his thoughts were moving a bit more slowly than usual. He suddenly knew what was wrong with Sarah, what he should say when he got home, but the knowing expressed itself more as a lightness in his heart rather than an actionable, worded thought. When he saw the blood—the sight of a body always was good for a little surge of adrenaline, but despite the concurrence of all this brain activity, each thought stayed separate, rational, and symmetrical—he said, “Whoever did this must have stayed with the body for a bit.”
“I see six clean puncture holes all to the neck, but not much damage anywhere else. Doesn’t seem to be bleeding from the head.”
“Yeah, what the fuck. Where’s this ski pole?”
“Over by the fridge. It’s hardly bent at all.”
“That’s a trekking pole.”
“What?”
“A trekking pole.”
“What?”
“It’s used for hiking, not skiing. It’s a bit more rigid to support your weight as you go down hills.”
“Good lord.”
“How the fuck did they get these holes so clean? And why didn’t this kid struggle?”
“Those
CSI
-watching retards put the wallet back in his pocket.”
“Jesus.”
“All right. We have William Curren, account manager at getoverit.com, office phone 4156678282, cell phone blahblahblah. Credit cards, California driver’s license issued to this address, some cash, some other business cards, Caroline Sanders, associate at who cares, toothpick, no wallet photos, sandwich shop punch card …”
“No bloody footprints.”
“Noted. No black glove.”
“Anything else?”
“Fuck. Is it that time already?”
“Well, I don’t think there’s much else we can do here.”
“All right then, let’s go find the fucking Internet.”
THEY WENT DOWN to Cozy’s Kafe on Lombard. Kim tried to commandeer the pay-per-use Internet terminal from the woman at the desk. After five minutes of haggling, she agreed to let him use it as long as he bought two sandwiches.
William Curren had spread himself thick over the Internet. There was a Facebook account, a Myspace, a photo stream (90 percent of the photos involved outdoor activities), a Yelp account (reviews, mostly negative), and a blog entirely made up of links to eighties music videos. From his Yelp account, Kim and Finch learned Curren’s last meal had beenat Sun Fat, an order-by-picture Chinese dive down on Jackson Street that doubled as a Pinoy karaoke bar. He complained about the service and said his barbecue pork bun was “perfectly adequate,” adding, “That’s not a compliment.” From Facebook, they learned that he had grown up around Boston, gone to Tufts, and moved out to the Bay Area to work for getoverit.com, which, as far as they could tell, was some sort of scam. They couldn’t learn much from the comments on his wall, only that they hated his friends. After more Googling, they found his thisiswhereIbe account, a service that allowed you to “check in” wherever you went. Over the past four days, William, who seemed to go by Bill, had checked into the Secret Smoke Spot on 4th and Minna, the Blasted Shields Pub on 5th and Mission, Blue Tangerine on 18th and Valencia (“The almond cheese on the nachos is bomb.”), Limon on 23rd and South Van Ness, Starbelly on Market and 16th (“service is slow, but hot!”), the 7-Eleven on Sanchez and 18th (“;-)”), and, finally, Sun Fat on Jackson.
Kim said, “You know what? I’m glad this kid’s last meal was so shitty. You fucking white people. You go into a nice, cheap establishment where they let you get rice and chicken, hot and sour soup, and fucking egg rolls for four dollars and you complain because they won’t look you in the eye? And why did he write it as a fucking haiku?”
“He put a picture of Lion-O from
ThunderCats
as his profile pic.”
“Lion-O was black, don’t you think?”
“Let’s not do this now.”
“Okay, but think about it. He was like a big black gay man.”
“Jesus.”
“Who the fuck is Richard
“I see six clean puncture holes all to the neck, but not much damage anywhere else. Doesn’t seem to be bleeding from the head.”
“Yeah, what the fuck. Where’s this ski pole?”
“Over by the fridge. It’s hardly bent at all.”
“That’s a trekking pole.”
“What?”
“A trekking pole.”
“What?”
“It’s used for hiking, not skiing. It’s a bit more rigid to support your weight as you go down hills.”
“Good lord.”
“How the fuck did they get these holes so clean? And why didn’t this kid struggle?”
“Those
CSI
-watching retards put the wallet back in his pocket.”
“Jesus.”
“All right. We have William Curren, account manager at getoverit.com, office phone 4156678282, cell phone blahblahblah. Credit cards, California driver’s license issued to this address, some cash, some other business cards, Caroline Sanders, associate at who cares, toothpick, no wallet photos, sandwich shop punch card …”
“No bloody footprints.”
“Noted. No black glove.”
“Anything else?”
“Fuck. Is it that time already?”
“Well, I don’t think there’s much else we can do here.”
“All right then, let’s go find the fucking Internet.”
THEY WENT DOWN to Cozy’s Kafe on Lombard. Kim tried to commandeer the pay-per-use Internet terminal from the woman at the desk. After five minutes of haggling, she agreed to let him use it as long as he bought two sandwiches.
William Curren had spread himself thick over the Internet. There was a Facebook account, a Myspace, a photo stream (90 percent of the photos involved outdoor activities), a Yelp account (reviews, mostly negative), and a blog entirely made up of links to eighties music videos. From his Yelp account, Kim and Finch learned Curren’s last meal had beenat Sun Fat, an order-by-picture Chinese dive down on Jackson Street that doubled as a Pinoy karaoke bar. He complained about the service and said his barbecue pork bun was “perfectly adequate,” adding, “That’s not a compliment.” From Facebook, they learned that he had grown up around Boston, gone to Tufts, and moved out to the Bay Area to work for getoverit.com, which, as far as they could tell, was some sort of scam. They couldn’t learn much from the comments on his wall, only that they hated his friends. After more Googling, they found his thisiswhereIbe account, a service that allowed you to “check in” wherever you went. Over the past four days, William, who seemed to go by Bill, had checked into the Secret Smoke Spot on 4th and Minna, the Blasted Shields Pub on 5th and Mission, Blue Tangerine on 18th and Valencia (“The almond cheese on the nachos is bomb.”), Limon on 23rd and South Van Ness, Starbelly on Market and 16th (“service is slow, but hot!”), the 7-Eleven on Sanchez and 18th (“;-)”), and, finally, Sun Fat on Jackson.
Kim said, “You know what? I’m glad this kid’s last meal was so shitty. You fucking white people. You go into a nice, cheap establishment where they let you get rice and chicken, hot and sour soup, and fucking egg rolls for four dollars and you complain because they won’t look you in the eye? And why did he write it as a fucking haiku?”
“He put a picture of Lion-O from
ThunderCats
as his profile pic.”
“Lion-O was black, don’t you think?”
“Let’s not do this now.”
“Okay, but think about it. He was like a big black gay man.”
“Jesus.”
“Who the fuck is Richard
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