“I promise I'll remain a gentleman,” he said, as if he could read my thoughts. “This topic is sensitive and I shouldn't have brought it up in public.”
And I should have kept my mouth shut instead of announcing our conversation to the restaurant. “We can head back to my apartment.”
Bill asked the waiter to hail us a cab, then paid the check. When the hostess announced our ride had come, we made our way to the front door.
We remained quiet throughout the short drive, the rain once again pinging the roof. Pursing my lips, I wished I hadn't been taken by surprise and remained calm. Would he still confide in me, or was this the end of the road for my association with the charming special agent?
Once we were inside my apartment, I kicked off my shoes, shucked my coat, and fell onto the couch. The crutches made my armpits, ribs and arms hurt, and frankly, I wanted to be done with them.
“Let's get that leg up,” Bill said, grabbing a pillow and setting it on the coffee table. Sitting down, he rubbed his hands together to warm them, and I was grateful he hadn't left.
“I'm sorry about my outburst in the restaurant,” I said. “You caught me by surprise.”
“I could see that,” he replied, chuckling as he pushed his glasses up his nose. “It's not a big deal. I just think discussions about my work are better in private, and I should have remembered that before answering your question. Which is a good one, by the way.”
“Tell me about this serial killer who didn't murder Charles,” I said. “And how do you know he didn't?”
Bill leaned back against the cushions. “There wasn't any note left. The animal I'm hunting always leaves a note. The M.O. is the same—a knife to the stomach—but other things aren't right.”
“What do the notes say?”
“Anti-war slogans, usually.”
“How... how did you even end up in San Francisco? I don't understand.”
“Police stations across the nation have been notified to contact the FBI if they have a murder that fits within our parameters. I just happen to have a buddy on the San Francisco force who gave me a ring. I head up the task force that is searching for the serial killer, so I came out to look at the scene myself and to see my friend, Detective Peterson. Kill two birds with one stone, so to speak.”
I crossed my arms over my chest and furrowed my brow. “Well, if it's not your killer, then why are you still here?”
“Detective Peterson asked me to stay around for a few days and see what I could find out,” he replied with a shrug. “I had allocated three days to the investigation, so I told him I would.”
“How many people has the man killed?” I asked.
“Four so far,” Bill replied. “The last one was three weeks ago. Charles' murder would fit into the timeline of how long he waits between killings.”
A chill of fear crawled up my spine. Bill's work terrified me on some level, but I also found it quite fascinating.
“But anyway, I'd like you to set up a meeting with Wayne tomorrow,” he continued. “And have you accompany me there. I think he'll feel less threatened if I'm with someone he knows.”
I shook my head. “He didn't kill Charles. It’s a waste of time. And besides, we aren't friendly. I've seen him a few times in the hallway but I never knew his name. Charles never introduced us.”
“Why is that?”
“I don't know. Wayne is a rough looking fellow. Perhaps Charles was... I don't know… somehow protecting Donna and me from him?”
“Do you consider Wayne dangerous? Why do you think us visiting him is a waste of time?”
“To answer your first question: maybe? If he was provoked? He is a vet and told me he'd done things in the war he wasn't proud of, which I took to mean violence. As for your second question, when I finally formally met him, he had no idea Charles was dead. He cried like a baby when I told him, which didn’t seem like something a killer would do.”
“Oh, you'd be surprised. Many come back to the scene of the crime to relive the rush, or if it was a crime of passion, be that anger or love, they return out of guilt. He could have been sorry he killed his friend, or he could have been faking the sadness. I think it's important to have a few words with him.”
Recalling Wayne's tears, I didn't think he'd been pretending. They had seemed sincere to me.
If I ever killed anyone, I'd make a run for it to another country, preferably somewhere with a beach. Perhaps the Virgin Islands or Southern Mexico. I certainly wouldn't return to the crime scene.
But then, I didn't have the stomach to kill anyone, so perhaps my brain operated differently than a murderer's. At least I hoped so.
As I studied the man sitting in my apartment, I wondered if his mind worked the same as a killer's. In order to catch one, did he have to think like one?
“Could you call him and arrange something for tomorrow?” Bill asked. “Don’t mention that you’ll have an FBI agent tagging along, though. Just a meeting between you and him.”
I hesitated for a brief moment, but then decided I still wanted to help Bill in the investigation. Reaching for the phone, I nodded. Wayne answered on the second ring.
“Hi Wayne. This is Patty Byrne, Charles' neighbor.”
“Oh, yeah. Hey. What's up?”
Nerves tickled my belly as I twisted the phone cord around my finger. “Listen, I was wondering if I could stop by tomorrow.”
“Are you looking for product?”
“Yes,” I said, grimacing. I hated lying and I didn't smoke pot.
“I can bring it by if you want.”
Oh, heck. How in the world would I counter that?
“I'm actually going to be out running errands most of the day,” I replied. “It would be far easier if we could set up a general time
