Outside, a November snowstorm raged, but inside we warmed ourselves by the fire of a media frenzy.
"As you remember from my first report on the death of local farmer David Bird," said Rask, "there was an oily substance found near the site; we initially suspected it was left by some kind of getaway vehicle, but forensic tests have now shown it to be biological in nature. According to an unnamed source inside the investigation, the FBI was able to find in that substance a very small sample of DNA in an advanced state of degeneration. Early this morning, they identified that DNA as being human in origin, but that, unfortunately, is where the trail ends. The DNA does not match either of the victims, nor does it match any of the current suspects, local missingpersons cases, or anyone in the state DNA records. I should stress here that the DNA database we're dealing with is very limited—the technology is new, and there are very few records in any city that date back more than five years. Without widespread DNA testing comparable to the national fingerprint database, this DNA signature may never be identified."
He was so steely and serious, as if he could win a journalism award through sheer charisma. Mom still hated him, and refused to watch—it's only a matter of time, she said, before he starts pointing fingers and somebody gets lynched. Tensions were high in town, and. the prospect of a third killing hung over us all like a cloud.
"While police have been testing the crime-scene evidence," said Rask, "the Five Live News team has been doing an investigation of our own, and we've turned up something very interesting: an unsolved case more than forty years old involving a black substance very similar to that found in this case. Could it help catch the killer? We'll have more on that story tonight at ten. This is Ted Rask, Five Live News. Back to you, Sarah."
But Ted Rask did not come back at ten. The Clayton Killer got him. His cameraman found him just after eight-thirty in the alley behind their motel, gutted and missing a leg. Smeared on his face and head was a huge blob of acrid black sludge. It must have been hot, because it blistered him red as a lobster.
"I hear you've been terrorizing the kids at school," said Dr. Neblin.
I ignored the doctor and stared out the window, thinking about Rask's body. Something about it was. . . wrong.
"I don't want you using my diagnosis as a weapon to scare people with," said Neblin. "We're doing this so you can improve yourself, not so you can throw your pathology in other people's faces."
Faces. Rask's face had been smeared with the sludge— why? It seemed humiliating—something the killer had never been before. What was happening?
"You're ignoring me, John," said Neblin. "Are you thinking about the new murder last night?"
"It wasn't a murder," I said, "it was a serial killing."
"Is there a difference?"
"Of course there's a difference," I said, spinning around to stare at him. I felt almost,. . betrayed by his ignorance.
"You're a psychologist, you have to know this. Murder is ... well, different. Murderers are people like drunks and jealous husbands—they have reasons for what they do."
"Serial killers don't have reasons?"
"Killing is its own reason," I said. "There's something inside of a serial killer that's hungry, or empty, and killing is how they fill it. Calling it murder makes it . . . cheap. It makes it sound stupid."
"And you don't want serial killing to sound stupid."
"It's not that, it's . . . I don't know how to say it." I turned back toward the window. "It feels wrong."
"Maybe you're trying to make serial killers into something they're not," said Neblin. "You want them to have some kind of special significance."
I ignored him, sullen. The cars outside drove slowly on the sheet of black ice that covered the street. I hoped one of them slid into a pedestrian.
"You saw the news last night?" asked Neblin. He was baiting me to talk by bringing up my favorite subject. I kept silent and stared out the window.
"It seems a little suspicious," he said. "That reporter announced that he had a clue related to the killer, and then died just an hour and a half before he had the chance to reveal that clue to the world. It seems to me that he was on to something."
Great thinking, Sherlock. The news at ten had made the same conclusion.
"I don't really want to talk about this," I said.
"Then maybe we can talk about Rob Anders," said Neblin.
I turned back to look at him. "I wanted to ask who told you about that."
"I got a call from the school counselor yesterday," said Neblin. "As far as I know, she and I are the only ones he's talked to. You gave him nightmares, though."
I smiled.
"It's not funny, John, it's a sign of aggression."