of what you must have been thinking at the end. Were you wondering where I was? Were you sad? Because I'm sad, baby. I'm sad all the time, and I'm so sorry."
Then there was nothing but the tears, and Patty gave into them. In her heart she knew that the tears were half the reason she came here so often. They felt terrible coming up, but when they were out of her they were replaced by a weary sense of peace that was better than anything else she felt these days.
When she was done and walking back to her car, she caught a sight of the man who was waiting for her and cursed beneath her breath.
"Hey Patty," Bud said. He was leaning up against her car, his arms crossed.
"What do you want?" she muttered, pushing past him and walking to the driver's side door.
"Well for one, I'd like to know how you're doing. I haven't seen you in a while."
"I'm fine," she said, fumbling for her keys. This conversation could not be over soon enough to suit her.
"Are you?" Bud asked. "You don't look great, Patty."
She let out a breath and shook her head. "Like you care," she said, finally finding the car key and putting it to the lock.
Bud put his hand on the door frame to prevent her from opening it. "I do care," Patty. "Maybe not as much as you wanted me to, but I do care."
"Don't flatter yourself," she snarled, getting angry. "It was a one-time thing. You were the one who couldn't seem to understand that."
Bud leaned in towards her. "Patty, look at yourself. You look like shit. Your breath could attract flies. You are not fine."
"I'm fine!" Patty near-shouted, jerking at the door.
Bud stepped back, letting her go. "Get your shit together, Patty. If you don't want to see me, that's fine. It's in the past. Over and done. No need for anyone to hear about it, ever."
Patty settled into the driver's seat and laughed bitterly. "Is that what you're afraid of, Bud? That your partner will find out what a piece of shit you are? I wouldn't worry. He probably already knows."
With that she pulled out with a squeal and drove off. Her chest felt tight and she was having trouble catching her breath. She wanted to turn the car around and punch Bud in the face. Instead she took a right and headed toward the bar.
C HAPTER S EVENTEEN
The folder lay open for more than twenty minutes on Sam's desk while he tried to make sense of it.
He'd begun the search with mixed emotions. Everything had seemed so clear when Jasmine Martin's corpse bore a pattern of wounds that matched the modus operandi of a sexual predator who had already been tried and convicted. When it turned out that the rapist and murderer in question was out on the street, ready to kill again, it had all seemed like it was wrapped up in a neat little package. Sam was the sort of man who liked it when things made sense. In retrospect, he realized, he was also the sort of man who made mistakes when things were a little too tidy.
Now he had a second corpse with wounds that didn't fit the pattern. Sam returned to the files, looking without much hope for a second killer who murdered one of his victims in one way, and another in a different way. The idea was contrary to everything Sam had learned in his years on the force. Everything he knew told him that killers find a method and stick to it. Most murders are one-time things. They are crimes of passion that lack premeditation or precision. But the killers who liked it, the ones who came back to killing again and again, found a method that suited them and relied on it the way an old woman relies on her Bible.
So it was without much hope that Sam looked for a killer who had two methods. Instead he had found something that was in some ways worse than nothing.
Sam was looking at the case file of Stewart Smalls. Stewart was a quiet man, a loner who lived in his mother's basement until he was 35 years old. By day he worked in the post office, sorting mail. By night, he frequented pornographic theaters, spent his money on strippers, and
Then there was nothing but the tears, and Patty gave into them. In her heart she knew that the tears were half the reason she came here so often. They felt terrible coming up, but when they were out of her they were replaced by a weary sense of peace that was better than anything else she felt these days.
When she was done and walking back to her car, she caught a sight of the man who was waiting for her and cursed beneath her breath.
"Hey Patty," Bud said. He was leaning up against her car, his arms crossed.
"What do you want?" she muttered, pushing past him and walking to the driver's side door.
"Well for one, I'd like to know how you're doing. I haven't seen you in a while."
"I'm fine," she said, fumbling for her keys. This conversation could not be over soon enough to suit her.
"Are you?" Bud asked. "You don't look great, Patty."
She let out a breath and shook her head. "Like you care," she said, finally finding the car key and putting it to the lock.
Bud put his hand on the door frame to prevent her from opening it. "I do care," Patty. "Maybe not as much as you wanted me to, but I do care."
"Don't flatter yourself," she snarled, getting angry. "It was a one-time thing. You were the one who couldn't seem to understand that."
Bud leaned in towards her. "Patty, look at yourself. You look like shit. Your breath could attract flies. You are not fine."
"I'm fine!" Patty near-shouted, jerking at the door.
Bud stepped back, letting her go. "Get your shit together, Patty. If you don't want to see me, that's fine. It's in the past. Over and done. No need for anyone to hear about it, ever."
Patty settled into the driver's seat and laughed bitterly. "Is that what you're afraid of, Bud? That your partner will find out what a piece of shit you are? I wouldn't worry. He probably already knows."
With that she pulled out with a squeal and drove off. Her chest felt tight and she was having trouble catching her breath. She wanted to turn the car around and punch Bud in the face. Instead she took a right and headed toward the bar.
C HAPTER S EVENTEEN
The folder lay open for more than twenty minutes on Sam's desk while he tried to make sense of it.
He'd begun the search with mixed emotions. Everything had seemed so clear when Jasmine Martin's corpse bore a pattern of wounds that matched the modus operandi of a sexual predator who had already been tried and convicted. When it turned out that the rapist and murderer in question was out on the street, ready to kill again, it had all seemed like it was wrapped up in a neat little package. Sam was the sort of man who liked it when things made sense. In retrospect, he realized, he was also the sort of man who made mistakes when things were a little too tidy.
Now he had a second corpse with wounds that didn't fit the pattern. Sam returned to the files, looking without much hope for a second killer who murdered one of his victims in one way, and another in a different way. The idea was contrary to everything Sam had learned in his years on the force. Everything he knew told him that killers find a method and stick to it. Most murders are one-time things. They are crimes of passion that lack premeditation or precision. But the killers who liked it, the ones who came back to killing again and again, found a method that suited them and relied on it the way an old woman relies on her Bible.
So it was without much hope that Sam looked for a killer who had two methods. Instead he had found something that was in some ways worse than nothing.
Sam was looking at the case file of Stewart Smalls. Stewart was a quiet man, a loner who lived in his mother's basement until he was 35 years old. By day he worked in the post office, sorting mail. By night, he frequented pornographic theaters, spent his money on strippers, and
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