The Poet (Samantha Jazz)

“Maybe,” I say. “Or maybe he’s done this so many times that his system is perfect. Maybe part of that perfect system is that he never risks being seen twice.”

“He was at the bookstore with you.”

“Maybe I was worth the risk.”

He grimaces. “I don’t like how that sounds.”

“Interjecting here,” Chuck says. “Roberts’s team checked for nearby cameras, Ubers, and parking lots related to Summer’s murder. They found nothing to help us.”

“Which reminds me,” I say. “The cameras were off at Summer’s place. He knew where the cameras were at my apartment.”

“Your apartment management gave us a few names of service people for the building,” Chuck says. “We’re working on those. We’ll cross-reference to anyone who shows up on Summer’s history.”

I move on, thinking out loud. “We didn’t get a DNA sample from Newman today. We didn’t get the chance. What about asking his wife for one?”

“Shake her up and force him to hand his over,” Lang says, pointing at me. “I like it, but I do have to point out the obvious. We have no DNA to compare it to.”

“If we can’t place him at this scene, we need to find another scene, one where he wasn’t yet as skilled as he is now. One where he might have left DNA.”

Chuck waves a frustrated hand on that one and settles into a chair at the table. “I’ve gotten no hits on a homicide that involved cyanide or poetry. Zero. None. At least, not here in Texas.”

“Expected, really,” I say, sitting down across from him. “Which is why we have the Feds pulling a ViCAP report that will help us do a broader search. In the meantime, while we wait for that report, let’s look for who he was before he was The Poet.”

Lang sits down next to me, and I explain the hypothesis I’m forming in my head. “I believe our perp practiced at being this good at killing without leaving any evidence behind. And only now, now that he’s at master status, does he leave his signature: a poem. Was this the first poem? I find that doubtful.”

“With record keeping total shit half the time,” Lang comments, “it’s possible there were others.”

“Or perhaps a different kind of signature each time?” Chuck offers.

“Maybe,” I say. “Anything is possible. I’m hyper-focused on the poetry right now, because a reading like Summer held is specific taste, and the poem left was not something an unknowledgeable person would pull out of a hat. It spoke of real knowledge of the art of poetry. We have to work the current crime scene, but we need to think broader, to early crime scenes where he might have left DNA or another poem, or, as Chuck said, type of signature.”

“But based on what you’re thinking,” Lang says, “the crimes before we had a signature would be the crimes with his lesser skill.”

“Before he was the master and The Poet,” Chuck concludes.

“Exactly,” I agree. “We need to search for twists on our current crime scene. A different kind of poison or suspicious suicide, but the victims could still be near academics: students, teachers, literary experts. That’s his realm. We’ll find The Poet there, but the early version might not look quite like he looks now. We also need you to find out where he’s been. What trips did he take in the past, say, five years?”

Lang rejects the five-year mark. “Let’s go for ten years. These creeps start young.” He glances between me and Chuck. “I’ll get in touch with the detective who handled the missing girl from his foster home.”

Chuck’s cell phone buzzes. “One of our interns just arrived with a chunk of the security footage I’m waiting for.”

“That’s mine,” I say. “I’ll go through it.”

“What else?” Chuck asks. “Because I have five interns right now, three newbies who I didn’t expect to have. Let’s use them.”

“You got interns growing out of your ass like weeds, man,” Lang says. “What’s up with that and how soon are they going to vanish?”

“It’s a special program over at the UT criminal justice department. First time they’ve ever loaded us down like this, and without notice.”

An uneasy feeling slides through me, and I picture all those students stacked inside Newman’s classroom. “Without notice? When did you get these interns?”

Chuck gathers a few papers and sticks them in a folder. “One of them is my long-term helper, Kent. And then Louise, your intern, but I had three extras show up just this afternoon. Great timing, so I didn’t ask questions. I put them to work right before you got here.”

Lang curses and his gaze rockets to mine. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“That he certainly works fast?” I ask. “Yes. I am.”

“Lowlife bastard,” Lang mumbles. “He’s using them and their assignments to keep tabs on us.”

“More like rattle us,” I correct. “Or intimidate us.”