“Hey, watch that.” The attendant got busy removing the oil can from the engine compartment. He knew he was caught and he wore a sly grin until Dolarhyde came around the van to him.
“You son of a bitch.” Fast over the /s/.
“What the hell’s the matter with you?” The attendant was about Dolarhyde’s height and weight, but he had nowhere near the muscle. He was young to have dentures, and he didn’t take care of them.
Their greenness disgusted Dolarhyde. “What happened to your teeth?” he asked softly.
“What’s it to you?”
“Did you pull them for your boyfriend, you rotten prick?” Dolarhyde stood too close.
“Get the hell away from me.”
Quietly, “Pig. Idiot. Trash. Fool.”
With a one-hand shove Dolarhyde sent him flying back to slam against the van. The oil can and spout clattered on the asphalt.
Dolarhyde picked it up.
“Don’t run. I can catch you.” He pulled the spout from the can and looked at its sharp end.
The attendant was pale. There was something in Dolarhyde’s face that he had never seen before, anywhere.
For a red instant Dolarhyde saw the spout jammed in the man’s chest, draining his heart. He saw Reba’s face through the windshield. She was shaking her head, saying something. She was trying to find the handle to roll her window down.
“Ever had anything broken, ass-eyes?”
The attendant shook his head fast. “I didn’t mean no offense, now. Honest to God.”
Dolarhyde held the curved metal spout in front of the man’s face. He held it in both hands and his chest muscles bunched as he bent it double. He pulled out the man’s waistband and dropped the spout down the front of his pants.
“Keep your pig eyes to yourself.” He stuffed money for the gas in the man’s shirt pocket. “You can run now,” he said. “But I could catch you anytime.”
36
The tape came on Saturday in a small package addressed to Will Graham, c/o FBI Headquarters, Washington. It had been mailed in Chicago on the day Lounds was killed.
The laboratory and Latent Prints found nothing useful on the cassette case or the wrapper.
A copy of the tape went to Chicago in the afternoon pouch. Special Agent Chester brought it to Graham in the jury room at midafternoon. A memo from Lloyd Bowman was attached:
Voiceprints verify this is Lounds. Obviously he was repeating dictation. It’s a new tape, manufactured in the last three months and never used before. Behavioral Science is picking at the content. Dr. Bloom should hear it when he’s well enough—you decide about that.
Clearly the killer’s trying to rattle you.
He’ll do that once too often, I think.
A dry vote of confidence, much appreciated.
Graham knew he had to listen to the tape. He waited until Chester left.
He didn’t want to be closed up in the jury room with it. The empty courtroom was better—some sun came in the tall windows. The cleaning women had been in and dust still hung in the sunlight.
The tape recorder was small and gray. Graham put it on a counsel table and pushed the button.
A technician’s monotone: “Case number 426238, item 814, tagged and logged, a tape cassette. This is a re-recording.”
A shift in the quality of the sound.