signs.”
Warren looked at Walker, who
was staring at his own fist. He exchanged a helpless glance with
Warren, then got back to business.
“Did you find anything
interesting?” Warren urged, coaxed even. “Feel free. Please. The
Sheriff is coming out some shark’s ass right about now.”
“Yeah!” the examiner blurted, a
little ashamed of his enthusiasm. “Yeah! You’re right. I’m free!
Free! To perform deductions, inductive reasoning—” seized with the
moment, the examiner grabbed Warren by the shoulders “—syllogisms;
to follow intuition, assumptions, even—oh my god, even theories!
Free!”
The examiner fell back from
Walker, placing his hand on one of the cold, dead tits for support.
He caught his breath, composed himself before the stunned FBI
agents, and took control. “Well, then, okay, besides the
signs—y’know, The Signs—I did find this tag.”
The examiner held up a minute
fragment of non-descript cloth with a piece of tweezers. Warren
strained to make out anything of value on the tiny patch of fabric,
then shrugged, unable to even verify it was a ‘tag.’ Something had
once been written on it, sure.
“This, good sir,” the examiner
explained, “is the tag from a man’s underwear band. Fraying, old,
nasty underwear—underwear that’s been worn and washed for years,
despite being purchased from the bargain bin at a K-Mart.”
“K-Mart?” Walker inquired.
“Yes, no doubt. Now, the bimbo
put up a fight—I’d say she put a lot of work into that body and she
wasn’t gonna let it go easy. In the struggle, scritch! Off comes
part of the killer’s underwear. He probably sustained a wedgie,
very mild—I’m sure he had no trouble walking, even running away. In
fact, if this underwear was as nasty and frayed as I suspect, it
may also have been so loose and hole-ridden that it scarcely wedged
at all, for practical purposes. May have even been a vaguely
pleasurable wedging. At any rate, she got the tag off and he didn’t
notice. If he did, he’d think—much as you did—that it was a
meaningless fragment. It looks meaningless. But I took the liberty
of scrutinizing the fibres individually and performed a statistical
analysis on the likelihood of the letters of the alphabet matching
each pattern of inking. It so happens, it’s highly likely that the
tag once read, before all the wearing and relatively infrequent
washing over the years, ‘Kevin Costner.’”
“Costner?” Warren asked,
wondering what quackery he’d just permitted. “The film star?”
“Well, probably not,” the
examiner said, at last putting the dramatically tweezed fragment
back into an evidence bag—and not his turkey sandwich bag, as he’d
done yesterday. “There’s actually a Kevin Costner locally. A
Mexican chap. He was running the swim competition. As though he
invited swarms of busty, young women with taut bodies—eager to get
wet—to invade Shakatitt Beach. Nothing suspicious about that,
right?”
“Costner, eh?” Walker chimed
in. “His performance in The Mothman Prophecies brought me
immense joy.”
“That was Richard Gere,” Warren
argued. “Great film, though.”
“Really? Then what was Costner
in?”
“You’re thinking of Dragonfly .”
“Oh…” Walker realized,
reluctantly, his partner was quite correct. “I didn’t care for Dragonfly . So it was Gere in Mr. Brooks ?”
“No, no, that was Costner.
Playing a serial killer, as it happens. Indeed, maybe we should pay
this Mexikevin Costner a little visit. If he offers coffee, Walker,
we accept. But this visit will not be a social visit. It’ll be an
investigative one.”
Chapter 24
Foul Balls
“I’m glad I came,” Edwina told
Reynolds. “For a few moments, I forgot a shark ate my best friend
today.”
She truly had. Yet, the
conviction Mila’s death had brought her had never left her mind.
Not a legal conviction, but an ethical one. She had spent so much
of her life bouncing from one zany idea to
Warren looked at Walker, who
was staring at his own fist. He exchanged a helpless glance with
Warren, then got back to business.
“Did you find anything
interesting?” Warren urged, coaxed even. “Feel free. Please. The
Sheriff is coming out some shark’s ass right about now.”
“Yeah!” the examiner blurted, a
little ashamed of his enthusiasm. “Yeah! You’re right. I’m free!
Free! To perform deductions, inductive reasoning—” seized with the
moment, the examiner grabbed Warren by the shoulders “—syllogisms;
to follow intuition, assumptions, even—oh my god, even theories!
Free!”
The examiner fell back from
Walker, placing his hand on one of the cold, dead tits for support.
He caught his breath, composed himself before the stunned FBI
agents, and took control. “Well, then, okay, besides the
signs—y’know, The Signs—I did find this tag.”
The examiner held up a minute
fragment of non-descript cloth with a piece of tweezers. Warren
strained to make out anything of value on the tiny patch of fabric,
then shrugged, unable to even verify it was a ‘tag.’ Something had
once been written on it, sure.
“This, good sir,” the examiner
explained, “is the tag from a man’s underwear band. Fraying, old,
nasty underwear—underwear that’s been worn and washed for years,
despite being purchased from the bargain bin at a K-Mart.”
“K-Mart?” Walker inquired.
“Yes, no doubt. Now, the bimbo
put up a fight—I’d say she put a lot of work into that body and she
wasn’t gonna let it go easy. In the struggle, scritch! Off comes
part of the killer’s underwear. He probably sustained a wedgie,
very mild—I’m sure he had no trouble walking, even running away. In
fact, if this underwear was as nasty and frayed as I suspect, it
may also have been so loose and hole-ridden that it scarcely wedged
at all, for practical purposes. May have even been a vaguely
pleasurable wedging. At any rate, she got the tag off and he didn’t
notice. If he did, he’d think—much as you did—that it was a
meaningless fragment. It looks meaningless. But I took the liberty
of scrutinizing the fibres individually and performed a statistical
analysis on the likelihood of the letters of the alphabet matching
each pattern of inking. It so happens, it’s highly likely that the
tag once read, before all the wearing and relatively infrequent
washing over the years, ‘Kevin Costner.’”
“Costner?” Warren asked,
wondering what quackery he’d just permitted. “The film star?”
“Well, probably not,” the
examiner said, at last putting the dramatically tweezed fragment
back into an evidence bag—and not his turkey sandwich bag, as he’d
done yesterday. “There’s actually a Kevin Costner locally. A
Mexican chap. He was running the swim competition. As though he
invited swarms of busty, young women with taut bodies—eager to get
wet—to invade Shakatitt Beach. Nothing suspicious about that,
right?”
“Costner, eh?” Walker chimed
in. “His performance in The Mothman Prophecies brought me
immense joy.”
“That was Richard Gere,” Warren
argued. “Great film, though.”
“Really? Then what was Costner
in?”
“You’re thinking of Dragonfly .”
“Oh…” Walker realized,
reluctantly, his partner was quite correct. “I didn’t care for Dragonfly . So it was Gere in Mr. Brooks ?”
“No, no, that was Costner.
Playing a serial killer, as it happens. Indeed, maybe we should pay
this Mexikevin Costner a little visit. If he offers coffee, Walker,
we accept. But this visit will not be a social visit. It’ll be an
investigative one.”
Chapter 24
Foul Balls
“I’m glad I came,” Edwina told
Reynolds. “For a few moments, I forgot a shark ate my best friend
today.”
She truly had. Yet, the
conviction Mila’s death had brought her had never left her mind.
Not a legal conviction, but an ethical one. She had spent so much
of her life bouncing from one zany idea to
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