A false calm? A false sense of security? he wondered and lowered himself slightly in the stiff wooden seat, wishing that somehow he could disappear.
Then he sat straight up in his seat again. Oh, shit. Here we go! He watched closely as the homicide detective slowly walked toward the podium with Colonel Wilson. His heartbeat was like the rhythm section in a White Zombie song.
The assembly began with the usual, dumb cadet resolutions, “honesty, integrity in thought and deed,” all that crap. Then Colonel Wilson began to talk about the “cowardly murders of two children in Garfield Park.” Wilson went on: “The Metro police are canvassing the park and surrounding environs. Maybe a cadet at Theodore Roosevelt has unwittingly seen something that might help the police with their investigation. Maybe one of you can help the police in some way.”
So that was why the imposing homicide detective was here. A goddamn fishing expedition. The ongoing frigging investigation of the two murders.
The killer was still holding his breath, though. His eyes were very large and riveted to the stage as Sampson went over to the podium mike. The tall black man really stood out in the room of nothing but uniforms and short haircuts and mostly pink faces. He was huge. He was also kind of cool-looking in his black leather car coat, gray shirt, black necktie. He towered over the podium, which had seemed just the right height for Colonel Wilson.
“I served in Vietnam, under a couple of lieutenants who looked about your age,” the detective said into the mike. His voice was calm and very deep. He laughed then, and so did most of the cadets. He had a lot of presence, a whole world of presence. He definitely seemed like the real deal. The killer thought that Sampson was laughing down at the cadets, but he couldn’t be sure.
“The reason I’m here at your school this morning,” the detective went on, “is that we’re canvassing Garfield Park and everything that it touches. Two little kids were savagely killed there, both within the past week. The skulls of the children were crushed. The killer is a fiend, in no uncertain terms.”
/> The killer wanted to give Sampson the finger. The killer isn’t a fiend. You’re the fiend, mojoman. The killer is a lot cooler than you think.
“As I understand it from Colonel Wilson, many of you go home from school through the park. Others run cross-country, and you also play soccer and lacrosse in the park. I’m going to leave my number at the precinct with the office here at school. You can contact me at any time, day or night, at the number if you’ve seen anything that could be helpful to us.”
The Sojourner Truth School killer couldn’t take his eyes off the towering homicide detective who spoke so very calmly and confidently. He wondered if he could possibly be a match for this one. Not to mention motherhumping Detective Alex Cross, who reminded him of his own real father—a cop.
He thought that he could be a match for them.
“Does anybody have any questions?” Sampson asked from the stage. “Any questions at all? This is the time for it. This is the place. Speak up, young men.”
The killer wanted to shout from his seat. He had an overwhelming impulse to throw his right arm high in the air and volunteer some real help. He finally sat on his hands, right on his fingers.
I unwittingly saw something in Garfield Park, sir. I might just know who killed those two kids with an eighteen-inch, tape-reinforced baseball bat.
Actually, to be truthful, I killed them, sir. I’m the child killer, you feeble asshole! Catch me if you can.
You’re bigger. You’re much bigger. But I’m so much smarter than you could ever be.
I’m only thirteen years old. I’m already this good! Just wait until I get a little older. Chew on that, you dumb bastards.
PART IV
A-HUNTING WE WILL GO
CHAPTER
53
I LAY ON THE COUCH with Rosie the cat and a full sack of nightmares. Rosie was a beautiful, reddish brown Abyssinian. She was wonderfully athletic, independent, feral, and also a great nuzzler. She reminded me of the much larger cats of Africa in the way she moved. One weekend morning she just showed up at the house, liked it, and stayed.
“You’re not going to leave us one day, are you, Rosie? Leave us like you came?” Rosie shook her whole body. “What a dopey question,” she was telling me. “No, absolutely not. I’m part of this family now.”
I couldn’t sleep. Even Rosie’s purring didn’t relax me. I was a few aches beyond bone-tired, but my mind was racing badly. I was counting murders, not sheep. About ten o’clock I decided to go for a drive to clear my head. Maybe get in touch with my chi energy. Maybe get a sharper insight into one of the murder cases.
I drove with the car windows open. It was minus three degrees outside.
I didn’t know exactly where I was going—and yet unconsciously, I did know. Shrink shrinks shrink.
Both murder cases were running hard and fast inside my head. They were on dangerous parallel tracks. I kept reviewing and re-reviewing my talk with the CIA contract killer Andrew Klauk. I was trying to connect what he’d said to the Jack and Jill murders. Could one of the “ghosts” be Jack?
I found myself on New York Avenue, which is also Route 50 and eventually turns into the John Hanson Highway. Christine Johnson lived out this way, on the far side of the beltway in Prince Georges County. I knew where Christine lived. I’d looked it up in the casenotes of the first detective who interviewed her after Shanelle Green’s murder.
This is a crazy thing, I thought as I drove in the direction of her town—Mitchellville.
Earlier that night, I’d talked to Damon about how things were going at school now, and then about the teachers there. I eventually got around to the principal. Damon saw through my act like the little Tasmanian devil that he is sometimes.