“Which means you’ve deduced I’m a serial killer,” I deadpanned. “Is that the nature of your visit?”
“Your interest in the subject is worrisome,” Byers said. “People like you—”
“Please go on,” I interrupted. “I’d love to hear what you think about people like me.”
Byers flipped his aviators up and sucked on his teeth. Evidently, he didn’t think this would be so hard. “Not trying to put you in a corner, ma’am. We have to follow up on reports like this. It’s not the first time someone’s checked out a book like the ones you got and used them for inspiration.”
I leaned against the doorframe, keeping my hands where the cops could see them. “It never occurred to you there might be some other reason I’m researching such a sordid topic?”
When Byers sighed, his thin blonde mustache blew like hay in a breeze. “Miss Frye, believe me. You don’t look like you have the stones to be a killer. Regardless, I’ve got a written order here that says I have to peek around your house to make sure you’re not hiding chopped-up bodies in the oven or fertilizing your back garden with the pieces. Is that okay with you?”
“Honesty really is the best policy, Officer Byers.” I stepped aside to let them in. “Don’t trip over the”—Byers immediately caught his boot on the upward curling corner of my area rug—“rug.”
Byers righted himself and dusted off his slacks. “Thanks for the heads-up.” He waved his team inside. “You know what to do.”
I could do nothing except let the officers scour my studio apartment for evidence of intentional morbidity. They attempted to spread out, but since I only owned a good four hundred square feet to myself, all in one room, the officers kept bumping into one another.
“Coffee?” I offered sarcastically to the cop who’d opened the drawer of my bedside table to find a collection of vibrators. “Something to make you feel more at home? You seem uncomfortable.”
“Sorry,” the cop muttered, shutting the drawer. He moved on to the bathroom, colliding with the officer, a woman, who was already in there. “You look around the bed.”
The female officer rolled her eyes and said to me, “Men.” Then she pulled on a pair of gloves and went to work on the bedside drawers.
I joined Dr. Witz, who waited out the police’s inspection in my tiny kitchen. “See that electric griddle?” I muttered deviously in his ear. “According to this complex’s handbook, I’m not supposed to have it. Report me. I dare you.”
“Miss Frye, I must advise you not to tease me.” Dr. Witz trembled worse than a chilly chihuahua. “I am here on behalf of your mental state.”
“I figured as much, Witz.” I hit the back of my teeth with my tongue to give the Z in his name an extra-special buzz. “What’s your story? Too broke to retire?”
Officer Byers thumped Witz on the back, almost knocking the doctor off his feet. “Don’t listen to her, Chuck. She likes to make trouble.”
“Have we met?” I asked Byers.
“Holloway case,” he replied. “Last December. I was there when you got arrested for interfering with the investigation.”
“That was after your department’s asinine detective refused to listen to me about the similarities between the Holloway case and the Golden State Killer’s victims,” I argued. “Never solved the case, did you?”
Byers turned a light shade of pink. “That’s not the point. You’ve got a bad habit of stepping over the line in the sand. If you stayed on your side, we wouldn’t be here. Let me guess. You checked out all those books because you’ve got another unsolved case to track.”
“On the contrary,” I replied. “I’m writing an article for my blog, and I wanted to cite a statistic. I couldn’t remember where I’d read it, so I checked out all the books I read before to look for it.”
“What else do you include on your blog?” Byers asked disdainfully. “Recipes and decorative tips? Arts and crafts? How to make your own body bag?”
Dr. Witz put the back of his hand to his forehead. “Oh, dear. I’m afraid I don’t feel well.”
“For your information,” I shot back at Byers, “my blog has twelve thousand followers. It’s about copycat murders, people who emulate the work of serial killers. If you took a look at it, maybe you’d be able to solve a case or two.”
“Like any of the garbage you write has an ounce of credibility,” Byers scoffed.
“Does anyone else feel warm?” Dr. Witz asked.
“I cite all my sources,” I told Byers. “I’ve interviewed reputable psychologists and criminologists who specialize in serial killers. The information I put forth is all true.”
Byers leaned across Dr. Witz. “Then why haven’t you caught anyone?”
It was my turn to flush pink. Byers grinned.
“I’ve seen your website,” he said. “It’s not a blog. It’s an advertisement for your private investigation services. You know it’s illegal to pose as a P.I. if you don’t have a license, right?”
“My clients are less fortunate than the normal population,” I said. “I work for the common people.”
“You work for crazy people,” Byers corrected. He jabbed his index finger in my face. “Stay out of our way. We’ve got enough trouble on our hands without nosy civilians like you putting their fingerprints where they don’t belong.”
“I don’t—”
Dr. Witz dropped to the floor, his eyes rolling back in his head.
“Ah, shit,” said Byers.
“Did you forget to water him?” I asked dryly.
“I don’t know, man. I think he’s diabetic.”
“He better not be dead.” I knelt next to Witz and felt for his pulse. He was still kicking. I looked at the paperwork on his clipboard. “5150 forms? Are you kidding me?”
Byers, shuffling through Witz’s pockets for something to help him, shrugged. “It was worth a shot.”
“Anyway, once we got Witz off the floor, they went on their way,” I said into my phone a few hours later as I chopped carrots and onions to make sofrito.
My best friend, Evelyn
