“At the very least, the video will tell us if he jumped in front of that bus on purpose, or if it was really an accident,” Porter replied. “If we’re lucky, we may get a good shot of his face.”
Nash shrugged. “My money is on suicide. Why else would he be carrying that book? He knew somebody was going to read it soon, or he wouldn’t have written that last page. He wanted to check out on his own terms rather than let the cancer eat him up. I’d be willing to bet he wanted us to find that book as a final fuck-you.”
“If he planned to kill himself, why do it before he even mailed the ear?” Watson asked. “Wouldn’t it make more sense to finish with the last victim first?”
“Serial killers aren’t the most rational members of the tribe,” Nash told him. “He may have held on to the ear, knowing it would help us ID him as 4MK.” He turned back to Porter. “Don’t forget to tell them about Eisley’s girlfriend.”
Porter nodded. “Yeah, almost forgot. Eisley’s got a friend at the museum who may be able to reconstruct his face from his skull. A female friend. If that pans out, we may get a usable photo.”
“Eisley has a girlfriend? Who dates a guy who works in the morgue?” Kloz wondered aloud.
“Sounds like she volunteered. I’m not going to turn down the help,” Porter said.
Watson was staring at the image of the tattoo again. “You know, this could all be about legacy.”
“What do you mean?”
He set the phone back down. “He was dying, so he writes the journal, then he kidnaps his last victim and steps in front of that bus, knowing we’d identify him as 4MK because of the ear in the box. The infinity tattoo might mean just that—he plans to live on forever.”
“A tidy bow on a serial killer’s life,” Porter said softly.
“The really smart ones, the ones who skirt law enforcement for so long, eventually they want people to know. They want credit for their work. If you’re 4MK, would you want to die knowing the world would never know who you really are?” Watson shook his head. “Of course not; when you’ve eluded capture for as long as he has, you’d want to shout from a rooftop. We can’t touch him now, and he gets to go down in the history books.”
Porter knew the kid was right. “What does that mean for Emory?”
The room fell silent. Nobody had an answer.
* * *
Evidence Board
Victims
1. Calli Tremell, 20, March 15, 2009
2. Elle Borton, 23, April 2, 2010
3. Missy Lumax, 18, June 24, 2011
4. Susan Devoro, 26, May 3, 2012
5. Barbara McInley, 17, April 18, 2013 (only blonde)
6. Allison Crammer, 19, November 9, 2013
7. Jodi Blumington, 22, May 13, 2014
Emory Connors, 15, November 3, 2014
Left for a jog, 6:03 p.m. yesterday
TYLER MATHERS
Emory’s boyfriend
ARTHUR TALBOT
Finances?
N. BURROW
Housekeeper? Nanny?
ITEMS FOUND ON 4MK
Expensive shoes—John Lobb/$1500 pair—size 11/UNSUB wears size 9
Cheap suit
Fedora
.75 in change (two quarters, two dimes, and a nickel)
Pocket watch
Dry cleaner receipt (ticket 54873)—Kloz is narrowing down stores
Dying of stomach cancer—meds: octreotide, trastuzumab, oxycodone, lorazepam
Tattoo, right inner wrist, fresh—figure eight, infinity?
Info needed:
Was Emory enrolled in school? If yes, where?
Emory and Tyler relationship
Facial reconstruction
Assignments:
Clair—A. Montgomery Ward Park, check cancer centers
Nash and Porter go to see Tyler
Kloz, research the dry cleaner ticket, get security camera footage—can we see his face?
Watson, visit uncle regarding the watch. Background on Emory’s mother
* * *
19
Diary
Father arrived home from work promptly at 5:43 p.m. His black Porsche crawled up the driveway like a jungle cat hunting its evening prey, the engine purring with excitement. He hopped out of the driver’s seat and set his briefcase on top of the car. “Whatcha doing, champ?”
The top must have been down at some point, because his hair was askew. Father’s well-groomed pompadour was never askew. He ran his hand through his thick mane, and all was right again.
I glanced nervously at our house. Hours had passed, but Mr. Carter had not come out. Mrs. Carter had vanished too, though for that I was grateful. Crying on one’s front porch is unbecoming a lady, even one as pretty as Mrs. Carter.
“I’m hungry,” Father said. “Are you hungry? I bet your mother has quite a feast waiting for us inside. What do you say we head in and get something to eat? How would that be?”
He mussed my hair with one of his burly hands. I tried to shake him off, and he did it again, this time adding a little chuckle. “Come on, champ.” With one hand grabbing his briefcase and the other on my shoulder, he steered me toward the house.
My stomach twisted and I thought I might toss my cookies, but the feeling passed. I tried to walk slowly, to slow him down, but my efforts did little good. He tugged me along.
We walked up the back steps and pushed through the door into the kitchen. I felt eyes on my back. I turned for a moment and saw Mrs. Carter standing at a window, watching us. She held something against the side of her face. It looked like a bag of frozen peas.
Mother stood at the kitchen sink, drying dishes. As we entered, she smiled warmly and gave Father a little peck on the cheek. “How was your day, sweetie?”
Father returned the kiss and set his briefcase on the counter. “Oh, same old . . . something smells wonderful. What is that?” He took in a deep breath and walked over to the large pot on the stove.
Mother wrapped her arm around him. “Why, I made beef stew, your favorite! What else would it be?”
My eyes darted wildly. First the kitchen, then the living room, the hallway. The doors to both bedrooms and the bath stood open. There was no sign of Mr. Carter. I knew he hadn’t left. I was certain of this. He would have had to pass me. He would have—
“Well, it smells delicious,” Father crooned. “Why don’t you set the table, champ? I’m going to pour myself a little something nice on the rocks.”
Mother grinned at me. “Soup bowls and dinnerware, dear. Maybe those pretty red ones?”
I imagine my eyes were saucers, but Mother didn’t seem to notice. She started to whistle, donned oven mitts, and carried the stew pot over to the dining table.
I stood frozen for a moment, my gaze fixed on her, then I went to the silverware drawer and pulled out three soup spoons. Although I had grown tremendously over the past year, I still couldn’t reach the cabinet that housed the bowls. We kept a small stepladder in the kitchen for such moments. I climbed up, retrieved three, and proceeded to set the table.
Father returned with his drink and took a seat, tucking a napkin into his shirt. “So, what did you do today, buddy?” he asked me.
I glanced back at Mother. She was busy slicing a loaf of bread.
Mr. Carter wasn’t in the kitchen, the bedrooms, or the living room. Father would have seen him. He hadn’t left. I knew he hadn’t.