The Wolfman

Because you’re a fuckup. You’re all fuckups, and I’m better than you. And when that time comes, when I find what I’m looking for, enough to put you away, you’ll have nowhere to run to, and nowhere on this fucking earth to hide. Do you understand that, man?”

“Do it now.”

“Don’t be so greedy, Higgins. Your time will come. And then it will be over.”

He got up and put the piece back in the holster under his jacket.

“You’re the one that’s been calling me, aren’t you?” He smiled.

“I knew it,” I said. “You’re a twisted sonofabitch, you know

that?”

“Let’s keep this little chat between you and me private, okay? If you go to my people, you’ll only be hurting yourself more, because I can guarantee they won’t listen to a word you have to say about this. And I’ll find out.”

“Figures.”

“Don’t make it hard for yourself. And remember, whatever you’ve done, you could always turn yourself in, save me the trouble of having to come down on you, because it’s only a matter of time.”

“Great.”

“You may be wondering what my motivation was, coming in here and showing you what a little connie you are, huh?”

“Not really. I kinda presumed you had the wrong house to begin with….”

“You’re a funny guy, you know that? Remember some of these lines when you’re in prison getting drilled up that hairy old ass of yours. But anyway, I’m here just to let you know that I’m going to get you. It may not be today, and it may not be tomorrow, but it’s coming and there’s not a goddamn thing you can do about it. You bastards always fuck up, and I’ll be there when it happens. I just wanted you to know that. You’ve started saucing it up all over town, Higgins, getting into punching matches with all the lowlifes in this town, just like old times.”

“Hardly,” I said.

“Shut up. That tells me you’re weak, you’re already running from something up in that feeble old head of yours, and that tells me I won’t have to wait long to put those hooks on you again. I’m going to be watching you. Wherever you go, I’ll be over your shoulder. I’m going to be so close to you, I’ll be like cancer, practically inside you. And I’m going to break you.”

He turned and headed for the door.

“Hey!” I shouted.

He turned his head.

“Pearce was a good man,” I said. “The best man I ever met. It doesn’t mean anything to you, but I had nothing to do with anything. More important, neither did he.”

He said nothing, just turned his head back and went for the door.

“Hey!” I shouted again.

He stopped.

“What about these fucking handcuffs? Get these fucking things off me.”

He fished around in his pants pocket until he came up with the key. He held it up to the light, let it glisten.

“This goddamn Rose Killer has to be stopped,” he said. “I don’t know where he came from or where he’s going. I don’t know if what’s been going on down here are copycat killings. The feds think it’s the real deal, though. The one thing I’m sure of is that the killer is still here.”

“How do you know that?”

“We found another body,” he said.

My mouth fell open on its hinges.

“I almost wish it was you, but I know where you were last night. In a way, it’s a shame,” he said, then threw the key at me. It landed by my feet. “But I’ll find out what your involvement is in all this. In regards to the handcuffs, get used to ‘em.”

“What exactly do you think I’ve done?”

He walked out as if I’d said nothing.

The TV confirmed what Van Buren had said. There was another body. Her name was Betsy Ratner. She was a teacher for second-grade kids at one of the local schools. She was twenty-eight years old. She was a single lady, though from the photos they showed she seemed to be a rather pretty girl with long dark hair and wide, innocent eyes. She had gone out with some of her girlfriends last night, and drove home somewhere in the neighborhood of two o’clock in the morning. She was inebriated, but comfortable enough to drive home alone.

Shortly after two o’clock in the morning, her car rolled down her driveway, went across the street at a speed of five miles an hour or so, and went into a car parked across the street, which set off the alarm. The police were called, and when they arrived they saw that the driver’s-side door to Betsy Ratner’s car was hanging open. There was a spot of blood on the driver’s seat, and several more drops on her driveway, but no Betsy Ratner.

Her body was found at the crack of dawn in Wild Oaks Cemetery, naked and posed on Detective Daniel Casey Pearce’s grave. Two wild, red roses were stuffed into her hollow sockets.

This murder was different from the Rose Killer’s previous kills for several reasons. Right off the bat, the evidence pointed to a blitz attack, hence the blood on the driveway and the unsubstantiated report that a bloody log was found in the bushes outside the house. He must have knocked her out in a hurry. All previous evidence pointed to mutilation occurring postmortem. Differing from other instances, the body was found in a matter of hours instead of days. This in itself was an oddity. It was as if the killer hadn’t been as methodical as he usually was, didn’t take as much time as usual. I reckoned this incident was much more impulsive than those in the past. There was a more urgent need for him to do what he did than was typical. Because of this rushed feeling to the crime, it felt much more sloppy than it ever had.

That was a good thing. For all I knew, the police might have a print or a witness that they weren’t revealing to the media. I was hoping that was the case because there were only four days left until the next full moon, and I had failed once at taking the Rose Killer down and more people died because of that. I didn’t want it to happen again.

It meant something that the killer had left his victim’s body on Pearce’s grave. Pearce was in charge of the cases here in Evelyn, and the killer would have known that. He also knew the body would have been found quickly, which meant it was all for show, a big and personal “fuck you” to the world. Pearce’s fresh grave was turned into a crime scene. Off-limits to even his wife, who visited it every day, just so his soul could bless their unborn child and keep it safe.

I drove like a bat out of hell to my newsstands to get the papers. These had a little more information than the TV reports, and more pictures. In one of the pictures of the crime-scene tape around Pearce’s grave, I saw Anthony Mannuzza taking his own picture off to the side. At that moment, I regretted ever taking a drink in the first place, but especially with him. The man was a prettyboy, but he was like a wraith, sneaking to and fro to take his goddamn pictures. I vowed I’d never touch the sauce again. I’d made a horrible mistake.

I also learned another interesting tidbit: That same night, St. Mark’s Church had a window smashed in. Nothing seemed to be missing.

Even the church break-in, if it was, in fact, related to the murders, seemed to be rushed. Usually a lock was busted, not a window.

The Harbinger interviewed one of the feds, who said the same thing they always do: It’s only a matter of time now. This will be the last victim. Turn yourself in because it will be better for you. I wondered if anyone ever fell for it. I wouldn’t.

In the distance I heard sirens screaming.

The murder dominated the town. The police didn’t know what to do, and the people knew it. I could see it on the streets as I drove back home. The cops were rounding up the drunks, the hooligans, and the vagrants, shaking the trees out of desperation, hoping a miracle happened. It wouldn’t.

When I got home, I knew I had some cleaning to do. Van Buren had been the sonofabitch