The Wolfman

wall, which I tore down and stuffed under my lumpy mattress, and the old rifle I had perched against my nightstand, should anyone ever be unlucky enough to think they could sneak in at night and get away with it. The rifle went under the bed.

I ran into my kitchen, where I had that scumbag’s hunting knife on the counter. I hid it under the sink, where I had a collection of cobwebs that would make Dracula blush.

In the living room I had a book out that I was reading at the time. I quickly stuffed it under the couch cushions, and, as far as I could see, that covered all the bases. I closed all the doors in the house so he wouldn’t be able to look around without being extremely rude. I thought about what would happen if I had to knock his block off for snooping around my house, and just then, the doorbell rang.

The doorbell used to play “O Come All Ye Faithful,” but after years of inactivity, it sounded like a dying robot. I swung the door open, and there he stood.

He had a thin beard and wore clothes that smelled like sweat and wet earth. His hair was slicked back with what smelled like dirty water, and dark rings circled his eyes like hungry sharks. His hands were shaking.

I led him into the living room and helped him sit in my recliner. He sank into it like it was his bed at home.

“I haven’t slept in two days,” he said as he smiled nervously, perhaps in a vain attempt to bolster his clearly fractured manhood. “There’s a lot of work getting done.”

He took full advantage of my naked-lady ashtray and lit a smoke. I lit one too, and hurried into the kitchen for a glass of water for the man. I didn’t want to give him caffeine. He looked dehydrated. When I came back with it, he sucked the glass down in one hungry gulp, and then burped.

“I don’t want the wife seeing me like this,” he said, looking at his shaking hands.

“Don’t worry. I’ll tell her you’re here.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Of course not,” I lied.

“Thanks. I had to get out of there, you know …”

“I know.”

“I know you do. Seeing that … it was the worst thing I ever …”

“Tell me what you know,” I said. I knew I had a small window of opportunity to ruthlessly pick his brain, having caught him in a highly weakened state. I needed everything he had.

“It was horrible,” he mumbled, settling further into the soft chair.

“Don’t pass out on me. Sleep will come, but you need to talk to me.”

“Oh, Marley, always digging for information. You’re like Nancy fucking Drew.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” I said. “Make me happy, man.”

“It was horrible. He ripped her up, man, like when you gut a fish. He just opened her up …”

“Were the others like that?”

“Yeah. Most of them.”

“They told you this?”

“Pictures. They have pictures of all of ‘em.”

“Do you have the pictures?”

“Marley …”

“Are they in your car?”

He nodded.

“You got anything else in the car?”

“Just my files.”

Once he passed out, I’d snatch his keys and do a little research of my own.

“And it was the same thing this time as all the others? Flowers in the eyes?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“White?”

“Red.”

“Red? They were white for Judith Myers, there were white roses. Was this the only time they were red?”

“No. It’s always some color or other. Like, whatever he could find, what was around. Or whatever struck him. That’s what they said.”

“Who’s they?”

“The feds.”

“The feds are here? Do they have a suspect?”

“They have what they called a ‘profile.’ They have a basic idea of what kind of person this killer is, but they don’t know who. They don’t have a suspect.”

“What the fuck is the profile?”

“It’s complicated.”

“But they don’t have a suspect? Is that what they said, or is that what you know?”

“No, I know it. They said the same. You should’ve been a cop.”

“Not with my track record,” I joked. “Were any of these girls drugged at all?”

“No. Some are known to have a drink now and then, like Gloria Shaw, but it doesn’t seem to be relevant to anything.”

“Any religious articles left around the body?”

“No. Why?”

“In Edenburgh a church was busted into the same night that Myers got it. Same thing happened here. Just an idea. Do the feds see any religious connection at all?”

“No. They see a sick fuck. Like you do.”

“How else was she hurt?”

“No bruising, really. Just some about the head, the mouth, like he’d grabbed her, but she was bound.”

“How?”

“Hands, mouth, feet.”

“With what? Cords? Ropes? Socks? What?”

“It seems to be twine,” he said. “It cut into her. Tape on the mouth.”

“Any fingerprints on the tape?”

“No tape left behind. Just the sticky residue. I guess he took the tape with him. And the bindings.”

“And they’re all like that?”

“Yeah, most of ‘em.”

“Was there a weapon left behind? Anywhere?”

“No.”

“What happened to the eyes?” I asked. He swallowed and said, “No one knows.”

“What’s he doing the cutting with?”

“Something sharp, Marley, I don’t fucking know. Talk to a fucking metallurgist.”

“Same injuries every time?”

“No.”

“What’s changed?”

“Jesus, it’s gotten so much worse,” he said, his eyes as sad as they’ve ever been.

“It always does,” I said. “Was anything left behind? Anything

at all?”

“No. Well …”

“What?”

“There was an empty film box on the dirt road that runs along the edge of the property.”

“Like what? Like, for a video? A tape?”

“Film. For pictures. Color. Polaroids.”

“Pictures,” I said.

Polaroids: a scumbag’s best friend. Any lowlife in the world with a few extra dollars can pick one of those