Stirred

April 1, 7:30 A.M.

I didn’t have any seizures that night, because I didn’t sleep.

Too much on my mind.

Insomnia and I were old, familiar enemies.

Even though Phin was still angry, he’d insisted on staying in my room and had only fallen asleep an hour before dawn. Now, as the sun came up, he was still sleeping in the easy chair, Duffy at his feet.

I read Andrew Z. Thomas long into the morning.

The Scorcher was a violent little potboiler that had surprisingly held my interest, despite the fact that it had no hero to root for. But having read it, I still wasn’t sure what it was supposed to teach me. When I’d finished The Scorcher, I dove into The Divine Comedy, and the only thing I learned from that one was that Dante was nuts. Thinking up tortures for si

After the reading binge, I walked Duffy in the backyard.

When he finally pooped, I stared at the pile, wondering what my next course of action should be. Arriving at no pleasant way to solve the problem, I put on a latex glove and played pinch and squish, which was every bit as revolting as it sounded, the smell so bad I actually took off my sports bra and tied it over my nose and mouth. After a thorough examination, I deemed the ring wasn’t there. It had been a disgusting waste of time.

On the plus side, it was so terrible, I didn’t see how changing a baby’s diaper could be any worse.

When I walked back inside, Phin was up.

“Let’s take your blood pressure,” he said, sleep still pulling on his voice.

“Later.”

“Now.”

I was too tired to fight with him, so I took a seat while he pumped and calculated.

“One sixty-five over one ten. It’s gotten worse.”

“I feel fine.”

“We need to take you to the ER, Jack. This is a serious—”

“Feel.”

“What?”

I grabbed his hand, placed it on my belly. “Feel. She hears your voice, and she’s saying good morning.”

Phin held his palm there, our child’s little feet tapping against him. For that brief, crystal moment, I could picture being married to him, and the white picket fence fantasy hit me full force. No more chasing killers or carrying guns. Just the three of us, being stupidly, happily domestic.

Phin pulled his hand away. “I’m calling the doctor, asking him what to do about your blood pressure.”

“Can you just sit with me a little, first?”

He left, and I felt a pang of guilt dead center in my chest, questioning yet again why I simply hadn’t said yes to his proposal.

Waddling back to my office, I plopped down behind my desk and stared at my computer. I considered opening up Notepad to jot some things down, but instead went analogue and took out a piece of paper and a pen.

I made a list of data points on the first murder.

Vic Name: Jessica Shedd

Location where body found: Kinzie Street railroad bridge, hanging over the water

Time of Death: March 31, approx 1:30–2:30 A.M.

Cause of Death: blood loss, with extensive premortem mutilation

Found 6:40 A.M. by jogger

Book found in plastic bag wired to ribcage

Writing on bag: For Jack D—This one was a real swinger—LK

Book: The Scorcher by Andrew Z. Thomas

1 page dog-eared: page 102

1st letter “p” on the page circled

Dante line: A little spark is followed by a great flame.

Something occurred to me. I grabbed my Kindle and found the corresponding page which had been earmarked. Then I backspaced until I came to the begi

Chapter 31

Relevance of excerpt…unknown.

Okay, next murder.

Vic Name: Reginald Marquette

Location where body found: Shedd Aquarium

Time of Death: March 31, approx 1:00–2:00 P.M.

I went online and logged into the Chicago PD database, checked the police report to see if the coroner had determined cause of death. Yep.

Cause of Death: potassium chloride poisoning, postmortem mutilation

Witnesses say body dropped in cardboard box at entrance to aquarium at approx. 2:00 P.M.

Book found in plastic bag in the stomach

Prints on bag belong to Luther Kite

Prints on book belong to Andrew Z. Thomas

Writing on bag: JD, He devoured this book in one sitting, LK

Book: The Killer and His Weaponby Andrew Z. Thomas

1 page dog-eared: page 151, in part 1

1st letter “p” on the page circled

Another Dante line: Remember tonight…for it is the begi

I studied the similarities first.

Obviously, a victim named Shedd and a crime scene at the Shedd Aquarium. Two Thomas books. Two Dante quotes. Two notes to me written on plastic bags. Fingerprints from both Kite and Thomas.

As for differences…

One younger, single woman; one older, married guy.

She was a claims adjuster; he was a professor.

She was tortured; he died relatively fast and painlessly.

I checked their birth dates and addresses, but didn’t notice anything that linked them.

I scribbled Two different murderers? on the pad, and then called up Phil Blasky at the county morgue.

“Phil, Jack Daniels.”

“Hey, Jack. How’s retirement treating you?”

“You’re bullshitting me, right?”

“Absolutely. Calling about these Kite murders?”

“Yeah. Style seems different. One was torture, one was poison.”

“You thinking two different killers?” he asked.

“Crossed my mind.”

“I can tell you the mutilations appear consistent. Same weapon used—a curved, serrated blade. The cutter was right-handed in both cases. Entry cut was at the same location, just above the belly button. The cutter has some knowledge of anatomy. No u

“A doctor? A butcher?”

“Possibly. Or could be someone who has simply gutted a whole lot of people.”

I crossed out my Two different murderers? note. “Thanks, Phil.”

He hung up.

I stared at my notes, my mind drifting, and wrote down:

Jessica.

Sara.

Amanda.

I scratched those out, and then wrote:

Maria.

Lisa.

Carla.

Carla Daniels.

Carla Daniels-Troutt.

But I hated the name Troutt. I didn’t much care for the name Daniels either. That was my ex-husband’s name, and I just kept it for professional reasons.

Though my maiden name, Streng, wasn’t much better.

Did I have to use my name or his name? Couldn’t I pick something entirely new?

I wrote:

Carla Einstein. Carla Aristotle. Carla Hemingway.

And I realized I hated the name Carla, too.

I heard Phin coming back, quickly turned the paper over.

“The doctor said to take you to the emergency room immediately.”

“Of course she said that. She could be sued otherwise.”

“Put your shoes on.”

I reached for his belt, tugged him closer. “I know something that can lower my blood pressure.”

“I’ll meet you in the car.”

He pulled away, rejection prickling me like a blush.

Which was probably how I’d made him feel yesterday.

I hoisted myself out of my desk chair and then went to find my shoes.

This was shaping up to be a really shitty day.

March 17, Fifteen Days Ago

Three Days After the Bus Incident