‘What was your first impression, Detective Miller?’ Killarney asked.
Miller looked up. ‘First impression?’
‘The first thing you felt.’
‘First thing I felt was like someone had punched me in the chest.’ He raised his fist and thumped a point in the middle of his ribcage. ‘Like someone hit me with a baseball bat. That’s what I felt.’
‘And did you move through the scene, or did you survey the scene from a stationary point?’
‘Stationary . . . like we were taught. Always survey the scene from a stationary point . . . look for anomalies, things out of place. Look for the obvious before anything else.’
‘And?’
‘The ribbon, of course.’
Killarney nodded. ‘Yes . . . the ribbon, the tag. And then?’
‘The smell of lavender.’
‘No doubt?’
‘No, it was lavender . . . same as the other two.’
‘You were at the other two?’ Killarney asked.
‘No,’ Miller said. ‘I just happened to be on duty when the first one occurred. I wasn’t officially assigned to this case. I did see the preliminary file on the third however, and then last night, this most recent one . . .’
‘Who was present at the second?’ Killarney asked.
‘Second one came under the Fourth Precinct,’ Miller said. ‘None of us dealt with that one.’
‘And the third . . .’ Killarney glanced at the pages on the desk beside him. ‘Barbara Lee . . . any of you present at that one?’
Carl Oliver, seated to Miller’s right, raised his hand. ‘Me and my partner, Chris Metz.’
Metz also raised his hand to identify himself, and added, ‘That, officially, fell under the Sixth’s jurisdiction, but they didn’t have anyone free so we were called in.’
‘Which explains one of the primary reasons that this serial has continued unchecked for eight months,’ Killarney said, ‘and also explains why your chief of police has assigned it to one precinct, one lead detective . . . right, Mr Miller?’
Miller nodded.
Killarney turned back to Carl Oliver. ‘So tell us about the third one, Detective Oliver.’
‘Same,’ Oliver said. ‘Lavender.’
‘So we have our signature perhaps. The ribbon in the second case . . . Miss Ann Rayner, was—’
‘Pink,’ Al Roth interjected.
‘And then we have the blank name tag. A luggage tag? A John Doe tag? A lost property tag? This we don’t know, can only begin to guess at.’
Killarney nodded slowly, unfolded his arms, put his hands in his pockets. ‘Margaret Mosley, Ann Rayner, Barbara Lee, Catherine Sheridan. Thirty-seven, forty, twenty-nine and forty-nine years of age respectively. Ribbons in blue, pink, yellow and white. The same perfume at each crime scene. Perhaps our friend doused the body, the bed and the curtains with lavender water in order to obscure the smell of decay. Possibly he believed he could delay discovery of the body.’ Killarney tilted his head to one side, sort of squinted at Miller, then looked at Roth. ‘Or perhaps not. Regardless, it did not work in this last instance because pizza had been ordered.’
‘Perhaps both the name tag and the lavender mean nothing at all,’ Miller suggested.
‘Indeed, Mr Miller. Oh what tangled webs we weave when first we practice to deceive, eh?’ Killarney smiled knowingly. ‘Personally I blame the television.’
Miller frowned.
‘And the internet,’ Killarney added.
‘I don’t understand—’
‘You know how many tricks of the trade you can find on TV and the internet?’ Killarney asked.
Miller opened his mouth to speak.
‘A rhetorical question, Mr Miller. Point I’m making is that pretty much anything you might want to know about what we’re looking for at a crime scene can be learnt on the internet. If you know what criminalistics and forensics are looking for you can hide it, or, indeed, you can give them something to find that means nothing at all.’
‘You think he’ll kill again?’ Miller asked.
Killarney smiled. ‘Kill again? Our friend? Oh yes, Mr Miller . . . I can pretty much guarantee that.’
Glances were exchanged between the detectives present - awkward, uncertain.
‘So now you want to know how you’re going to find this guy, right?’ Killarney asked. ‘You want to know what I know. You want to hear the magic words that will throw the light of truth and reason into this darkest of places, isn’t that so?’
His audience waited, silent and expectant.
‘Well, there are no magic words, and there is no light of truth and reason,’ he said quietly. ‘You will find this man with persistence . . . nothing but unrelenting persistence. This is not luck. This is not guesswork.’ Killarney smiled. ‘I know I am telling you something you already know, but sometimes all of us need to be reminded about the simple truths of investigatory work. And if you want a reason, a rationale . . .’ He shook his head. ‘Well, I’ll tell you this, gentlemen, you cannot rationalize an irrationality. The only person who understands precisely why this Ribbon Killer does what he does is—’
‘The man himself,’ Miller finished for him.
‘Very good, Detective Miller. You win the Kewpie doll.’
M
y name is John Robey, and I know everything you could ever
wish to know about Catherine Sheridan.
I know the street where she lives, the view from the back yard. I know what she likes to eat and where she buys her groceries. I know the perfume she wears, and which colors she feels will suit her. I know her age, her place of birth, the way she feels about many little things, and why . . .
But I know other things as well. The important things. The things that frightened her. The things that caused her to wonder if she’d made the right decisions. What she believed would happen if she got those decisions wrong.
I know the mundane, but also the complex, the simple as well as the elaborate.
I know the shadows that follow as well as those that wait.
And I have my own shadows, my own fears, my own small secrets.
Such as my name, for my name wasn’t always John Robey . . .
But such details do not matter now. Such details we will speak of when there is time.
For these brief moments I shall remain John Robey, and I will tell you what I know.
I know about love and disappointment, about heartbreak and disillusionment. I understand that time serves to dull the razor’s edge of loss until memories no longer cut so deep, they merely bruise with the repetition of trying to forget.
I know about promises kept and promises broken.
I know about Catherine Sheridan and Darryl King and Natasha Joyce. I know of Natasha’s daughter, Chloe.
I know about Margaret Mosley; I know her apartment on Bates and First. I know the bay window with the sunny aspect that looks out towards Florida Avenue.
I know Ann Rayner, the basement of her house off of Patterson Street NE.
I know Barbara Lee, her corner house on Morgan and Jersey, no more than five blocks south east of where I now stand.
I know that I am a tired man. Not because I have not slept. These days I sleep too much. No, it is not that kind of tired.
I am exhausted from carrying these things.
There is The Quiet Half. We all possess a Quiet Half. Here are our sins and transgressions, our crimes and iniquities, our lapses of reason and faith and honesty, our vices and misdeeds and every time we fell from grace . . .
The Quiet Half haunts; it follows like those proverbial shadows, and then it waits with unsurpassed patience and fortitude. What do they say? Ultimately everyone dies from wrongdoings and shortness of breath.
I carry enough for one man. Truth? I carry enough for three or five or seven.
Caught up with me I suppose, and when I turn to look at my own Quiet Ha
lf I realize that there is only one way this thing can be exorcised.
By telling the truth. By carrying the light of truth into the very darkest places, and not caring who or what is illuminated on the way.
In that moment it will all come to an end.
Only one thing I can do . . . between now and then I can carry the light. Expose the shadows. Show the world what’s there.
They don’t want to see it - never have, never will.
Too late. They’re going to see it anyway.
FOUR
Miller and Roth began work that afternoon, Miller already feeling a sense of urgency regarding what lay ahead. Killarney had finished his briefing, answered questions, and then Lassiter hammered them about results. Killarney would be tracking with them, he would not interfere, but he would be kept apprised of their progress.
Miller’s initial thought - that he did not wish to become embroiled in some lengthy, high-profile murder case - had been replaced with a feeling that this was perhaps the best thing he could do. Already it had begun to pull his attention away from recent events.
The words Killarney had uttered were still clear in Miller’s mind as he and Roth left the Second and made their way toward Columbia Street. Roth had with him the picture of Catherine Sheridan. The image, taken from her passport and digitally-enhanced to improve the contrast and color as Reid had suggested, had been reproduced in a postcard format. Miller had stared at the image, tried to see the woman. There was something about her features, something individual and striking, but he could not determine what it was. She looked as if she had lived with as much drama as had characterized the nature of her death.
The previous day, Saturday the 11th, had been Veterans Day. Unusually chill, for sunshine varied little in Washington, and November temperatures rarely dropped below the high forties. A small thermometer on the veranda of the Sheridan house would have given the temperature as thirty-five Fahrenheit. Being Veterans Day, processions and remembrance marches would have been the focus of attention for the majority of Washingtonians; Arlington Cemetery, children dwarfed by the stainless steel statues representing America’s loss in Korea. A day of remembrance, of mourning, of the World War II Memorial inscription: ‘Today the guns are silent . . . The skies no longer rain death - the seas bear only commerce - men everywhere walk upright in the sunlight. The entire world is quietly at peace.’ There would have been the sound of brass bands in the distance, Sousa marches challenging the hum and rumble of the city’s morning traffic. Respectful people, glancing back toward the sound as they remembered what Veterans Day meant to so many. A father lost, perhaps a son, a brother, a neighbor, a childhood sweetheart. People who stopped for a moment, closed their eyes, breathed deeply, nodded as if in prayer, and then moved along the sidewalk. Memories were left hanging in the crisp atmosphere, and as people passed by it was as if they could feel the sorrow, the nostalgia, the haunt of warmth as they walked right through them. For a single day Washington had become a city of memories, a city of forgetting.
‘Library after the house,’ Miller said as he and Roth pulled away from the sidewalk and drove toward Columbia. ‘That’s if the library is actually open today.’
Roth didn’t reply, merely nodded.
Greg Reid was in Catherine Sheridan’s kitchen when Roth and Miller arrived. He smiled, raised his hand in acknowledgement. In daylight he looked like William Hurt, his features receptive to life, to others, perhaps a man who gave more than he took. ‘So you’re on this job then?’ he asked.
‘We are,’ Miller said. ‘How’s it looking?’
‘I sent her away to the morgue,’ Reid said. ‘Did my preliminaries, took prints, pictures, all the usual. Have a few things for you.’ He nodded toward the kitchen table. ‘You’ve got the library card, right? There’s also some food from a deli in the kitchen, some bread, butter, stuff like that. It’s organic bread, you know? French. No preservatives. Date-stamped yesterday.’
‘Which deli?’ Roth asked.
‘Address is on the wrapper,’ Reid said.
Miller took his notepad from his pocket. ‘Any messages on the answerphone?’
Reid shook his head. ‘No answerphone.’
‘Computer?’
Reid shook his head. ‘No desktop, no laptop that I could find.’ He smiled awkwardly.
‘What?’ Miller asked.
‘Never seen anything like this place,’ Reid said.
‘Like what?’
‘This house.’
‘How d’you mean?’ Miller asked.
‘Take a look around. It’s very clean, almost too clean.’
‘Perp more than likely cleaned everything,’ Roth said. ‘They have this shit down cold now. God bless CSI, right?’
Reid shook his head. ‘I don’t mean that kind of clean. I mean it’s like no-one really lived here. Like a hotel, you know? There’s none of the usual kind of mess you get with normal people. Washing basket in the bathroom is empty. There’s combs and cosmetics, toothpaste, all that kind of thing, but it seems like there’s too little of it.’
‘Did you cover any of the previous crime scenes?’ Miller asked.
‘I did the one in July over on Patterson.’
‘Ann Rayner,’ Roth said.
‘Same guy you figure?’ Miller asked.
‘Seems that way from all appearances.’ Reid paused for a moment. ‘Made a note for the coroner to check, but there may be something else . . . can’t be completely sure on basic examination.’
‘Which was?’
‘This one, Catherine Sheridan . . . she had someone with her yesterday.’
‘With her?’
‘Looks like she had sex with someone.’
‘You’re not certain?’
‘Certain as I can be from cursory examination. She had spermicidal lubricant in the vaginal area. Nonoxynol-9. Check with the coroner to be sure, she can do an internal.’
‘But no signs of rape?’
Reid shook his head. ‘Nothing outward to suggest it, no.’