cabinet, I stared at my reflection in the mirror. It wasn't a face I recognized. Or liked. 'This is all bullshit, Walter!'
Walter eyed me with not a little annoyance. 'It's the truth, Hunter.'
I turned around so I could hold his gaze. 'Walter, you wouldn't know the truth if it sneaked up and bit you on the ass.'
'I'm telling you the truth.'
Returning to the bed, I again sat down next to him. 'So what alerted you to the Harvestman's identity? I mean, considering that you haven't found any forensics? Did he start sending you taunting letters challenging you to catch him?'
Walter made a noise in his throat. 'There's no need for sarcasm. And anyway, I didn't say there were no forensics. You said that,' he said.
This time I didn't bite.
'The thing is, the forensics have only just recently come to
'You mean the murders that my brother's been blamed for?'
'Exactly.'
'Yeah, but you know it wasn't John,' I said.
'I know. But it served our purpose to put that story out.'
'Served your damn purpose? Walter, you know I love you, but sometimes you're a complete asshole!' I was challenging him to disagree with me. In reply, he could only shrug.
'Comes with the job,' he said.
Yes, I suppose it did. 'So you tipped the media about John? What for? To draw out the real killer? You thought his ego would get the better of him and he'd show himself in order to take back the glory? Or was it a ploy to conceal the Harvestman's true identity?'
'A bit of both, I suppose,' Walter said.
'Christ, Walter! Even when you're being truthful I can't get a straight answer out of you.'
'Okay, I'll explain. That way you'll have everything I have.' With a grunt he rose and walked away from me, fumbling the cigar to his lips. 'Are you familiar with the book of Genesis?'
'I've read it, don't necessarily believe it,' I answered.
'It's not necessary that you believe it, only that you have some idea of its content.'
'I remember there are a lot of people with odd names begetting one another. Everything else I know I learned from Charlton Heston movies.'
Walter shook off my sarcasm. 'You've heard the story of Cain and Abel?'
'Yes.'
'It's nothing new for some demented bastard to take on the name of Cain,' Walter said. 'In fact, the psyche of a murderer is often referred to as the Cain Complex. Murderers often look up to the great grandpappy of all murderers as to some sort of godhead in his own right. They think they're carrying out his work on earth and all that bullshit.'
'And your sicko is no exception?' I asked.
'No, no, no. Not
'Who then?'
'I'll come to that in a minute. First a little background on our man,' Walter said. 'His name is Martin Maxwell.'
'Doesn't ring any bells.'
'It won't. He didn't use that name when he was on active duty. Called himself Dean Crow. Thought it sounded tougher than Marty Maxwell. More befitting a U.S. Secret Service agent.'
'Sounds like a complete peckerhead,' I offered. 'But I must admit I do recall something about him. Some low-level scandal involving a presidential candidate's wife, wasn't it?'
'He was relieved of duty after he was found supposedly looting the good lady's wardrobe for what he called in an interview 'a token of his skill.' '
'He's a damn panty sniffer?' I asked.
Walter shook his head. 'Nothing so gross. He cut a patch from one of her blouses is all.'
I recalled the missing piece of cloth from the old woman's blouse after she'd been held hostage next door. I was about to say this when Walter added, 'I say supposedly. The truth is the good lady was wearing her blouse at the time. Marty said he took the token to show her how vulnerable she was, how much she relied on him at all times.'
'Crazy,' I said.
'Yeah. Supremely crazy.'
'So how'd he get through the net? Surely the psych tests should've singled him out before he achieved agent status?'
