The killer was here before he killed Summer.
I already know what seat the witnesses claim was his and I go there now, standing in front of it and staring down at the stage. He was in a position of judge, higher than everyone else, and Summer was judged unworthy. I wonder if any of my thoughts mimic Roberts’s thoughts. His detailed investigation doesn’t support a disappearing act. Anyone who put this much work into a case would want to see it properly supported.
“Anything?” Lang asks from the doorway.
“All clear here,” I say, twisting around to face him. “What about upstairs?”
“Clear. You want to walk the apartment?”
“I’ll be right there,” I say, but I don’t move in his direction.
There’s one last thing I need to do. I sit down in the same chair where our killer sat, and I see the room the way I need to see this murder: through the eyes of The Poet.
Chapter 10
The chair that Summer died in is no longer on the property, long gone and in our labs, but that area where it sat in his apartment is taped off and easily identified. I stand in front of that tape now, in the center of the tiny but immaculately clean apartment with simple furnishings and empty bookshelves. The books that were once neatly lined up on each shelf are now in our lab as well.
Lang steps to my side but doesn’t speak, giving me time to process and share my thoughts. And that’s exactly what I do. I force my mind into his mind, the mind of the man I know as The Poet.
“He waited until the building was empty, concrete walls sealing Summer’s fate. He stood in perhaps this very spot, feeling powerful and larger than life. He looked upon a scared, naked man and welcomed his tears, even let him beg for freedom and escape. I don’t think he enjoyed these things. They were simply inevitable. Summer, in his eyes, had to die. It was necessary. Judgment had already been handed down.”
“I’ll buy all of that,” Lang says. “But how did he get him to take the pill? A threat against his sister?”
I reject that idea. “I don’t think he’d bother with his sister. He wasn’t worth that much of the killer’s time. I’d gamble on a gun, which gave him the freedom to allow Summer’s arms to be free. It would be a simple, clean threat because he knew he’d never have to fire it.” I give the phantom chair my profile and face Lang. “I think he’s actually a bit of a coward. He doesn’t want to kill them himself. And I just won’t buy into Summer as the first victim. The crime scene’s just too clean.”
“I damn sure don’t think that Summer was his only victim. Which brings me to what I know that you don’t know.”
“What don’t I know?”
“Roberts told no one before the captain that he was leaving. Roberts didn’t even line up that job in Houston. The captain did it for him.”
I could surmise about ten different things from those statements but choose to cut to the chase. “Where is this going, Lang?”
“Right back to you and this asshole being here tonight. Roberts’s phone isn’t just off, it’s not even pinging.” I open my mouth to speak, and he holds up a hand. “Just listen. He’s missing. He’s not the killer. He’s in trouble. You know it. I know.”
“That seems likely, yes.”
“And this case was his last case,” he continues. “Your case now. So here’s my question and it’s damn important, so listen up. If the killer was here tonight, did you stumble on him, or did he follow you?”
Chapter 11
I sit at the coffee shop across from Detective Jazz’s apartment and watch her Ford Focus pull into the parking garage. She knew I was there tonight. Already she validates herself as a protégée, and by doing so, justifies everything I’ve done to bring us together.
The man she, and those around her, knew as Detective Roberts had to go. His departure was necessary. He, and his identity, were the sacrificial lamb for the greater cause. He stood between me and her, and that simply couldn’t happen. Disposing of him properly demanded a rather complex execution, but it was necessary. I had to ensure that he simply vanished, gone and, eventually, as all basic humans are, forgotten. Of course, I arranged for his record to be dirtied up, the details of which will soon be discovered. Details that will make him look like he’s sinned horribly, and done his badge a disservice, thus assumed to have run to avoid persecution.
A fade to black also ensured the FBI wouldn’t nudge their way into the mix. And while I’d be quite entertained by their efforts to flex their weak muscles, they’d potentially remove Detective Jazz from the puzzle. And that isn’t an option.