Survival of the Fittest

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Book: Read Survival of the Fittest for Free Online
Authors: Jonathan Kellerman
Tags: Fiction, psychological thriller
hadn’t wanted to pay. He’d never known her name.
    What it feels like? he finally said, in a disturbingly pleasant voice. It feels like nothing, it’s no big fucking deal, you stupid asshole. It’s not actually doing it, anyway, it’s being able to do it, asshole.
    The power   .   .   .
    Opportunistic or premeditated.
    Had Irit’s killer known about the annual field trip in advance or was he just aware that the park was frequented by schoolkids?
    Were the Carmelis right about Irit’s victimization being one of those wrong-time/wrong-place horrors of chance that give atheists fuel?
    Predator leering as the school bus unloads.
    Feeling sweet contentment the way a fox might as it views chicklets hatching.
    Every parent’s nightmare.
    Picking a weak one out of the herd—but why Irit?
    Special Agent Gorman had suggested the girl’s disabilities, but Irit’s problems weren’t obvious to the casual observer. On the contrary, she’d been an attractive child. No shortage of other kids with more conspicuous handicaps.
    Was that the cue? The fact that she looked normal?
    Then I remembered the hearing aid on the ground.
    Despite all the care taken to arrange the body.
    Not an accident. The more I thought about it, the more certain I became.
    Leaving the pink disc behind—a message ?
    Communicating what ?
    I grabbed up the M.O. file again, looked for crimes committed against deaf people. Nothing.
    Had the hearing aid told him Irit was the easiest target of all—less likely to be aware as he came up behind her, less likely to scream?
    She wasn’t mute, but maybe he’d assumed she was.
    Gentle strangulation.
    The phrase disgusted me.   .   .   .
    Care and time taken to avoid degradation of the body .   .   . No sex at the scene but perhaps he’d gone elsewhere to get off, masturbating to memories, as sex killers usually do.
    But sex killers often used trophies to trigger memories: clothing, jewelry. Body parts; the breasts were a favorite.
    Irit’s body had been left pristine, nothing taken. Posed—almost primly. Expressly un sexual.
    As if the killer wanted the world to know she hadn’t been touched.
    That he was different ?
    Or maybe he had taken something—something unobtrusive, undetectable—a few strands of hair.
    Or had the souvenirs been the images themselves?
    Photos, snapped at the scene and pocketed for later.
    I pictured him, faceless, standing over her, tumescent with power, arranging —posing, snap, snap.
    Creating a tableau, a hideous art form.
    Polaroids. Or a private darkroom where he could modulate optical nuance.
    A self-styled artiste ?
    Taking Irit far enough from the path so no one would hear the click, see the flash.
    Cleaning up .   .   . obsessive but not psychotic.
    You have many madmen in America!
    I reread S.A. Gorman’s letter, everything else in the box.
    For all the hundreds of pages, something was missing.
    The Carmelis’ friends and neighbors hadn’t been interviewed. Neither had Mrs. Carmeli, and her husband had been contacted only twice, both times briefly.
    Respect for the grieving or soft-glove treatment for a diplomat?
    Now, months later, a dead end.
    My head hurt and my lungs burned. I’d been at it for nearly three hours.
    As I got up to make coffee, the phone rang.
    The operator at my service said, “A Ms. Dahl is on the line, Doctor.”
    “I’ll take it, thanks.”
    “Dr. Delaware? It’s Helena. I just got my on-call schedule for the week so I thought I’d try for an appointment. Do you have anything in two days? Maybe around ten in the morning?”
    I checked. Several court reports were due. “How about eleven?”
    “Eleven would be fine. Thank you.”
    “How’s everything going, Helena?”
    “Oh .   .   . about as well as can be expected .   .   . I guess I’m going through a point where I really miss him—more thanI did .   .   . right after. Anyway, thanks for seeing me. Bye.”
    “Bye.”
    I wrote down the

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