The Poet (Samantha Jazz)

He scowls. “No. Do not get shouty. It hurts my head.”

I’m laughing as we step into one of several conference rooms on this floor to discover a quite elaborate crime board is in fact already set up. Lang and I step to one side of a long conference table, facing the board. Chuck claims a spot on the other side of the table and beside the board, which is a mix of corkboard, whiteboard, and pictures and maps pinned directly on the wall.

Chuck waves a hand over a row of photos. “These are the people who were at the reading that we know of, including three staff members. I have their names, ages, and the models of the cars they drive. We’re searching camera footage, looking for suspicious vehicles. I’ve also started information notebooks for us all, which include all evidence logged in to date, maps of the area near the crime scene, and much more.”

“I’m impressed,” I say. “You recruited help and it looks like you have a heck of a lot of detail already on that board.” I give him the side-eye. “Why aren’t you a detective?”

“I’m scared of guns, blood, and spiders. And you need me doing what I do.”

“You look at photos of guns, and blood, and spiders in decayed earth all day long,” I remind him.

“And even the photos give me nightmares.”

I don’t laugh, nor do I ask why he does this job. Neither does Lang, and with good reason. There aren’t many of us in this line of work who don’t have nightmares, but we still fight this fight. It’s who we are. It’s all we know. I settle my bag on the table and prepare to dig in. “Here’s what I need right now. Reviewing the footage near my apartment is number one. And we should have a photo of Newman on the board. He’s our focus right now. You did well finding him, Chuck. We need to get something, anything, substantial enough to support an arrest before he kills again.”

Chuck’s chin lowers, eyes keenly on my face. “He must have bombed the interview for you to be this convinced it’s him.”

“What we think doesn’t matter. What we can prove does.” I walk to the whiteboard at the end of the table and write “The Poet.” I glance at Chuck. “That’s his name until we have his real one.” I don’t wait for his reply. I start writing down the profile I’ve already done in my head:

An organized killer, a planner.

Highly intelligent.

Well employed.

In a circle of family to shelter himself, even convince himself he’s normal.

Caucasian.

Age: Forties.

Important note: interest in poetry.

Possible knowledge of law enforcement procedures.

When I’m done, I turn to Chuck and Lang. “Newman Smith checks all of these boxes.”

“Newman fits your profile,” Lang says, “and he sets off my creep radar. We have our prime suspect. And the only good news you just gave me is telling me that we have a planner at work. A planner takes his time and ‘plans’ before he kills. In theory, we have a little breathing room. We should have time to catch him before he kills again.”

My arms fold in front of me while objection screams through my body. “In theory,” I agree, “we should have at least a little time, but we don’t. Contrary to my profile, I don’t believe he’s going to wait to kill again.”

Chapter 32

Lang stands up, hands settling on his hips. “This is one of your gut feelings, right?”

“Until he kills again and proves me right, yes. Yes, it is.”

“Why is he different?”

“I don’t know why.” My voice rasps with frustration. “Because he can. Because he planned in advance. Because he wants us to know that he can do it right now, while we’re all over him.” My voice is louder now, and Chuck shuts the door, the very act of him doing so bringing me down a notch. “Because he knows exactly what to do. It’s a science to him now. He’s practiced. He’s ready for anything.” I repeat the portion of the poem he left behind. “‘Who laugh in the teeth of disaster, Yet hope through the darkness to find, A road past the stars to a Master.’ He’s laughing at us. He sees himself as a master and we are not up to his level of greatness.”

Lang smirks. “His arrogance is what will do him in. That’s how this always plays out with these sick fucks.”

Chuck is back on the other side of the table. “What can I do that I’m not already doing?”

“Let’s circle back,” Lang says. “Focus on him being a planner. No matter how fast he turns his victims, he’s still that person, and a planner isn’t going to kill someone at a place he’s never visited before. At some point, he was at Summer’s bookstore before the night he killed him.”