trick."
"Morry?"
"Charles Morrison. He's a reporter at the Times, and he's kind of my mentor. He has more tricks than Houdini."
"Sounds like a good guy to have on your side."
"He is."
They sat there for a moment, in an awkward silence, and Marcus knew he had to move on to his next question. "What about Detective Ash?"
John looked at Marcus sideways . "What about her?"
"Well , I saw the two of you talking yesterday on your front lawn."
John leaned forward, placed his hands flat on the table.
"And?"
"What's your take on her ? What does she bring to the investigation?"
" What kind of lame-ass question is that?" John said. "That's like those stupid reporters who ask the lady who just lost everything in a tornado, 'How do you feel about losing everything in a tornado?' If it were me, I'd punch that reporter in the face and then stand over him while blood gushes from his nose and say, 'I just lost everything I ever had, how the fuck do you think I feel?'"
Marcus just stared at John.
"I'm sorry. Why do you want to know about Detective Ash, and why would you think I have the slightest idea what she brings to the investigation?"
Marcus listened to the doctor 's questions and noticed his eyes drift slightly upward to the right, a sign of remembering an image, when questioned about how he would know anything about the detective.
There's something there . Morry would clamp his hand on my shoulder and say, see that—there it is.
So Marcus leaned forward, sliding his coffee cup out of the way, looking John right in the eye and said, "I plan to keep writing about this investigation. But I don't plan on focusing on the killer and just the facts about the killings. I want to cover the people—from the victims to the mothers, to the neighbors, to the suspects, to the investigative team and the mayor. Everyone who is anyone in this chaos is fair game. I want to skin this story and lay it bare for all to see. I want it to be an all-encompassing, lives-that-have-been changed, six-degrees-to-Kevin-Bacon sort of story."
Actually Marcus had no idea what he was writing about and everything that just came out of his mouth was pure bullshit that he'd just made up on the spot . All he really wanted to do was make his editor happy and get a story in on time.
John's reaction to the reporter's soliloquy was to fold his arms across his chest, lean back in his chair, and ask, "Six degrees of what?"
Marcus wasn't getting off to a great start.
***
After the meeting they said their good-byes and agreed to possibly meet again. John left it open as to whether he might answer more questions, but he was pessimistic about what new questions Marcus might come up with. Would any of them exonerate him from being in the wrong place, at the wrong time? From trying to kill himself, for God's sake? As he watched him walk away from his house, John felt a sense of brotherly pride for Marcus. He reminded John of when he was a struggling student trying to absorb the fascinating world of medicine. He would corner his professors in the halls with limitless questions, which frustrated some professors, but engaged others. John didn't care, he just wanted the information. His mother had taken to calling him "The Sponge" whenever she was talking with Paulette. It was an inside joke they shared, and although he never admitted it, he somewhat liked the nickname. Marcus was another sponge, and John wanted to help him, so if talking more about the case would help Marcus, he would do it.
Early Sunday morning, John read through some of the serial murder books, taking notes. It wasn't until that afternoon that he noticed the three business cards again. He picked up Megan's and reread the note she'd written on the back. His mind flashed back to the hallway and how he felt her hand brush against his thigh and how her hips swung when she walked. It was time to make another phone call.
CHAPTER 24
It was Sunday morning and Megan made
"Morry?"
"Charles Morrison. He's a reporter at the Times, and he's kind of my mentor. He has more tricks than Houdini."
"Sounds like a good guy to have on your side."
"He is."
They sat there for a moment, in an awkward silence, and Marcus knew he had to move on to his next question. "What about Detective Ash?"
John looked at Marcus sideways . "What about her?"
"Well , I saw the two of you talking yesterday on your front lawn."
John leaned forward, placed his hands flat on the table.
"And?"
"What's your take on her ? What does she bring to the investigation?"
" What kind of lame-ass question is that?" John said. "That's like those stupid reporters who ask the lady who just lost everything in a tornado, 'How do you feel about losing everything in a tornado?' If it were me, I'd punch that reporter in the face and then stand over him while blood gushes from his nose and say, 'I just lost everything I ever had, how the fuck do you think I feel?'"
Marcus just stared at John.
"I'm sorry. Why do you want to know about Detective Ash, and why would you think I have the slightest idea what she brings to the investigation?"
Marcus listened to the doctor 's questions and noticed his eyes drift slightly upward to the right, a sign of remembering an image, when questioned about how he would know anything about the detective.
There's something there . Morry would clamp his hand on my shoulder and say, see that—there it is.
So Marcus leaned forward, sliding his coffee cup out of the way, looking John right in the eye and said, "I plan to keep writing about this investigation. But I don't plan on focusing on the killer and just the facts about the killings. I want to cover the people—from the victims to the mothers, to the neighbors, to the suspects, to the investigative team and the mayor. Everyone who is anyone in this chaos is fair game. I want to skin this story and lay it bare for all to see. I want it to be an all-encompassing, lives-that-have-been changed, six-degrees-to-Kevin-Bacon sort of story."
Actually Marcus had no idea what he was writing about and everything that just came out of his mouth was pure bullshit that he'd just made up on the spot . All he really wanted to do was make his editor happy and get a story in on time.
John's reaction to the reporter's soliloquy was to fold his arms across his chest, lean back in his chair, and ask, "Six degrees of what?"
Marcus wasn't getting off to a great start.
***
After the meeting they said their good-byes and agreed to possibly meet again. John left it open as to whether he might answer more questions, but he was pessimistic about what new questions Marcus might come up with. Would any of them exonerate him from being in the wrong place, at the wrong time? From trying to kill himself, for God's sake? As he watched him walk away from his house, John felt a sense of brotherly pride for Marcus. He reminded John of when he was a struggling student trying to absorb the fascinating world of medicine. He would corner his professors in the halls with limitless questions, which frustrated some professors, but engaged others. John didn't care, he just wanted the information. His mother had taken to calling him "The Sponge" whenever she was talking with Paulette. It was an inside joke they shared, and although he never admitted it, he somewhat liked the nickname. Marcus was another sponge, and John wanted to help him, so if talking more about the case would help Marcus, he would do it.
Early Sunday morning, John read through some of the serial murder books, taking notes. It wasn't until that afternoon that he noticed the three business cards again. He picked up Megan's and reread the note she'd written on the back. His mind flashed back to the hallway and how he felt her hand brush against his thigh and how her hips swung when she walked. It was time to make another phone call.
CHAPTER 24
It was Sunday morning and Megan made
Similar Books
