The far right easel is for my notes. I have two columns on this one as well. The left side contains official evidence the police have gathered. Times of death, locations, statements from witnesses. All condensed in my shaking, scribbled notes. I have documented the bodies’ positions, their conditions. I have included anything else that I think might have some meaning.
As I scan the notes, I’m mildly surprised there are neither footprints nor fingerprints found in any of the cases.
Clever son of a bitch, I think, and sip from the hot tea Numi has made me. I know it will take a lot of forethought and, quite frankly, luck to leave neither type of evidence.
He’s strong, I suddenly think. I nod to myself. Yes, this much was obvious. Would take a damned strong man to maneuver the bodies without messing up the crime scene.
Also among my notes, I have laid out what I consider the most important clues left by the killer. I focus on these clues: the position of the bodies, the cleared ground, the markings, even the cheesecake, crazy as that seems.
I continue sipping the green tea. Numi has left for the time being, but I know he will return in a couple of hours to check on me. Before leaving, along with the tea, he makes me a natural liver cleanser, frappéed from the blender with God knows what. It is green in color and looks awful. Welcome to my world. I can still taste what I assume is ginger, kale, cayenne pepper, and blackberries. He insists I drink it before he leaves and although I have to choke down the last quarter, I am grateful for his effort. But I don’t tell him I am grateful. I put up a mild fight. I resist. I make his job harder than it has to be. I am a dick to him sometimes. Okay, often. I hate that about myself.
But still he comes back. Still he helps. Still he cares for me. Still he loves me. Why, I don’t know. He just does.
I have my cell phone next to me, my hand ready to pick up if and when it rings. Mary finally called last night and I tried in vain to sound energetic and upbeat, but I could tell she detected this farce. What she thought of the farce, I didn’t know. But Mary, better than most, knew the full extent of my situation. She also knew what she was getting into. I would have loved to have seen her last night. I would also love to not be dying. Anyway, I kick myself for not doing a better job of feigning improved health; perhaps she would have come to me. Instead, she’d promised to call me today.
Better than nothing, I think.
And so I keep my phone next to me and I focus for the hundredth time on my clues. A figure “8.” A circle and a square. Fast food: pepperoni and cheesecake. What do they all have in common? I cannot for the life of me, no pun intended, see the connections.
My mind is slipping now, and I think Mary will not call. Why should she? I’m dying. Perhaps she wanted to give me some sense that I am still alive, still human. A gift for the dying. If so, it was a kind and thoughtful gift and I have no hard feelings towards her if she doesn’t want to see me again. At least this is what I try to convince myself of.
With these photos in front of me, photos of the dead, I jump at the sudden knock on the door. For an instant, I think it is the killer come to destroy what life I have left on this earth, and I instantly move my hand to the gun I have stashed in a nearby drawer. I used to not be so jumpy. I used to be calm and collected, trusting my instincts and street smarts to get me through any case. Now, I operate on a fear-based level, and I hate that about myself.
No fear, I think to myself as I stand on weak legs.
Who would come here now? Numi would let himself in. Mary promised to call. Detective Dobbs is waiting for my professional opinions and conclusions. There’s no one else in my life. No one, at least, who gives a damn.
I realize it is getting dark and I have not turned on any lights. I take a sip of the green tea, which is, incidentally, refreshing after all the caffeine and alcohol I’ve ingested lately. After a few sips—and after I wonder if this will be my last cup of green tea on this earth—I get up slowly. I switch on a nearby lamp, and then head over to the front door where I look through the peephole.
Eddie, Olivia’s husband, is standing outside my door rocking back and forth, impatient. Eddie has always been a little impatient. He’s glancing over his shoulder at something I can’t see, and as he reaches up to knock again, I open the door.
“Eddie,” I say, but my voice trails off. I wasn’t expecting to see my onetime friend standing outside my door. My onetime friend who’d just discovered his wife had been brutally murdered. I’ve dealt with grieving families before, yes. But rarely someone so close to me.
He nods sadly.
“Come in,” I say.
“Thanks, Jimmy.”
“How you holding up?” I say lamely as I shut the door behind him, my brain not quite firing right. Then again, what the hell else am I supposed to say?
Eddie is running his fingers through hair that seems a bit greasy. In fact, he looks like a royal mess. No surprise there. His wife had been found murdered just a few days earlier, her throat slit. Jesus, it is amazing he is even cognizant.
“I’m okay, I guess,” he says. He seems to lose his train of thought, blinks once, twice, looks at me again, and then says, “I just wanted to see how you’re doing.”
I’m touched. Eddie seems to have done a complete one-eighty with me, from ignoring me to checking in on my health. Then again, my health has a direct bearing to me being able to work on this case.
I lead him into my living room and for some reason, I wish he didn’t have to look at my easels. My puzzle. My case. But he does see everything as he takes a seat. From the couch, he can’t quite see everything, but he understands that I am working.
I stand in front of the easel with Olivia’s details. I am not aware if Eddie has seen his wife’s photos or not. They’re not a pretty sight and certainly no way to remember a loved one. I see the tears in his eyes. Too late. He’s seen them. He finally looks away, collects himself.
“You are working on the case,” he says.
“Hard as I can,” I say.
He nods, fighting the tears. The tears aren’t for me. They are for the woman he had created a life with, a woman he struggled with, a woman he often fought with. A woman whose murdered body is presently on display behind me.
“I hope I didn’t come at a bad time.”
“Probably never going to be a good time, Eddie. Not anymore.”
He looks at me for a long time. “It’s good to see you, Jimmy.”
“What’s left of me.”
“You look, um, good.”