Play To Kill

around the collar that interested Magozzi not at all, because Grace wasn't wearing it. 'Let's hope so.'

    'Excuse me?'

    'Look at it this way. Take your average serial or thrill killer. All that bullshit- ' she stopped abruptly and blinked. 'Oh dear. Sorry about the language.' She pushed her beer mug away. 'Anyway, all that dogma about killers waiting to get caught, wanting to get caught, makes people think they're remorseful and need to expunge their guilt. Pure nonsense. They're looking for the celebrity. Heck, some of them repeat like they were going for the Guinness Book of Records title for most hits, or most horrible hits, whatever. Trouble with a career like that is you can't show off how good you are.'

    'So this killer is looking for attention.'

    'Not attention. Fame. There's a big difference. Attention invites scrutiny, and, like I said, these sickos don't want to be caught. From the conception to the crime, to the fear they create in the public and the frustration they cause the cops, this whole process is all about power. But we're a visual society now. Headlines don't cut it because nobody reads anymore, and cops never show the butchered victims on the nightly news. Enter the Internet. 'See what I did? See what I can do to you?'

    Magozzi actually felt his face crinkling up, which, for some inexplicable reason, made her smile again.

    'So. If serial killers can show their work on the Net, the power surge intensifies. The film is the new trophy. They don't have to cut off body parts or snatch bloody panties to hide in their walls. They don't have to escalate to garner attention, which is how we've always caught them. They deliver visual evidence to the whole world of what they do like some Hollywood mogul premiering a new movie, and we are never going to catch these people again.'

    Magozzi blinked at her. 'That's really negative.'

    She leaned back as the waitress slid a plate piled with poison food in front of her. 'Well, that's a shame, because that was the good news. Just what serial killers might do with the Web. Too bad I don't think that's what's happening here, because it's much worse.' She picked up an onion ring, took a bite, and closed her eyes. 'Oh God, that's good. I haven't had one of these in years.'

    'Wait just a minute. Put down that onion ring'

    Once she started giggling, she couldn't seem to stop. 'Oh Lord, cops really talk like that, don't they? I feel like I'm in a movie. And I also think I may have had a bit too much to drink.'

    'You've had a beer and a half.'

    'I know. But I've never actually had a whole entire beer before. Ever.'

    'Are you kidding?'

    'No, I'm Mormon. At least I used to be.' That made her laugh, too, and she covered her mouth with her hand like a kid with braces. 'Do you think you could order me a glass of milk?'

    Magozzi was trying not to smile, because it didn't seem appropriate, seeing that she'd just told him serial killers weren't the worst thing in life. 'Do not drink any more of that beer. Do not get drunk. When I get back, I want to know what's worse than serial killers using the Internet.'

    She gave him a silly little smile and picked up her hamburger.

    Big surprise. Irish pubs did not serve milk. He had to go to the convenience store at the end of the block and then race back before Miss Psychiatrist FBI agent/profiler passed out in the booth. He slammed down a gallon of skim.

    'That's really big.' Her plate was almost empty, and she looked almost normal.

    'I wanted one of those little cartons you used to get in grade school. Profiteering money-hungry bastards don't carry them. Don't even carry quarts, or half gallons. You want milk, you lay down your pension.'

    'Sorry. I'll buy your dinner. Which is now cold and greasy.'

    'Thank you for the review.'

    She pushed away her plate with one finger and smiled. 'We're talking about terrible things, and this is very unprofessional, but I want you to know I'm actually having a nice time tonight, which was totally unexpected, and really appreciated.'

    Magozzi smiled and took a bite of his burger. It was cold and greasy and fabulous. What's in this?' he asked the exasperated waitress as she dodged drunken dancers and passed their table.

    'A dead animal. What do you think?'

    Chelsea Thomas, should-have-been exotic dancer, watched him dig in. 'Do you have any women friends, Detective?'

    He shook his head while he chewed. 'Never have. I have women I love, and women I lust after.'

    'Do you lust after the woman you love?'

    'I do.'

    She picked up her last onion ring and held it up to the light like a jewel. 'That's just about as perfect as it gets, isn't it? Tell me about her.'

    Magozzi put his burger down on the plate and stared at it. This was just about the strangest evening he'd ever spent in his life, which was saying something when you were a homicide cop. Maybe it was the beer or the mood or the fact that they were sitting at a table in a bar with a gallon of milk between them, but whatever it was, he opened his mouth and Grace MacBride fell out. He told her everything; things he'd never thought aloud to himself, let alone voiced to anyone else. She listened to every word, drinking it in like it was some kind of magic elixir, and when he was finished, and embarrassed, she did a man thing. She ignored all the intimate feelings he had shared as if they had never happened, and changed the subject.

    'This is what I'm really afraid is happening, Detective.'

    The room was dark except for the halogen puddles that spilled down onto the worktable, illuminating two pairs of gloved hands that cast eerie, mesmerizing shadows on the wall as they carefully poured viscous liquid into the containers and lined them up in the center of the table - none of them touching, all of them far from the edge. Such a simple task, but the first part had taken over an hour.

    All the practice runs had been helpful, but essentially worthless. This time it was the real thing, and nerves crept into the equation, making hands shake and hearts beat faster.

    When the last container was sealed, they both stepped back from the table a few steps and just breathed, letting the nerves settle before part two.

    They'd prepared the outer packagings first, and those were all waiting on the floor with their tops open like hungry baby birds. The interior shields were secure, meticulously placed and anchored.

    Lowering the inner containers was slow, methodical, and nerve-wracking. A drop of sweat loaded with DNA fell and spread on one of the packages. It would leave a telltale watermark, and that package was immediately discarded and replaced with a spare. They'd thought of everything, and it had all been so pathetically simple, as most acts of genius were. Everything you needed to know was all right there on the Internet.

    They had often wondered why no one had done it before, but it was certain that a lot of others would do it soon, because it wouldn't be long before the whole world was watching.

Chapter Thirteen

    Judge James Bukowski had celebrated his release from the Hennepin County Hilton by re-toxing with an excellent bottle of sour mash that had quelled his shakes and improved his spirits considerably; at least up until the point he'd lost sentience, sometime around noon.

    Hours later, when he finally came to in the chilly embrace of his Corbusier chaise, his furry mind surprised him with a singular, revelatory thought that seemed deeply profound to him, primarily because it didn't involve the logistical planning of getting to the bathroom for aspirin and Ativan: he really hated this goddamned fucking uncomfortable overpriced chair. He really hated it.

    Wife Number Four had managed to convince him, after several years of passive-aggressive torture and craven guilt- tripping, that original Mid-Century Modern was not only chic, not only a shrewd investment opportunity, but also 'outrageously comfortable' - no doubt a paraphrase from some article she'd read, because the woman had never strung a polysyllabic sentence together in her life.

    Well, the uber-cow had been wrong, so wrong, no doubt brainwashed by Architectural Digest, her flaming-faggot designer, and her pathetic, social-climbing friends, just as she'd