hours and I asked her for a house key. She removed her key chain from her pocket and was attempting to expunge her house key when she asked, “Don’t you still have the key I gave you?”
Yes, it was in my glove compartment thirty feet away. “No.”
Caitlin looked at me suspiciously. Alex looked at Caitlin suspiciously. I looked suspiciously at my feet.
Caitlin handed me the key and retreated into the house. Alex and I buckled into the Range Rover and I navigated through the barrage of police cars. One of the police officers who’d tackled me threw me a salute and I saluted him back, only my hand was out the window and my thumb, pointer finger, ring finger, and pinky wouldn’t stand up.
Once on the frontage road my curiosity overcame me. I asked Alex, “How did Caitlin know your name?”
She raised her thin eyebrows slightly, “I interviewed her for the book. I interviewed everybody involved with the case. Well, almost everybody.” She smirked. I dismissed this and said, “Caitlin never said anything about any interview. All she said was that she spent a week compiling her account of the events.”
“Yeah, with me.”
“When?”
“I’d say around the beginning of November.”
“Where?”
“MCM.”
What a coincidence, last November I’d been doing quite a bit of hanging out at Maine Coast Memorial hospital, albeit, I was in a coma. I was stunned and said, “Don’t tell me you interviewed her in my room?”
“I had to.” She looked like she wanted to stop there, but I think there was something in the small print of the X-chromosome contract and she added, “She wouldn’t leave your side.”
I thought about these last five words for the duration of the drive.
I pulled through Alex’s open gate and parked on her doorstep, her rosebush to be exact. She said meekly, “Can I have my tape recorder back?”
I’d forgotten I’d confiscated her tape recorder and extracted it from my pocket. I checked to make sure it was still off and handed it through the window. “Sorry I had to take it, but from my standpoint you’re the enemy.”
I watched Alex recede into the house, then drove to where I’d parked earlier, picked my bumper from its leaf burial, and threw it in the trunk. Making my way down her drive, I noticed her gate had taken the liberty of closing. I pulled up to the sensor box and the gate stubbornly played dumb. I hit the green intercom button and said, “Alex, could you open your gate?”
Alex’s voice broke the static, “Only if you promise to go sailing with me on Saturday.”
I was being optimistic in hoping the case—case being Tristen Grayer—would be in custody or dead by this point and said, “It’s a date.”
The gate creaked alive and I took the minute and a half to pick my passenger side mirror from her garden. I threw the mirror over my shoulder into the hatch turned car-part cemetery and slipped through the gate. This was my first chance to be alone and all the emotions I’d felt at the crime scene came flooding back. There’s a dam built in my brain that separates all the good I’ve encountered in my life from the bad. Jennifer Pepper’s death was a lot of water to take on by an already unstable barricade. Anyhow, a large chunk of dam chipped off that ride home.
I ran through the visual pictures of the crime scene. The last shot of Jennifer’s eyes was nagging. In the past, Tristen had taken the women’s eyes as souvenirs. Why the sudden change? Boredom? Maybe, but doubtful. Tristen Grayer was a serial killer, but he didn’t fit the serial killer mold. His killings were methodical and impulsive, or for lack of a better term, he killed with an organized spontaneity. Tristen Grayer was the ultimate paradox, a killing conundrum.
Tristen Grayer was scary as hell.
Chapter 14
I pulled up to Conner’s nondescript apartment complex. Conner opened the bottom floor apartment door as I was approaching and said, “Caitlin just called. I guess
Yes, it was in my glove compartment thirty feet away. “No.”
Caitlin looked at me suspiciously. Alex looked at Caitlin suspiciously. I looked suspiciously at my feet.
Caitlin handed me the key and retreated into the house. Alex and I buckled into the Range Rover and I navigated through the barrage of police cars. One of the police officers who’d tackled me threw me a salute and I saluted him back, only my hand was out the window and my thumb, pointer finger, ring finger, and pinky wouldn’t stand up.
Once on the frontage road my curiosity overcame me. I asked Alex, “How did Caitlin know your name?”
She raised her thin eyebrows slightly, “I interviewed her for the book. I interviewed everybody involved with the case. Well, almost everybody.” She smirked. I dismissed this and said, “Caitlin never said anything about any interview. All she said was that she spent a week compiling her account of the events.”
“Yeah, with me.”
“When?”
“I’d say around the beginning of November.”
“Where?”
“MCM.”
What a coincidence, last November I’d been doing quite a bit of hanging out at Maine Coast Memorial hospital, albeit, I was in a coma. I was stunned and said, “Don’t tell me you interviewed her in my room?”
“I had to.” She looked like she wanted to stop there, but I think there was something in the small print of the X-chromosome contract and she added, “She wouldn’t leave your side.”
I thought about these last five words for the duration of the drive.
I pulled through Alex’s open gate and parked on her doorstep, her rosebush to be exact. She said meekly, “Can I have my tape recorder back?”
I’d forgotten I’d confiscated her tape recorder and extracted it from my pocket. I checked to make sure it was still off and handed it through the window. “Sorry I had to take it, but from my standpoint you’re the enemy.”
I watched Alex recede into the house, then drove to where I’d parked earlier, picked my bumper from its leaf burial, and threw it in the trunk. Making my way down her drive, I noticed her gate had taken the liberty of closing. I pulled up to the sensor box and the gate stubbornly played dumb. I hit the green intercom button and said, “Alex, could you open your gate?”
Alex’s voice broke the static, “Only if you promise to go sailing with me on Saturday.”
I was being optimistic in hoping the case—case being Tristen Grayer—would be in custody or dead by this point and said, “It’s a date.”
The gate creaked alive and I took the minute and a half to pick my passenger side mirror from her garden. I threw the mirror over my shoulder into the hatch turned car-part cemetery and slipped through the gate. This was my first chance to be alone and all the emotions I’d felt at the crime scene came flooding back. There’s a dam built in my brain that separates all the good I’ve encountered in my life from the bad. Jennifer Pepper’s death was a lot of water to take on by an already unstable barricade. Anyhow, a large chunk of dam chipped off that ride home.
I ran through the visual pictures of the crime scene. The last shot of Jennifer’s eyes was nagging. In the past, Tristen had taken the women’s eyes as souvenirs. Why the sudden change? Boredom? Maybe, but doubtful. Tristen Grayer was a serial killer, but he didn’t fit the serial killer mold. His killings were methodical and impulsive, or for lack of a better term, he killed with an organized spontaneity. Tristen Grayer was the ultimate paradox, a killing conundrum.
Tristen Grayer was scary as hell.
Chapter 14
I pulled up to Conner’s nondescript apartment complex. Conner opened the bottom floor apartment door as I was approaching and said, “Caitlin just called. I guess
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