think we got the son of the bitch.”
Lankford pressed PLAY. The image on screen showed a lone male, longish hair, making his way back toward the restrooms. “He never comes out. The girls were already in there.”
“Did it capture his image earlier?”
“Still checking, but it looks like he was sitting in the camera’s blind spot at the bar. We’re going to be grilling everybody about who was sitting where, and when. I’m sure we’ll have a description within a few hours. I’ll make sure you get it to your contact.”
“Thanks,” Dark said.
Lankford looked to the side, then back at Dark. “Look, I know I’m not supposed to ask—but who the hell are you with, anyway? And why the interest in this?”
“That’s a good question,” Dark said. “I wish I could give you an answer.”
Lankford nodded slightly. “Fair enough.”
Dark asked if he could spend some time with this videotape—it could help him fix on the scene. The investigator said he didn’t see a problem with that. Especially with the kind of credentials he was holding.
Though he hadn’t slept at all during the past twenty-three hours, Dark settled in to examine the footage. This killer was probably too smart to show his face, but there were plenty of other ways to identify someone. He hit the REWIND button.
“We have him.”
The voice jolted Dark from his reverie. For the past two hours he’d watched the videotaped bar footage, repeatedly, to the point where the real world faded away and Dark felt like he was actually sitting inside the bar. He could smell the cigarette smoke—outlawed, but nobody was going to say shit to anybody. He could hear the soul music on the jukebox. He could feel the ancient stool groaning under his weight; the condensation rings of the beer on the bar top.
And he watched the same man leave his seat at the bar and walk back to the ladies’ room, again—
And again.
And again.
How long did you plan this?
You had to have planned this. The ropes, the locked door, the quick, methodical way you took them out, bang bang bang , until they were yours.
Was it this bar, or was it the women?
How long had you been watching them? Who were they to you?
Why three of them? Were they snubbing you? Did they flick their hair, turn their pretty noses up at you? Tease you with the way their sleek dresses hung to their curves?
Why did you keep the three cocktail glasses in their hands? Are you trying to tell us they were lushes, that they deserved this?
The voice behind Dark had brought him back to reality. Which was just as well. He couldn’t hang around here forever. The clock was ticking; Special Circs could be on the scene at any moment.
“His name’s Jason Beckerman. Construction worker up from Baltimore,” Lankford said. “We put it together from a bunch of patrons. Someone chatted him up about union stuff. Another identified a tattoo, and someone else noticed what he was wearing. Didn’t take long.”
“Is he in custody?” Dark asked.
“Yeah. We found him sleeping it off in his apartment. No sign of the clothes he’d been wearing in the bar. Wherever they are, they’ve gotta be soaked with blood, so no wonder he ditched them. The techs are going through the apartment now, and he’s being grilled in the box down at the station. You want to observe?”
Dark nodded. “Let’s go.”
chapter 24
Johnny Knack stood outside the sports bar, cold wind whipping at his body, wondering if the tip was real or somebody’s idea of a joke.
The tipster claimed to be a member of the Philly PD’s homicide squad, and was a fan of his work. (Lie #1, right there. The tipster wouldn’t be doing this unless it benefited him somehow.) He said that he’d been called to the scene of a weird triple homicide that he thought was just like the killings Knack had been writing about. (Lie #2, most likely. The tipster was trying to sound working-class, loquacious. Homicide cops considered themselves neither.)
So
Lankford pressed PLAY. The image on screen showed a lone male, longish hair, making his way back toward the restrooms. “He never comes out. The girls were already in there.”
“Did it capture his image earlier?”
“Still checking, but it looks like he was sitting in the camera’s blind spot at the bar. We’re going to be grilling everybody about who was sitting where, and when. I’m sure we’ll have a description within a few hours. I’ll make sure you get it to your contact.”
“Thanks,” Dark said.
Lankford looked to the side, then back at Dark. “Look, I know I’m not supposed to ask—but who the hell are you with, anyway? And why the interest in this?”
“That’s a good question,” Dark said. “I wish I could give you an answer.”
Lankford nodded slightly. “Fair enough.”
Dark asked if he could spend some time with this videotape—it could help him fix on the scene. The investigator said he didn’t see a problem with that. Especially with the kind of credentials he was holding.
Though he hadn’t slept at all during the past twenty-three hours, Dark settled in to examine the footage. This killer was probably too smart to show his face, but there were plenty of other ways to identify someone. He hit the REWIND button.
“We have him.”
The voice jolted Dark from his reverie. For the past two hours he’d watched the videotaped bar footage, repeatedly, to the point where the real world faded away and Dark felt like he was actually sitting inside the bar. He could smell the cigarette smoke—outlawed, but nobody was going to say shit to anybody. He could hear the soul music on the jukebox. He could feel the ancient stool groaning under his weight; the condensation rings of the beer on the bar top.
And he watched the same man leave his seat at the bar and walk back to the ladies’ room, again—
And again.
And again.
How long did you plan this?
You had to have planned this. The ropes, the locked door, the quick, methodical way you took them out, bang bang bang , until they were yours.
Was it this bar, or was it the women?
How long had you been watching them? Who were they to you?
Why three of them? Were they snubbing you? Did they flick their hair, turn their pretty noses up at you? Tease you with the way their sleek dresses hung to their curves?
Why did you keep the three cocktail glasses in their hands? Are you trying to tell us they were lushes, that they deserved this?
The voice behind Dark had brought him back to reality. Which was just as well. He couldn’t hang around here forever. The clock was ticking; Special Circs could be on the scene at any moment.
“His name’s Jason Beckerman. Construction worker up from Baltimore,” Lankford said. “We put it together from a bunch of patrons. Someone chatted him up about union stuff. Another identified a tattoo, and someone else noticed what he was wearing. Didn’t take long.”
“Is he in custody?” Dark asked.
“Yeah. We found him sleeping it off in his apartment. No sign of the clothes he’d been wearing in the bar. Wherever they are, they’ve gotta be soaked with blood, so no wonder he ditched them. The techs are going through the apartment now, and he’s being grilled in the box down at the station. You want to observe?”
Dark nodded. “Let’s go.”
chapter 24
Johnny Knack stood outside the sports bar, cold wind whipping at his body, wondering if the tip was real or somebody’s idea of a joke.
The tipster claimed to be a member of the Philly PD’s homicide squad, and was a fan of his work. (Lie #1, right there. The tipster wouldn’t be doing this unless it benefited him somehow.) He said that he’d been called to the scene of a weird triple homicide that he thought was just like the killings Knack had been writing about. (Lie #2, most likely. The tipster was trying to sound working-class, loquacious. Homicide cops considered themselves neither.)
So
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