“We should check the rest, then.”
He began with the right front pants pocket, checking them again in case something was missed, then worked his way around the body. As items were discovered, he gently set them down at his side. Nash tagged them and Watson photographed.
“That’s it. Not much to go on.”
Porter examined the items:
Dry cleaner’s receipt
Pocket watch
Seventy-five cents in assorted change
The receipt was generic. Aside from number 54873, it didn’t contain any identifying information, not even the name or address of the cleaners.
“Run everything for prints,” Porter instructed.
Nash frowned. “What for? We have him, and his prints came back negative.”
“Guess I’m hoping for a Hail Mary. Maybe we’ll find a match and it will lead to someone who can identify him. What do you make of the watch?”
Nash held the timepiece up to the light. “I don’t know anyone who carries a pocket watch anymore. Think maybe this guy’s older than you thought?”
“The fedora would suggest that too.”
“Unless he’s just into vintage,” Watson pointed out. “I know a lot of guys like that.”
Nash pushed the crown, and the watch’s face snapped open. “Huh.”
“What?”
“It stopped at fourteen past three. That’s not when this guy got hit.”
“Maybe the impact jarred it?” Porter thought aloud.
“There’s not a scratch on it, though, no sign of damage.”
“Probably something internal, or maybe it wasn’t wound. Can I take a look?”
Nash handed the pocket watch to Porter.
Porter twisted the crown. “It’s loose. The spring’s not grabbing. Amazing craftsmanship though. I think it’s handmade. Collectible for sure.”
“I’ve got an uncle,” Watson announced.
“Well, congrats on that, kid,” Porter replied.
“He owns an antique shop downtown. I bet he could give us some color on this.”
“You’re really trying to earn a gold star today, aren’t you? Okay, you’re on watch duty. Once these things are logged into inventory, take it down there and see what you can find out.”
Watson nodded, his face beaming.
“Anybody notice anything odd about what he’s wearing?”
Nash examined the body once more, then shook his head.
“The shoes are nice,” Eisley said.
Porter smiled. “They are, aren’t they? Those are John Lobbs. They go for about fifteen hundred a pair. The suit is cheap, though, possibly from a box store or the mall. Probably no more than a few hundred at best.”
“So, what are you thinking?” Nash asked. “He works in shoes?”
“Not sure. I don’t want to jump to conclusions. Just seems odd a man would spend so much on shoes without a comparable spend on his suit.”
“Unless he works in shoe sales and got some kind of deal? That does makes sense,” Watson said.
“I’m glad you concur. Silly comments will get your gold star revoked.”
“Sorry.”
“No worries, Doc. I’m just busting your balls. I’d pick on Nash, but he’s too used to my shit at this point. It’s no fun anymore.” Porter’s attention drifted back to the small composition book. “Can you hand me that?”
Watson passed it to him, and he turned to the first page. Porter’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the text.
Hello, my friend.
I am a thief, a murderer, a kidnapper. I’ve killed for fun. I’ve killed out of necessity. I have killed for hate. I have killed simply to satisfy the need that tends to grow in me with the passage of time. A need much like a hunger that can only be quenched by the draw of blood or the song found in a tortured scream.
I tell you this not to frighten you or impress you but simply to state the facts, to put my cards on the table.
My IQ is 156, a genius level by all accounts.
A wise man once said, “To measure your own IQ, to attempt to label your intelligence, is a sign of your own ignorance.” I did not ask to take an IQ test; it was administered upon me—take from that what you will.
None of this defines who I am, only what I am. That is why I’ve chosen to put pen to paper, to share that which I am about to share. Without the sharing of knowledge, there can be no growth. You (as a society) will not learn from your many mistakes. And you have so much to learn.
Who am I?
To share my name would simply take the fun out of this, don’t you think?
You most likely know me as the Four Monkey Killer. Why don’t we leave it at that? Perhaps 4MK, for those of you prone to abbreviate? The simpler of the lot. No need to exclude anyone.
We are going to have such fun, you and I.
“Holy fuck,” Porter muttered.
5
Diary
I’d like to set the record straight from the very beginning.
This is not my parents’ fault.
I grew up in a loving home that would have made Norman Rockwell take note.
My mother, God bless her soul, gave up a promising career in publishing to stay home after my birth, and I don’t believe she ever longed to return. She had breakfast on the table every morning for my father and me, and supper was held promptly at six. We cherished such family time, and it was spent in the most jovial of ways.
Mother would recount her exploits of the day with Father and me listening attentively. The sound of her voice was that of angels, and to this day I long for more.
Father worked in finance. I am most certain he was held in high regard by his peers, although he didn’t discuss his work at home. He firmly believed that the day-to-day happenings of one’s employ should remain at the place of business, not brought home and spilled within the sanctuary of the residence as one might dump out a bucket of slop for the pigs to feast on. He left work at work, where it belonged.
He carried a shiny black briefcase, but I never once saw him open it. He set it beside the front door each night, and there it remained until he left for the office on the next business day. He would scoop the briefcase up on his way out, only after a loving kiss for Mother and a pat on the head for me.
“Take care of your mother, my boy!” he would say. “You are the man of the house until I return. Should the bill man come knocking, send him next door to collect. Do not pay him any mind. He is of no consequence in the large scheme of things. Better you learn this now than fret about such things when you have a family of your own.”
Fedora upon his head and briefcase in hand, he would slip out the door with a smile and a wave. I would go to the picture window and watch him as he made his way down the walk (careful of the ice during the cold winters) and climbed into his little black convertible. Father drove a 1969 Porsche. It was a marvelous machine. A work of art with a throaty growl that rumbled forth with the turn of the key and grew louder still as it eased out onto the road and lapped up the pavement with hungry delight.