watching TV, Joan asked him if he was going to turn the knife over to the police.
“I haven’t made up my mind yet,” Mark said.
“Are you going to dust it for prints yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t give it to the police if the fingerprints don’t belong to Phillips. I think it will be impossible to get a conviction.”
Their eyes met.
“We have to take care of this ourselves,” Joan said.
They sat in silence for a moment, then Mark said, “Do you want me to kill him?”
“Yes. And I’ll help you.”
Mark nodded. “Okay, I’ll do it.”
He felt a surge of adrenaline. He couldn’t wait to beat Helen’s killer to death, to see terror in his eyes, to hear him scream in pain.
Chapter 17
1
“They discovered a cure for cancer a long time ago, but they don’t want us to know about it. You know why?”
The guy’s name was Tony. He was young, no older than thirty. He had come to Beacon Cancer Center with his father, who had Stage II prostate cancer.
“Why?”
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