Read Online The Last Nightingale by Anthony Flacco - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anthony Flacco
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saying, and instead scream out to anyone within earshot that he was a coward.
Shane's muscles began to ache from holding the tombstone pieces in place. He realized that a good amount of time had passed while he held the mortared stones, so he gently tested the glue and found that the bond was strong enough for him to let go. He stood up and looked at Catherine Hoban's headstone, a tall, thin flag of granite. The balance between the two rejoined sections was as perfect as he could make it.
With that, it struck him that he might never be able to find any answers to the questions about himself that tormented him. Still, when he stepped back to admire his handiwork on the gravestone, he felt the simple pleasure of taking pride in the work of his hands.
Randall Blackburn stood alone in the darkened shadows of a garbage-fouled back alley near the Barbary Coast district. He stared down at the dead man's body, which was not that of an ordinary waterfront drunk. This one was a handsome fellow in the prime of his life. He was perfectly dressed, a well-heeled gentleman in an expensive wool suit, groomed down to the details. This was a victim who was going to be missed by somebody.
There was a note on the body. Along with the telltale
modus operandi,
it assured Blackburn that for the second time in nine days, The Surgeon had struck.
The wound from the heavy-bladed throwing knife was visible at the base of the man's skull. While the wound itself didn't prove theknife was thrown, the obvious depth and angle of entry practically guaranteed that there was no other way to cause that exact injury. No other wounds were evident. And tonight's victim was the second to have a fancy note left behind with him. That first note had looked like a crude attempt to use humor to further debase the victim. Blackburn clearly recalled its swirling, feminine hand:
Worthlessness is purity,
Making me a diamond
Among the rejected.
Tonight, by leaving this second note, The Surgeon was using her handwriting to make it clear that each of the two notes was left by the same killer.
Although the newspapers had ruined the Department's element of surprise in their hunt, perhaps tipping valuable information about the investigation, Blackburn didn't believe that he was looking at the work of some deranged copycat. The specific method of brutality, the skill at silent killing, the lack of interest in robbery— these things were more than clues, they were trademarks. No, this Surgeon character was evolving herself a new style. Her tastes were changing.
That single fact was so promising that it made Blackburn feel hopeful. Newness equals unfamiliarity and unfamiliarity could keep The Surgeon off balance just long enough for her to make a mistake.
For the past several days, the authorities had managed to keep news of that first note away from the newspapers, hoping that by retaining the detail they might gain some kind of leverage in interviewing suspects. Up to this point, secrecy hadn't been much of a challenge; the victims were all broken men, barely noticed in life and ignored in death. But on this night, with a victim who looked like a gentleman, it was plain that the official silence would never survive scrutiny by the various interested parties.
But once again, the crime had happened inside of Blackburn's beat, during his midnight shift. An involuntary shiver ran up his back when he briefly wondered if the killer was deliberately doing this to him. He decided that there was no reason to think anything like that. Yet. After all, the persistent rumor was still that the killer was one of the street hags, and long-term planning didn't exist in their world. Besides, the worst he had ever done was to arrest them and pull them in off of the streets for a night, where they could safely sleep it off and then have a hot meal the next day. For some, jail was the best accommodation they visited all week.
But who then?
The question taunted him.
The nicely dressed
Shane's muscles began to ache from holding the tombstone pieces in place. He realized that a good amount of time had passed while he held the mortared stones, so he gently tested the glue and found that the bond was strong enough for him to let go. He stood up and looked at Catherine Hoban's headstone, a tall, thin flag of granite. The balance between the two rejoined sections was as perfect as he could make it.
With that, it struck him that he might never be able to find any answers to the questions about himself that tormented him. Still, when he stepped back to admire his handiwork on the gravestone, he felt the simple pleasure of taking pride in the work of his hands.
Randall Blackburn stood alone in the darkened shadows of a garbage-fouled back alley near the Barbary Coast district. He stared down at the dead man's body, which was not that of an ordinary waterfront drunk. This one was a handsome fellow in the prime of his life. He was perfectly dressed, a well-heeled gentleman in an expensive wool suit, groomed down to the details. This was a victim who was going to be missed by somebody.
There was a note on the body. Along with the telltale
modus operandi,
it assured Blackburn that for the second time in nine days, The Surgeon had struck.
The wound from the heavy-bladed throwing knife was visible at the base of the man's skull. While the wound itself didn't prove theknife was thrown, the obvious depth and angle of entry practically guaranteed that there was no other way to cause that exact injury. No other wounds were evident. And tonight's victim was the second to have a fancy note left behind with him. That first note had looked like a crude attempt to use humor to further debase the victim. Blackburn clearly recalled its swirling, feminine hand:
Worthlessness is purity,
Making me a diamond
Among the rejected.
Tonight, by leaving this second note, The Surgeon was using her handwriting to make it clear that each of the two notes was left by the same killer.
Although the newspapers had ruined the Department's element of surprise in their hunt, perhaps tipping valuable information about the investigation, Blackburn didn't believe that he was looking at the work of some deranged copycat. The specific method of brutality, the skill at silent killing, the lack of interest in robbery— these things were more than clues, they were trademarks. No, this Surgeon character was evolving herself a new style. Her tastes were changing.
That single fact was so promising that it made Blackburn feel hopeful. Newness equals unfamiliarity and unfamiliarity could keep The Surgeon off balance just long enough for her to make a mistake.
For the past several days, the authorities had managed to keep news of that first note away from the newspapers, hoping that by retaining the detail they might gain some kind of leverage in interviewing suspects. Up to this point, secrecy hadn't been much of a challenge; the victims were all broken men, barely noticed in life and ignored in death. But on this night, with a victim who looked like a gentleman, it was plain that the official silence would never survive scrutiny by the various interested parties.
But once again, the crime had happened inside of Blackburn's beat, during his midnight shift. An involuntary shiver ran up his back when he briefly wondered if the killer was deliberately doing this to him. He decided that there was no reason to think anything like that. Yet. After all, the persistent rumor was still that the killer was one of the street hags, and long-term planning didn't exist in their world. Besides, the worst he had ever done was to arrest them and pull them in off of the streets for a night, where they could safely sleep it off and then have a hot meal the next day. For some, jail was the best accommodation they visited all week.
But who then?
The question taunted him.
The nicely dressed
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