“Someone like Markey, is what you’re saying,” Bandoni said. “Guy with a history of aggression toward women. Maybe even up to and including rape.”
“Possibly.”
Cohen’s leg pressed reassuringly against mine.
Bandoni sucked up half his Mountain Dew. “And the second guy?”
“In terms of pathology, I find him more frightening. Spacing is important, and all of you saw how tightly he spaced his words on the bodies of our victims. The letters touch, which suggests he lacks boundaries. And the way the words line up precisely, along with the well-defined letters . . . I’d say this man knows exactly what he’s doing, how much harm he’s inflicting. His rage is tightly controlled, as are his actions.” Evan propped his elbows on the table and fisted his hands. “This man isn’t insane, like our first scribe. He’s deliberate. Some might say evil.”
Abruptly, the diner fell silent. It was a weird temporal anomaly during which, for an instant, no one spoke. No one rattled their forks or set down their glasses. The cook and waitstaff quit calling out orders, the grease fryer in the kitchen paused in its popping.
The four of us stared at each other.
Then the din fell back into place, a soothing reassurance that life went on. Suzie appeared with Evan’s eggs and bacon. Evan grabbed the pepper.
“Let me see if I can summarize,” Bandoni said. “We’ve got a nutcase and the devil working together to destroy the world. They probably have minions. All of them are hoping to kill as many people as possible before they exit stage left. That sound about right?”
Evan dug into his food. “I’d say that sums it up nicely.”
“Long as we know what we’re dealing with,” Bandoni said. “Now eat up, kids. It’s time for the rookie and me to get a move on. Dashiell Donovan awaits.”
I turned to Cohen. “You mind taking Clyde home so he doesn’t have to wait in the truck during the autopsy?”
“Bachelor night.” He leaned over the table, and Clyde licked his face. “Hey, fur ball. What do you say we get pizza and beer and do a bunch of farting?”
Outside, day shaded toward evening. Clouds bunched over the mountains, and an icy wind breathed winter into the March air. I knelt and took Clyde’s head between my hands.
“Be a good boy, Clyde,” I said. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”
Clyde looked tired, and for a moment I hesitated. My partner wasn’t a puppy anymore, but his energy usually outlasted my own.
He studied me solemnly as I got back to my feet.
“Clyde might be a bit under the weather,” I said to Cohen. “If he vomits or gets diarrhea or a fever—”
“I’ll rush him to the vet. Then I’ll call you.”
“Thanks.” I gave Cohen a quick kiss. “See you in a few hours.”
“I’ll keep the home fires burning,” he murmured.
“And if anything changes—”
“I’ve got the vet’s number memorized.”
Clyde made a low moan in his throat as I walked away and got into the Tahoe. I started the engine. Cohen and Evan waved. They looked sad and oddly worried. The price for working a case like this. I gave them a thumbs-up out the window.
Bandoni pulled past me and onto the street.
I followed.
CHAPTER 24
Some try, through violence, to control a world that seems to have passed them by. To satisfy their hatred for what they cannot have. And their hatred for those who have it.
—Sydney Parnell. Personal journal.
Attending the postmortem of Dashiell Donovan was, as Bandoni put it, nothing like a family picnic. The similarities between Donovan’s autopsy and Noah’s were agonizing—young men brought down in the prime of life, each the victim of rage-fueled torture followed by a singularly violent coup de grâce.
Hardest of all was the way in which the killers’ fury had been made manifest in the words they’d carved into their victims’ flesh—an engraved testimony of madness.
There were differences, of course. The cause of death. The form of torture. The locations of their bodies. But the final result was the same—a cold steel table in the autopsy suite, the body of a young man laid out beneath surgical lights.
Emma Bell clipped the red tag on the body bag. Pulled down the long, heavy zipper. She and her tech slid Donovan’s corpse free.
Somewhere in the distance, Donovan’s parents were on their way from Twin Falls, flying into the ruination of their lives.
Closer by, Noah Asher’s family sat hunched inside their own grief. I wondered where their second son had gone. And if we should be worried.
Detective Miller snapped photos of Donovan while Bell recited a litany of injuries.
The room grew colder. I looked up and saw Noah standing behind Bell, his ghostly image wavering under the harsh lights, an expression of deep sorrow on his face. He did not speak, but I heard his words anyway.
Fix this. And, Find Ami.
“I’m trying,” I whispered behind my paper mask.
Bandoni glanced at me. I looked down.
When my phone buzzed in my pants pocket, I jumped. I fished it out and checked caller ID.
John Yaeger. The immigration attorney I’d read about in the North Platte Telegraph’s article on ColdShip.
I’d called Yaeger on the drive over and left a message, asking for a callback. Now I held up my phone, showing Bandoni.
“I need to call this guy back,” I said. “I’ll be in the lobby.”
He regarded me gravely for a moment above his thin paper mask. Then he nodded and turned back to the autopsy table.
I grabbed a couple of three-ring binders on my way to the front. Because both the inner and outer doors would automatically lock behind me, I propped the binders in place to keep the doors from latching.
Then
