self-preservation—his loss was foreordained, barring a miracle—but rather so that the new sheriff could make the discovery public and begin his term at a running start. It was the least G. William could do for the community, he felt.
By noon, he was feeling less hungover, slightly more alert. On a whim, he decided to log into the FBI’s ViCAP computer system. It was out of a sense of completeness, more than anything else. When Sweep-in-the-New swept into office and asked, smugly, “And did you run it by the feds?” G. William wanted to be able to say, “Yes. Yes, I did.”
He spent the better part of the afternoon meticulously filling out the questionnaire in between the usual interruptions from his deputies and support staff.
Never expecting the three words that eventually popped up on his screen and changed his life.
Hand-in-Glove.
G. William blanched when he saw the words.
The Hand-in-Glove Killer. Famous from a few years back. Killed his way through part of the Midwest before disappearing. He’d murdered some way back, then went away for a little while, then came back to do more.
Usually, when serial killers vanish, it’s because they’ve been arrested for something else—the caesura in their depredations is enforced by the coincidence of their incarceration. The world assumed Hand-in-Glove had been locked up somewhere and rotted in a prison cell in Kansas.
But he’s here. He’s here in the Nod.
The details of the cases had slipped from G. William’s memory over the years, though the killer’s odd name had not. But reading through the ViCAP report, he found himself recalling them easily.
Hand-in-Glove liked blonds, with six of his seven victims being blonds not much older than the dead girls of Lobo’s Nod. One had been younger—only fifteen years old.
And he had switched the undergarments.
The bra from Victim Two found on Victim Six. The panties from Victim Seven on Victim One. He’d killed them, hidden some of the bodies, no doubt revisiting them to reexperience his crimes. They’d been recovered out of order—years, in some cases—and it had taken the FBI months to reconstruct the chronology of the murders. There was a note in the ViCAP file that an FBI agent named J. Morales was to be contacted with any new information.
G. William’s hand trembled on the computer mouse. Did he have new information? Was Hand-in-Glove really stalking the Nod?
He didn’t want to believe it. He wanted to believe it was a copycat. But the swapping of undergarments had apparently not been released to the public. A copycat wouldn’t know to do that.
What are the odds of two perverts killing the same kind of girl and swapping their skivvies? For real.
It boggled the mind. The idea that a serial killer—and one who’d gotten some national exposure, too—could be living in the Nod. Somewhere, the spirit of old Étienne LeBeau was no doubt looking up from hell and cackling with approval.
So, what now, Gareth?
The answer was as obvious as it was impossible: He should contact this Special Agent Morales. He should notify the state police and start up a task force.
And how do you suppose that’s gonna look? Right before the election? You suddenly tell everyone you have a lead and the cases are linked and the killer happens to be the bogeyman of the Midwest. It’s gonna look like you’re trying to grab the election at the last minute. Like you’re desperate to hold on to this chair, this desk.
By the same token, though, he couldn’t do nothing . That was a complete abrogation of his duty, of his sworn oath.
What did he have to go on, anyway? Panties. Panties and blond hair and three words.
Hand-in-Glove.
He would call Special Agent Morales. That was what he would do. He would call Morales, and the man would either laugh his ass off at the hick from the sticks or maybe it would be something more. Then let the FBI announce it. Let them handle the press.
His hand was halfway to the phone when
By noon, he was feeling less hungover, slightly more alert. On a whim, he decided to log into the FBI’s ViCAP computer system. It was out of a sense of completeness, more than anything else. When Sweep-in-the-New swept into office and asked, smugly, “And did you run it by the feds?” G. William wanted to be able to say, “Yes. Yes, I did.”
He spent the better part of the afternoon meticulously filling out the questionnaire in between the usual interruptions from his deputies and support staff.
Never expecting the three words that eventually popped up on his screen and changed his life.
Hand-in-Glove.
G. William blanched when he saw the words.
The Hand-in-Glove Killer. Famous from a few years back. Killed his way through part of the Midwest before disappearing. He’d murdered some way back, then went away for a little while, then came back to do more.
Usually, when serial killers vanish, it’s because they’ve been arrested for something else—the caesura in their depredations is enforced by the coincidence of their incarceration. The world assumed Hand-in-Glove had been locked up somewhere and rotted in a prison cell in Kansas.
But he’s here. He’s here in the Nod.
The details of the cases had slipped from G. William’s memory over the years, though the killer’s odd name had not. But reading through the ViCAP report, he found himself recalling them easily.
Hand-in-Glove liked blonds, with six of his seven victims being blonds not much older than the dead girls of Lobo’s Nod. One had been younger—only fifteen years old.
And he had switched the undergarments.
The bra from Victim Two found on Victim Six. The panties from Victim Seven on Victim One. He’d killed them, hidden some of the bodies, no doubt revisiting them to reexperience his crimes. They’d been recovered out of order—years, in some cases—and it had taken the FBI months to reconstruct the chronology of the murders. There was a note in the ViCAP file that an FBI agent named J. Morales was to be contacted with any new information.
G. William’s hand trembled on the computer mouse. Did he have new information? Was Hand-in-Glove really stalking the Nod?
He didn’t want to believe it. He wanted to believe it was a copycat. But the swapping of undergarments had apparently not been released to the public. A copycat wouldn’t know to do that.
What are the odds of two perverts killing the same kind of girl and swapping their skivvies? For real.
It boggled the mind. The idea that a serial killer—and one who’d gotten some national exposure, too—could be living in the Nod. Somewhere, the spirit of old Étienne LeBeau was no doubt looking up from hell and cackling with approval.
So, what now, Gareth?
The answer was as obvious as it was impossible: He should contact this Special Agent Morales. He should notify the state police and start up a task force.
And how do you suppose that’s gonna look? Right before the election? You suddenly tell everyone you have a lead and the cases are linked and the killer happens to be the bogeyman of the Midwest. It’s gonna look like you’re trying to grab the election at the last minute. Like you’re desperate to hold on to this chair, this desk.
By the same token, though, he couldn’t do nothing . That was a complete abrogation of his duty, of his sworn oath.
What did he have to go on, anyway? Panties. Panties and blond hair and three words.
Hand-in-Glove.
He would call Special Agent Morales. That was what he would do. He would call Morales, and the man would either laugh his ass off at the hick from the sticks or maybe it would be something more. Then let the FBI announce it. Let them handle the press.
His hand was halfway to the phone when
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