“I wanted to see your face when you saw me like this,” Loren says. “I thought you were going to shit your pants out there. You and your girlfriend both.”
Hoskins bites the inside of his cheek, hard, because he’s going to start laughing if Loren doesn’t stop talking. It’ll be hysterical, horsey laughter, and he’s not sure he’ll be able to stop once it gets started. Loren and his stupid shit, his fucking crazy ideas. If you tried to make someone like Loren follow the rules and act normal, you’d end up with a bomb strapped to your car’s undercarriage.
“I didn’t kill anyone,” he says wearily. “So you can put that stupid-ass idea right out of your head. This is a copycat killer, plain and simple.”
“I know you haven’t killed anyone. I had you cleared first thing, when Abeyta and Brody were pulled out of the water,” Loren says. He puts his forefinger on the center of the glasses and pushes them up his nose, like Seever always did, and that one movement is so damn true it’s nearly surreal, and Hoskins is hit by a wave of fear so hard it feels like a stomach cramp, nearly makes him double over. “But there’s someone out there who admires Seever, wants to finish his work.”
Loren had him cleared, and that pisses him off, but he doesn’t argue, doesn’t question why the hell Loren would suspect him first, out of anyone. Maybe he’ll bring that up later, but now he’s too damn tired.
“I’ve got to go,” he says.
“You remember Alan Cole?” Loren asks.
Hoskins shakes his head.
“He used to work with Seever, supplied the uniforms for the restaurants. The two of them were real good pals, did a lot of partying together, but we were never able to pin anything on him.”
“The real skinny guy, with the mustache?” Hoskins asks. “Yeah, I remember him.”
“Jesus, I wish I would’ve ripped that pussy tickler right off his face.”
“Why do you bring him up?”
“Cole was charged with sexual assault and attempted murder a year after Seever got locked up,” Loren says. “He bolted, been on the run ever since. I think he’s our guy. The one behind this shit.”
“Any sign of him?”
“Not yet, but we’ll find him. Turds like him always turn up, you just have to sniff ’em out.” Loren pauses. “And I don’t want you telling your girlfriend out there about this. That’s the last thing I need, it getting out that we’re looking for Cole, give him a chance to run.”
“If you’ve already got a suspect, I don’t know why I’m here at all,” Hoskins says. “Sounds like you’ve got it under control.”
Loren looks at him.
“The chief’s orders,” he says shortly. “He doesn’t think it’s Cole, still wants us to follow up on other suspects.”
“Okay.”
“I already have a task force put together,” Loren says. “You can meet them all tomorrow. In the conference room on eight.”
“Fine. I need some air.”
It’s the smell of blood that’s bothering him, the smell of death and piss, but more than anything, it’s the smell of Simms in the room that sends him reeling. It’s not perfume—she probably hadn’t been able to afford anything nice—but just deodorant, powdery and light, and laundry detergent. Basic smells, clean and fresh, and they seem so out of place here, with all the blood, and those words, those fucking words up on the wall.
Outside, there’s a Korean guy standing in the driveway, leaning against the bumper of a car, getting his blood pressure taken by a paramedic. His mouth is frozen in a wah-wah shape, like one of those unhappy masks they use in theatre, and every time he weeps, clouds of steam come puffing out from his face, only to immediately rise and disappear. Frank Cho, who said Carrie Simms was a good tenant. That she was always thankful for the kimchi and the bean sprouts he’d bring over, that she was quiet and respectful. He’d been hoping she’d renew her lease and stay on another year.
Those words on the wall, and the missing fingers—they’re small, but it’s the small things that are usually the worst, the ones that cause the most damage, like tumors hidden away in the meatiest parts of the belly, patiently waiting for the right time to spew their poison and kill the host. But it’s not only those things—it’s Loren dressed like Seever, acting like him. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. It’s not fair. He needs to be able to move on with his life. But it’ll never be over, like Seever had said. And, somehow, he’d been right the whole time.
Hoskins’s hands are shaking, and he can’t keep the image of Seever out of his head, sitting there with his wrists chained to the table legs in Interview Room Two, smiling, and probably doing the same thing with Loren, out at the prison. Talking nonstop, barely any pauses between his words, stuffing their heads full of shit. Seever had fucked Hoskins up real good, and now Loren too.