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Which means our copycat is as well. Either that or he’s just some lucky nut slicing people up.”
    Wilkinson looked at his notes. “Well, everyone of our post-bank victims had three cuts. The house and alley are secluded. They found the fisherman’s body on the shore of Lake St. Clair. It might have been a secluded area. But where does this theory lead us? This guy is a bit more selective?”
    I shrugged, not sure if that angle took us anywhere either. “One thing is true; whether it’s one cut or two or three, he still has to know what he’s doing, because the incisions are so precise.”
    The waitress placed a plate with two chili dogs and fries in front of Wilkinson and a fried chicken salad in front of me. His plate had more chili than bun and dog, like a big pile of slop. I watched him pick up the bun, and the chili poured off of it in glops. Yellow cheesy strands kept the chili in the plate connected to the chili on his hot dog. He opened wide, but still the thickness of that cylindrical meal was wider than his mouth and left a ring of chili around his lips. If he wasn’t so damn good looking …
    I dug in to my salad. As I chewed, another thought replayed itself in my head. I tapped my fork at the edge of my bowl. “You know what keeps striking me as motive for Garrison?”
    Wilkinson eyed me as he shoved the remaining half of his chili dog into his mouth.
    “’He had to enjoy watching people bleed to death. There wasn’t any connection between his victims except how he killed him. He had to be getting off on the blood.”
    “Makes sense,” Wilkinson managed as he finished swallowing. “So what does that mean?” Wilkinson asked. “That our current killer likes the blood version of Old Faithful? Also, why are we spending so much time figuring out a case that’s been put to bed?”
    “Trust me on this one. The more we understand Garrison, the more we’ll understand our copycat.”
    Wilkinson inhaled the last of his second chili dog and chewed. I poured more ranch dressing on my salad and mixed it in. I could sense Wilkinson wasn’t buying everything I said, but as my partner, he was willing to go along for the ride. I appreciated his trust. “This person could have been studying our original guy. According to the newspaper articles, some case details that should have remained off-limits were released. It was completely possible for someone to pick up where Garrison left off.”
    Wilkinson swallowed the last of his fries and brushed his hands off. “Why go through the trouble of making the kills so exact? Most copycats are sloppy about it. This person is dead on.”
    “Maybe he wants people to think the killer was never caught in the first place.”
    We pondered our conversation while I finished off my salad.
    Wilkinson broke the silence. “Where does it all go—the food?”
    I shrugged, knowing he meant that as a compliment. My body was more athletic than curvaceous. Though, what I wouldn’t do to have more booty. Just for once I’d love to wiggle it, just a little bit. I wiped my mouth and reapplied my lipstick.
    “You know, Garrison is being held in a prison not too far from us,” Wilkinson said.
    “I guess it’s time for our first field trip.”

 
     
    12
     
     
    Grosse Pointe was an enclave for wealthy Detroit. A lot of old money resided in the neighborhood but the nouveau riche had started to take over. Either way, Preston Carter’s SUV, a Mercedes, allowed him to blend perfectly.
    He parked his vehicle near the corner of East Jefferson Avenue and St. Clair Street and sat comfortably inside, hidden from the pummeling sun thanks to a large oak tree. Etta James crooned softly from the sound system as Preston hummed along. His windows were down, allowing the lazy breeze from the lake to carry its scent by him. He had been waiting for close to an hour with an eye on Strafford Lane, across the street. It led to a quiet cul-de-sac near the lake’s edge.
    Almost time for another lesson,