Shadow Man

some were six, none were older. I saw the pictures of them before--bows in their hair and radiant smiles. I saw the pictures of them after--raped, tortured, murdered. Tiny corpses screaming forever. I was wrapping up, about to head out the door of the interrogation room, when the question occurred to me. I turned to him.

'Why them?' I asked. 'Why the young girls?'

He smiled at me. A big, wide, Halloween smile. His eyes were two twinkling, empty wells. 'Because it was the worst thing I could think of, darlin'. The badder it is'--and he'd licked his lips at this--'the better it is.' He'd closed those nothing eyes and had shaken his head back and forth in a kind of reverie. 'The young ones . . . GOD . . . the badness of that was just so damn sweet!'

It's rage that fuels this need. Not pinprick annoyance, but fullblown, world-on-fire rage. A constant, roaring blaze that never dies. I feel it here. As deliberate as he might want to be, in the end he destroyed in a frenzy. He was out of control.

This rage usually comes from extreme sadism visited upon them when they were children. Beatings, torture, sodomy, rape. Most of these monsters are made, by Frankenstein parents. Twisted ones create children in their own image. They beat their souls to death and send them out in the world to do unto others.

None of that makes any pragmatic difference. Not in terms of what I do. The monsters are, without exception, irredeemable. It doesn't matter why the dog bites, in the end. That he bites and that his teeth are sharp are what determines his fate.

I live with all of this knowledge. This understanding. It is an unwanted companion that never leaves my side. The monsters become my shadow, and sometimes I feel like I can hear them chuckling behind me.

'How does that affect you, long term?' Dr. Hillstead had asked me.

'Is there any constant emotional consequence?'

'Well--sure. Of course.' I had struggled to find the words. 'It's not depression, or cynicism. It's not that you can't be happy. It's . . .' I'd snapped my fingers, looking at him. 'It's a change in the climate of the soul.' I'd grimaced as soon as the words left my mouth. 'That's some silly poetic bullshit.'

'Stop that,' he'd admonished me. 'There's nothing silly about finding the right words for something. It's called clarity. Finish the thought.'

'Well . . . you know how land masses that are near the ocean have their climates determined by it? By that proximity? There may be some freak twists in the weather, but pretty much it's a constant, because the ocean is so big and it doesn't really change.' I'd looked at him; he'd nodded. 'It's like that. You have this constant proximity to something huge and dark and awful. It never leaves, it's always there. Every minute of every day.' I shrugged. 'The climate of your soul is affected by it. Forever.'

His eyes had been sad. 'What is that climate like?'

'Someplace where there's a lot of rain. It can still be beautiful--you do have your sunny days--but it's dominated by grays and clouds. And it's always ready to rain. That proximity is always there.'

I look around Annie's bedroom, hear her screams in my head. It's raining right now, I think. Annie was the sun, and he is the clouds. So what does that make me? More poetic bullshit. 'The moon,' I whisper to myself. Light against the black.

'Hi.'

James's voice startles me out of my reverie. He's standing at the door, looking in. I see his eyes roaming over the room, taking in the bloodstains, the bed, the overturned night table. His nostrils flare.

'What is that?' he murmurs.

'Perfume. He coated a towel with perfume and stuffed it under the door so the smell of Annie's body wouldn't get out right away.'

'He was buying himself time.'

'Yeah.'

He holds up a file folder. 'I got this from Alan. Crime-scene reports and photos.'

'Good. You need to see the video.'

When it starts, this is how it goes. We talk in short bursts, automatic gunfire. We become relay racers, passing the baton back and forth, back and forth.

'Show me.'

So we sit down, and I watch it again. Watch as Jack Jr. capers around, watch as Annie screams and dies a slow death. I don't feel it this time. I'm untouched--almost. I'm detached and distant, examining the train with narrowed eyes. I get an image in my head of Annie, lying dead in a grassy field, while rain fills her open mouth and dribbles down her dead gray cheeks.

James is quiet. 'Why did he leave this for us?'

I shrug. 'I'm not there yet. Let's take it from the beginning.'

He flips open the file folder. 'They discovered the body at approximately seven P.M. last night. Time of death is rough, but based on the decomposition, ambient temperatures, et cetera, the ME estimates she died three days before, at around nine or ten P.M.'

I think it through. 'Figure he took a few hours raping and torturing her. That means he'd have gotten here at around seven o'clock. So he doesn't come in while they're asleep. How does he get inside?'

James consults the file. 'No sign of forced entry. Either she let him in, or he let himself in.' He frowns. 'He's a cocky fucker. Doing it early evening, when everyone is still up and about. Confident.'

'But how does he get in?' We look at each other, wondering. Rain, rain, go away . . .

'Let's start in the living room,' James says.

Automatic gunfire, bang-a-bang-a-bang.

We walk out of the bedroom and down the hall until we're standing in the entryway. James looks around. I see his eyes stop roaming and freeze. 'Hang on.' He goes to Annie's bedroom and comes back holding the file. He hands me a photo.

'That's how.'

It's a shot of the entryway, just inside the door. I see what he wants me to see: three envelopes lying on the carpet. I nod. 'He kept it simple--he just knocked. She opens the door, he slams through it, she drops the mail she's holding. It was sudden. Fast.'

'It was early evening, though. How did he keep her from screaming and alerting the neighbors?'

I grab the folder from him and scan through photos. I point to one of the dining table. 'Here.' It shows an opened grade-school math book. We glance over at the table. 'It's less than ten feet away. Bonnie was right here when Annie answered the door.'

He nods in understanding. 'He controlled the kid, so he controlled the mother.' He whistles. 'Wow. That means he came right in. No hesitation.'

'It was a blitz. He didn't give her any time at all. Pushed his way in, slammed the door, moved right to Bonnie, probably put a weapon to her throat--'

'--and told the mother if she screamed, the kid would die.'

'Yeah.'

'Very decisive.'

Rain, rain, go away . . .

James purses his lips, thoughtful.

'So the next question is: How soon before he got down to business?'

Here is where it really begins, I think. Where we don't just consider the dark train, we climb aboard. 'It's a series of questions.' I count them off on my fingers. 'How soon before he started on her? Did he tell her what he was going to do? And what did he do with Bonnie in the meantime? Did he tie her up or make her watch?'

We both look at the front door, considering. I can see it in my head. I can feel him. I know James is doing the same.

It's quiet in the hallway, and he's excited. His heart is pounding in his chest as he waits for Annie to open the door. One hand is poised to knock again, the other holds . . . what? A knife?

Yeah.

He has a story to give her, and he's rehearsed it many times. Something simple, like . . . he's a neighbor from the floor below with a question. Something that feels like it belongs.

She opens the door, and not just a crack. It's early evening; the city is awake. Annie is at home,