“This doesn’t feel like the same guy at all,” Lang says.

“Unless it is,” I reply.

“The Poet is clean, neat.”

“So are the lines of that U. Impeccable, even. He wasn’t always the killer he is now. That’s my theory and I’m sticking with it.” I glance at Wade. “Do we know what was used to carve the Us?”

“They never found a tool of any sort.”

“Where did the bags come from?”

“They’re manufactured in Canada and used to freeze dry foods. Without a suspect, that didn’t get investigators far. And before you ask, they never had a solid lead.”

“The timing sounds like a convention that comes to town the same time of year every year,” Lang suggests.

I walk to the board and start a list:

•Did anyone in Newman’s house buy those bags?

•Was Newman in New York on the dates of the murders?

•Was there a poetry or literary convention on those dates?

•What conventions were in town, in general, those weeks?

•Do the suspects have any connection to our local suspects?

•What does the U mean?

Wade pins a list of words on the board. “The computer and my class made a list of potential meanings.”

I step back and read the list:

Useless

User

Unanimous

Unknown

Undone

Unworthy

Ugly

Ulcer

Unacceptable

The list goes on and on. Lang steps closer and begins to read. “Holy hell,” he mumbles. “I didn’t know there were so many words that start with U.”

I return to the word “unworthy” and think of a master and a god, the way I believe The Poet sees himself, and it feels right. I circle it. A poem by Roald Dahl called “The Three Little Pigs” comes to my mind and I begin quoting a small portion of what is a rather long work:

“The Wolf said, ‘Okay, here we go!’

He then began to blow and blow. The little pig began to squeal.

He cried, ‘Oh Wolf, you’ve had one meal! Why can’t we talk and make a deal?’

The Wolf replied, ‘Not on your nelly!’ And soon the pig was in his belly.”

I stop speaking and I can feel Wade and Lang looking at me, waiting for me to explain what feels obvious.

Seconds tick by in which I wait for them to understand, and finally Lang loses patience. “What the hell was that?”

Wade then breaks his silence. “What are you telling us?”

“Yeah,” Lang snaps. “Cut through the poetry bullshit that means something only to you and maybe The Poet.”

“That once he judges them, they can’t win back his good graces. They can’t feed him good words to make up for the bad. He’s already decided they must die. They’re unworthy.”

Chapter 60

Lang, Wade, and I spend hours dissecting pieces of the case, calling everyone we can call despite the late hour, and pushing for answers and ways to catch The Poet. Lang and Martin set up flights that leave at noon. Somewhere in there, we eat tacos and listen to jazz while I try to capture whatever thought is fluttering around in my mind, and generally turn my wall into a collage of paper.

At some point, we divide and conquer. Wade claims the hammock, where he’s looking through our two local cases, double-checking us, seeing if he can find things we’ve missed, which we welcome.

Lang is sitting on the floor, leaning on the desk with a pad of sticky notes, working through who he needs to see where tomorrow and what leads to follow up on. I claim the floor in front of the crime wall, looking through the FBI report and adding to my list of questions. For a good hour, I keep Chuck on the phone, going through all the conventions we can. After which, my MacBook is beside me, and I dictate what is certain to be a lengthy list of additional notes to be waiting for him when he arrives at work tomorrow. At some point, my back hurts, my eyes hurt, and my mind is frustrated. I lie back and stare up at the ceiling fan someone turned on. Maybe it was me. I’m too tired to remember. I shut my eyes for just a few seconds, the temptation of sleep overwhelming.

My eyes pop open, and I stare at the light fixture directly above me, a low glow of light slowly widening my irises. The smell of tacos torments my nostrils while the hard floor is no gentler on my back. There is also a low buzzing sound frustrating my ears. I sit up and I’m staring at the crime scene wall. Groaning, I twist around to my hands and knees to find Wade asleep sitting up in the hammock, head drooping sideways to the cushion. Lang is passed out on the floor with papers all around him, still by the desk. And my phone, which stopped ringing and started again, is sitting on that desk. Don’t ask me how it got there or how long we’ve all been asleep. I don’t even have a window as a timeline guide.

Tags: Lisa Renee Jones Thriller
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