Famished - Meghan O'Flynn (learn to read books TXT) 📗

“They froze me out.” Petrosky resisted the urge to kick McCallum’s desk.

“I heard. How did that make you feel?”

“You know how the fuck I feel about it. They didn’t even call me. Just went out there themselves and ran the scene.” From what he’d heard, Alice Putrus had been found under a manhole cover, her stomach torn open, a dog gnawing on her bloody shirt. She’d been there for a few days, definitely killed before Everette. And his guy had done his homework—there was no way her name was a coincidence.

“Where’s Morrison?”

“Getting what he can from the brass. Or from his workout buddies.”

“He’s better with people, isn’t he?”

“Doesn’t take much to beat me at people-pleasing.”

“There’s some truth to that.”

“How insightful. Some shrink you are.” He paused. “I’m going to solve this fucker.”

“That’s why you’re here?”

“Yes.”

The doctor raised an eyebrow. “No other reason?”

“Goddammit, McCallum, knock it off. This isn’t about me. This guy is good. Meticulous. He might not be the best at dissection, but he’s certainly the best at getting in and out of there clean. Even used a rake to obliterate his footprints in that Lapeer field.”

“So, we’re left with what?”

“The type of victim. The poems.” The poems bothered him more than he cared to admit. Especially Campbell’s. Had their killer hidden the poem on purpose to throw doubt on his identity? If that was the case, why write it at all? Maybe he was messing with their minds. Or maybe, it was as simple as them missing the fact that they could move that brick.

“The other poems were hidden, too, but not nearly as well,” Petrosky said. “I mean, he actually risked bringing a large piece of equipment in to lift the cement and hide the paper. He used different restraints, too. There has to be something special about that killing.”

McCallum nodded. “I agree, though the reason it matters might not be as deep as you think. Have you found anything to indicate that Campbell knew any of the other victims?”

“No.”

Just her.

“McCallum tapped his pen against his desk. “If he hadn’t gone right back to the old pattern, I would say it was a sign of escalation, a game. But he just picked up where he left off, though he’s clearly accelerating his pace.”

Petrosky resisted the urge to grab the pen and hurl it across the room. The dull throbbing in his temples was turning into a full-blown ache.

“Anyway,” McCallum continued, “the similarity in the victims before and after continues to scream past slight. I would bet that Campbell’s death was for another reason. Either he knew something he wasn’t supposed to, or he was getting in the way somehow.”

Petrosky gritted his teeth. “How would he get in the way? He never did anything! He didn’t work and hardly left the apartment except to walk down the street to get cigarettes. He didn’t even have a car to get close to any of the places the killings occurred.”

McCallum shrugged. “Maybe he had something the killer wanted.”

“We’ve considered the money route, but the only people who would have benefitted are his ex-girlfriend and her son. They have alibis.”

“Plus, one of them is five.” Tap. Tap.

Joke it up, asshole. Petrosky clenched his fist to avoid shoving the pen through the doctor’s twinkling eye.

“Money isn’t everything. Your killer had something to gain by Campbell dying.” Tap, tap, tap. “Figure out what it is, and you’ll be one step closer to solving this case.”

“I’m doing my best.” Petrosky stood.

“Where are you off to?”

“Staff meeting.” He pulled his coat off the back of the chair and hauled it on, one of his shoulders creaking in protest. “Might as well make an appearance before Graves tries to throw me off the case altogether.”

“You and I both know that wouldn’t stop you, Ed.”

“Yeah, probably not. But it’d sure make getting into the donuts more difficult.”

Morrison was already in the conference room. Petrosky sat next to him and swallowed bitter precinct coffee, casting envious glances at Morrison’s stainless steel mug. He always brought the best joe from home. In the front of the room, someone had transferred the victims’ photos to an oversized corkboard, neon green sticky notes tacked beneath each picture, connections between victims outlined in thread. Next to the corkboard, the original whiteboard listed their victims: