The Poet (Samantha Jazz)
That means I need to become dangerous to him, and quickly.
Chapter 14
After my call with Wade, I refill my wineglass, treat myself to another bag of popcorn, and tackle my next big problem. How to narrow my approach to the data dump I’ve been given. Deciding how to approach this takes me back to my teen years when I’d spent hours on end at a table with my father and godfather, now the chief of police, nosing into their case files. They’d tried to protect me from the horrors in those files but eventually gave in to my persistence. I’d become their protégée, and both lectured me not to get lost in the overload of data each case delivered, stressing how important it was to pick out the most productive angles of a case and focus. Most importantly, find “the system,” my system, whatever that might be, and use it religiously.
For me, that means writing out lists the old-fashioned way, with pen and paper. It drives Lang crazy, probably because his system is all about pushing to the point of bullish demands of everyone who stands between him and solving the case. To each their own, but my lists have helped us catch more than a few killers.
And so, I do what I’ve been taught, what has worked for me over and over again. I spend hours sitting on my couch, working through the massive information dump Chuck has given me, trying to find the pieces inside the volume that matter. I have pages of notes, lists of things to do, and a plan of attack to unravel the mystery.
History and experience tell me that The Poet wants attention; otherwise, he’d simply disappear rather than leave law enforcement a message to decode. Sadly, I give him what he wants by retiring upstairs to my bedroom that overlooks the living area, with my Kindle and the book of poems Chuck put together for me. Propped against my headboard, snuggled under my down comforter, the air cranked a little too cold, I read while eating a healthy serving of chocolate. I’ve often wondered if serial killers eat chocolate, with the same conclusion. They do not, and perhaps that’s their problem.
Somewhere in the middle of my studies, I jot down another page of notes filled with possible interpretations of the words before me. Poetry is often a bit of a mysterious, deep read, and my history interpreting it has often helped me decode a crime scene. But I don’t feel like I have enough of The Poet’s chosen words to tell me a real story.
When I finally turn out the lights, I stare into the darkness, my ice machine clunking loudly in the other room a few times while The Poet clunks just as loudly in my head. I know Roberts nicknamed him The Professor, while I call him The Poet. We could assume that means Roberts felt he was a professor, but perhaps he simply grabbed a nickname as I did, for his own mental processing. To believe he’s an actual professor could be too small-minded. Obvious assumption is a good way to get outsmarted. And yet, ironically, I feel as if I’m missing something obvious.
I shut my eyes and drift into sleep with the poem The Poet left us in my head:
Who laugh in the teeth of disaster,
Yet hope through the darkness to find
A road past the stars to a Master
Chapter 15
I wake to a beam of sunshine, to that damn poem still playing in my head, to a freezing cold room, and to something about this case niggling at my mind. Frustrated that I can’t just turn it into a coherent thought, and in need of a run to clear my head, I glance at my Apple watch. Confirming that it’s only seven a.m., early enough to avoid the scorching sun, I suit up in workout tights, a tank top, and my sneakers.
Some cops drink their way out of hell, but one glass of wine—okay, two last night—is it for me and with reason. I’m a stupid drinker. Stupid is a good way to end up dead. That leaves running, karate, and the gym. I hate fat, out-of-shape cops. It’s perhaps a mentality I inherited from my father, but one that I maintain. It’s not about body shaming or judging at all. It’s about staying alive for your family. It’s about being fit enough to save an innocent life. Because any edge you have or don’t have could cost someone their life. And sometimes having every humanly possible edge isn’t enough, as proven by my father’s murder.
Feeling that pinch of dueling emotions again, I slide a credit card into the pocket just inside my pants for a coffee run on the way home. I need that run. I really, really do.