suspect.”
Burden pushed the toaster back in place, then gave a final look around the townhouse. “Looks like all plugs and appliances are intact. Which means he probably brought the electrical cord with him.”
“So,” Vail said, “he’s either killed before or he intends to kill again. He might also be keeping the tool as a reminder, kind of like a trophy. A way for him to relive the murder.”
“I thought a trophy was something of the victim’s, like a lock of hair or a photo.”
“It can be anything,” Vail said. “Something that has psychological significance to the offender that allows him to relive the kill. I’m not saying this electrical cord is a trophy, but it could function for him like one. Or it could be that it’s a tool in his murder kit.”
Burden sat down heavy in a soft overstuffed living room chair while Vail walked over to the bay windows. The fog was lifting a bit. She could now see more of the Golden Gate’s tower.
“You think this UNSUB will kill again?”
Vail watched the fog roll by. It moved swiftly, tumbling and swirling, like time-lapse photography.
“Unless there’s something else you want to see here, we should get over to the morgue.”
She pulled herself away from the window. “Drive me around the neighborhood a bit so I can get a feel for the area.”
“One thing’ll be obvious,” Burden said as he pushed out of the deep chair. “This isn’t the kind of place you’d expect something like this to happen.”
Vail chuckled. “Thing is, Burden, this shit can happen anywhere. Anytime. To anyone.” Vail glanced back at the bedroom. “Even, unfortunately, to old ladies.”
7
January 20, 1958
366-1/2 Service Creek Road
Independence Township
Aliquippa, Pennsylvania
Walton MacNally blew on his hands, then replaced his worn leather glove. He looked over at Henry, who was fiddling with the radio dial. “Shut the radio, son. It’s time.”
“But it’s Elvis, Dad.”
MacNally tilted his head but did not reply. His stern look said enough. Henry reached over and turned off the radio.
“This isn’t exactly the way I thought we’d be spending your tenth birthday,” MacNally said. “I figured we’d have a party, with candles and friends and lots of gifts.”
“But I don’t have any friends.”
MacNally felt a deep sadness wash over him. Henry was right. They had moved so often it was impossible to forge meaningful relationships. Just when he’d settled into a school, they had to uproot and go somewhere else to find work. It was a process they had done more than a dozen times over the past three years, and it was getting tough to continue the trend. He didn’t want Henry to grow up without friends, because they gave depth and meaning to a child’s youth.
He was no expert on children, for sure. Henry was his one and only source of knowledge. His experience was limited, and god knows he’d made a ton of mistakes. But he always did everything within his power to give his son a happy childhood.
MacNally had seen a headline in a local paper a couple of years ago that the police had charged a man for Doris’s murder, a drunkard who had robbed another neighborhood home and killed the man who lived there. MacNally wanted to see the guy, shake him, spit on him—yell at him, maybe. Tell him the pain he had caused. But what would that do? Doris was gone, and his and Henry’s lives had been irreparably changed.
In the intervening years, MacNally had become Henry’s one and only friend. They fished together, hunted together, bowled together and, more recently, even snuck into a few Pittsburgh Pirates ballgames at Forbes Field. But he knew that was no substitute. It was simply the best he could do.
Lately, though, his best was not enough. Money was short, food was scarce, and work was not just sporadic, it was almost nonexistent.
“I know you don’t have any friends, son. And I’m sorry about that. If we didn’t have to move so much, things’d be
Burden pushed the toaster back in place, then gave a final look around the townhouse. “Looks like all plugs and appliances are intact. Which means he probably brought the electrical cord with him.”
“So,” Vail said, “he’s either killed before or he intends to kill again. He might also be keeping the tool as a reminder, kind of like a trophy. A way for him to relive the murder.”
“I thought a trophy was something of the victim’s, like a lock of hair or a photo.”
“It can be anything,” Vail said. “Something that has psychological significance to the offender that allows him to relive the kill. I’m not saying this electrical cord is a trophy, but it could function for him like one. Or it could be that it’s a tool in his murder kit.”
Burden sat down heavy in a soft overstuffed living room chair while Vail walked over to the bay windows. The fog was lifting a bit. She could now see more of the Golden Gate’s tower.
“You think this UNSUB will kill again?”
Vail watched the fog roll by. It moved swiftly, tumbling and swirling, like time-lapse photography.
“Unless there’s something else you want to see here, we should get over to the morgue.”
She pulled herself away from the window. “Drive me around the neighborhood a bit so I can get a feel for the area.”
“One thing’ll be obvious,” Burden said as he pushed out of the deep chair. “This isn’t the kind of place you’d expect something like this to happen.”
Vail chuckled. “Thing is, Burden, this shit can happen anywhere. Anytime. To anyone.” Vail glanced back at the bedroom. “Even, unfortunately, to old ladies.”
7
January 20, 1958
366-1/2 Service Creek Road
Independence Township
Aliquippa, Pennsylvania
Walton MacNally blew on his hands, then replaced his worn leather glove. He looked over at Henry, who was fiddling with the radio dial. “Shut the radio, son. It’s time.”
“But it’s Elvis, Dad.”
MacNally tilted his head but did not reply. His stern look said enough. Henry reached over and turned off the radio.
“This isn’t exactly the way I thought we’d be spending your tenth birthday,” MacNally said. “I figured we’d have a party, with candles and friends and lots of gifts.”
“But I don’t have any friends.”
MacNally felt a deep sadness wash over him. Henry was right. They had moved so often it was impossible to forge meaningful relationships. Just when he’d settled into a school, they had to uproot and go somewhere else to find work. It was a process they had done more than a dozen times over the past three years, and it was getting tough to continue the trend. He didn’t want Henry to grow up without friends, because they gave depth and meaning to a child’s youth.
He was no expert on children, for sure. Henry was his one and only source of knowledge. His experience was limited, and god knows he’d made a ton of mistakes. But he always did everything within his power to give his son a happy childhood.
MacNally had seen a headline in a local paper a couple of years ago that the police had charged a man for Doris’s murder, a drunkard who had robbed another neighborhood home and killed the man who lived there. MacNally wanted to see the guy, shake him, spit on him—yell at him, maybe. Tell him the pain he had caused. But what would that do? Doris was gone, and his and Henry’s lives had been irreparably changed.
In the intervening years, MacNally had become Henry’s one and only friend. They fished together, hunted together, bowled together and, more recently, even snuck into a few Pittsburgh Pirates ballgames at Forbes Field. But he knew that was no substitute. It was simply the best he could do.
Lately, though, his best was not enough. Money was short, food was scarce, and work was not just sporadic, it was almost nonexistent.
“I know you don’t have any friends, son. And I’m sorry about that. If we didn’t have to move so much, things’d be
Similar Books
The Charming Max
Desi Lang
Ex’s and Oh’s
Sandra Steffen
First Light
Sunil Gangopadhyay
Dark Awakening
Kendra Leigh Castle
Alter Boys
Chuck Stepanek
Spaghetti Westerns
Howard Hughes
Broken Resolutions
Olivia Dade
Seducing the Merman (Fairies and Fantasies #1)
Eliza Daniels
