The Poet (Samantha Jazz)

Footsteps sound behind me, and I tuck that away in that place where I ping-pong things until they become more accessible. I set the album down and turn as Wade joins me and says, “I ordered from that late-night taco place you like.”

“Perfect,” I say, walking to the wall of whiteboards and corkboards, and use an eraser to wipe away notes I had left from a prior case Lang and I had worked a few weeks back. I glance at Wade over my shoulder. “Can you ask Lang to grab our case file from my briefcase on the way up?”

Lang pokes his head in the door. “I heard. I’ll grab it.” He points at Wade. “You got me ten tacos, right?”

“Yes, Lang,” Wade replies heavily. “I got you ten tacos, though no normal human can eat ten tacos.”

“Well, there you go.” He flexes his muscle and taps it. “Superman.” He drops his arm. “The tacos are small. I am big.” He disappears.

I return to wiping the board, and then grab a pen and write three columns: Austin, Houston, Brownsville. Then I move on to another column: Types of poison. A thought occurs to me and I turn to Wade. “Did the two victims have a poetry or academic connection that the report found?”

Lang steps into the room with the file in his hand. “Just in time. I’m waiting for that answer as well.”

“And a shower,” I say, turning to eye his disheveled appearance. “Seriously, after we eat you have to go home and shower and change.”

He sniffs his underarm and shrugs. “I keep clothes in the car. I’ll use your shower.” He motions to Wade. “Back to the question.”

“The Brownsville victim was a female veterinarian, well established in her small city. The Houston victim was male and a science instructor at UT.”

“I can see Summer and the instructor starting to form a victim profile,” Lang says, sitting down on the floor against the wall, near the stairs. In other words, the closest spot to get to the food first. “He was an intellectual like Summer, but a vet? I guess technically that could be intellectual. Maybe they have a college connection?” He lifts a finger. “Dave was a medical student.”

“Dave was a barista who took my order and made offensive remarks about poetry,” I argue. “That’s our victim profile. Each of these people somehow disrespected poetry in his presence.” I wave my eraser between them. “Why do I believe this? I’ll tell you. Aside from my obvious firsthand experience with Dave’s disparaging remark about poetry, Summer had the poetry books for the reading stored under the seats. One of my interviewees told me the entire reading was like being in church. That made me think. The poetry book was like a bible to The Poet. Summer disrespected the bible.”

“That seems like a stretch,” Lang says.

“It doesn’t,” I argue. “It’s not. He’s had an encounter with each of these people. We have to locate the right camera feeds and we’ll find him.”

“Don’t count on much in Brownsville outside of the border areas,” Wade says. “There isn’t much there but mom-and-pop shops. Face-to-face interviews will be critical.”

“I already talked to Martin,” Lang says. “He’s all in to head to Houston and Brownsville tomorrow with me.” I open my mouth to argue and Lang shuts me down. “You’re going to San Antonio tomorrow. And Dave’s murder is still fresh, the most critical for working a case. You work the present-day crimes. I’ll come at this from behind.”

I hesitate, fighting my deep-rooted control freak need to go along with him, but I finally concede with a short nod that he’s right. I need to stay.

“On another note,” Wade says. “There are three of the older cases that caught my eye, which I want you to look at. One man and one woman. They were all suffocated with a plastic bag and tied to a chair. Their hands, feet, and body were bound, but the cases are old enough and similar enough to warrant attention.”

“Where were they and when?”

“2016 and 2017, almost exactly one year apart in New York City, but the interesting part is this.” He stands up and walks to the desk, flipping open the file he’d given me and removing something from inside. He then walks to the corkboard to pin two photos for our review. Both victims have a giant U carved into their chests.

Chapter 59

The three of us stand in front of the pictures pinned to the board, pictures of a naked man and a woman, each with a U carved in their chests. The woman appears Caucasian. The man Hispanic. The bags over their heads make little else obvious. The U on each is drawn in a perfect, thin line that oozed blood all over the bodies and dripped to the floor. It feels too dirty to be the same killer and yet maybe that’s the point. It’s too dirty. Trial and error. He learned from his mistakes.