remodeled into expensive lofts and efficiencies. Only two apartments appeared lit in the whole building. She made a mental note of the night owls or early birds, whichever the case might be. Copeland’s side of the street was lined with refur-bished apartments, all very similar to his. Some had single-car garages, but they were all too close to the street to have a driveway. Narrow alleys ran between the buildings, just wide enough for garbage cans. Low-powered streetlamps lit each of the alleys, except for one—the one directly across the street.
96
James Grippando
Curious, Victoria took a flashlight from her car and crossed over.
It was uphill to the other side, and the sidewalk put her at eye level with the top of Copeland’s doorframe. She glanced at the streetlamp overhead, but it was impossible to tell whether it had been tampered with or had simply burned out. She shined the flashlight down the dark alley.
Trash cans lined either side, but the thing she noticed most was the continuing incline as the alley grew deeper.
She glanced back at Copeland’s town house, then stepped slowly into the alley, walking uphill.
The alley grew darker with each click of her heel, but the beam from her flashlight pointed the way. A small stream of water trickled in the gutter at her feet, racing toward the street. Gravity grabbed her as the grade grew steeper. She passed a cluster of trash cans, then stopped and turned around. It was like looking out of a tunnel—a telescope was more like it—right at eye level with Copeland’s second story. She could see directly into the upstairs bedroom in which he’d perished.
With the flashlight she searched the ground around her. The cracked cement was wet, but she noticed several black dots that hadn’t quite washed away. She got on one knee for a closer look. It was hard to tell, but it looked as if someone had crushed out a few cigarettes. A few swipes of the flashlight confirmed her guess. A soggy cigarette butt lay in the gutter, next to the trash can.
Someone had been standing there having a smoke. Jeffrey Dahmer was a chain-smoker, she suddenly recalled. She rose slowly and gazed back at Copeland’s bedroom.
97
THE INFORMANT
He’d watched from right here, she realized. The killer had stalked him.
In a split second she shot from the alley and was jogging back across the street. She wanted to turn the bedroom lights on, then return to the alley to see what the killer might have seen. She tossed the flashlight into her car, then retrieved the house key and went inside.
The door closed behind her with a hollow echo.
Strange, she thought, the way the ear always knew when there was no one home. She switched on the brass chan-delier in the foyer, then headed upstairs on the Oriental runner. She moved quickly at first, then slower, until she stopped completely at the top of the stairs. The pictures on the wall made her feel like an intruder—stark reminders that this had been a home before it was a crime scene.
From the amount of carnage, she figured the police had arrived expecting to find two gay men with a plentiful supply of whips and chains on the premises. Copeland and his partner had been effectively married for the past nine years, though. Neither was the type to have met a sadistic killer in a pickup joint. Seeing the two of them together in the photograph suddenly reminded her of what Mike Posten had said about lovers and strangers—that they were the only people who could be truly open. He’d forgotten about victims . Murder victims, in particular, were the most completely open of all. The books they read, their favorite snack, the thickness of their pubic hair—all of it became a matter of public record for the world to behold.
98
James Grippando
She often felt guilty about that, as if the only people who deserved to know her own secrets were the victims she knew so well.
She continued toward the bedroom, then froze in the open doorway. She was looking
96
James Grippando
Curious, Victoria took a flashlight from her car and crossed over.
It was uphill to the other side, and the sidewalk put her at eye level with the top of Copeland’s doorframe. She glanced at the streetlamp overhead, but it was impossible to tell whether it had been tampered with or had simply burned out. She shined the flashlight down the dark alley.
Trash cans lined either side, but the thing she noticed most was the continuing incline as the alley grew deeper.
She glanced back at Copeland’s town house, then stepped slowly into the alley, walking uphill.
The alley grew darker with each click of her heel, but the beam from her flashlight pointed the way. A small stream of water trickled in the gutter at her feet, racing toward the street. Gravity grabbed her as the grade grew steeper. She passed a cluster of trash cans, then stopped and turned around. It was like looking out of a tunnel—a telescope was more like it—right at eye level with Copeland’s second story. She could see directly into the upstairs bedroom in which he’d perished.
With the flashlight she searched the ground around her. The cracked cement was wet, but she noticed several black dots that hadn’t quite washed away. She got on one knee for a closer look. It was hard to tell, but it looked as if someone had crushed out a few cigarettes. A few swipes of the flashlight confirmed her guess. A soggy cigarette butt lay in the gutter, next to the trash can.
Someone had been standing there having a smoke. Jeffrey Dahmer was a chain-smoker, she suddenly recalled. She rose slowly and gazed back at Copeland’s bedroom.
97
THE INFORMANT
He’d watched from right here, she realized. The killer had stalked him.
In a split second she shot from the alley and was jogging back across the street. She wanted to turn the bedroom lights on, then return to the alley to see what the killer might have seen. She tossed the flashlight into her car, then retrieved the house key and went inside.
The door closed behind her with a hollow echo.
Strange, she thought, the way the ear always knew when there was no one home. She switched on the brass chan-delier in the foyer, then headed upstairs on the Oriental runner. She moved quickly at first, then slower, until she stopped completely at the top of the stairs. The pictures on the wall made her feel like an intruder—stark reminders that this had been a home before it was a crime scene.
From the amount of carnage, she figured the police had arrived expecting to find two gay men with a plentiful supply of whips and chains on the premises. Copeland and his partner had been effectively married for the past nine years, though. Neither was the type to have met a sadistic killer in a pickup joint. Seeing the two of them together in the photograph suddenly reminded her of what Mike Posten had said about lovers and strangers—that they were the only people who could be truly open. He’d forgotten about victims . Murder victims, in particular, were the most completely open of all. The books they read, their favorite snack, the thickness of their pubic hair—all of it became a matter of public record for the world to behold.
98
James Grippando
She often felt guilty about that, as if the only people who deserved to know her own secrets were the victims she knew so well.
She continued toward the bedroom, then froze in the open doorway. She was looking
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