Chapter 18

When I got home that afternoon, I was surprised to find Adam there. He was sitting in his car, talking into one of the police communicators. When he saw me, he got out, slammed the door, and walked toward me. At first, I thought he had discovered what had happened a few nights ago and wanted to find out why I had hidden my conversation with the killer. I approached him, inspecting his face, but all I saw was an exhausted expression. He didn’t look like he had slept in days.

I waved, receiving a small nod in return. We didn’t say anything to each other; he just followed me into the house. I went to the kitchen and grabbed a glass of water.

"Something happened," I observed. "Didn’t it?"

He shook his head and sighed.

"Another body was found."

I froze.

I wish I could shake off the feeling that sentence caused me, I really would, but the only thing I could do was step back and lean my body against the kitchen counter, searching for some support for my legs.

"Where?"

"In Pine Park, about a mile from here. I came here to check on you, but I just got the call and need to go."

"I’m going with you."

"No," he answered immediately. "It’s a crime scene, and you lost your friend recently. It’s not a good idea."

"How do you know it’s his work? Is there a missing bone?"

Adam nodded.

"He left another note."

A note.

"Let me go," I begged. "I’m the writer of the book, Adam. If anyone can help you, it’s me. I know every detail of the stories, and I’m the most interested in finding out who this man is. Please."

The seconds between my request and his response felt endless.

"Alright," he finally said. "As long as you promise to follow all the rules."

"I promise."

In his car, we were engulfed by an uncomfortable and inevitable silence. Adam was focused on the traffic, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the victim. I kept wondering which book had been copied and what we would find at the scene. With every new thought, I became more nauseous because there was no good scenario—only something more or less terrible. Even though I told myself those crimes had nothing to do with me, that I wasn’t responsible, I still felt them in my bones.

"Who’s the victim?" I finally asked.

"Larry Terrence. He was an administrator for a construction company and lived near downtown, in Brookside Hollow. He wasn’t married and didn’t have kids."

Adam stopped the car a few minutes later. The park was full of police officers and was cordoned off. The yellow tape around the entrance gate brought back the bitter memory of that night at the bookstore, and I wondered if anyone would feel with Larry Terrence’s death what I felt with Andrew’s.

"Come with me," Adam called, already walking toward the flow of people.

I tried not to look at anyone while I followed, but the expressions on their faces—the mix of fear and nervousness, the atmosphere of death in the air—all of it poisoned me like venom. You could see the shock and tension on their faces, the veiled despair. If something could terrify police officers, people who saw violence all the time, it had to be really bad.

We crossed the park in silence, and only when we reached the farthest part, where only a few men were working, did he turn and look at me. His eyes were full of concern, even though he would never voice it.

"If it’s too much to handle, don’t be ashamed to leave at any time."

I nodded, grateful. As I felt him more open at that moment, I voiced a request that had been on my mind for a few days but I hadn’t had the courage to say.

"I want to follow all of his cases that come up, if you allow me," I asked. "Could I be some sort of consultant, maybe? I need to help in some way, Adam, and I have knowledge that can be useful for the cases. I know the scenes like no one else."

His relaxed posture disappeared in seconds, replaced by the tough detective again. Adam held my gaze, perhaps looking for some sign of hesitation, but I remained firm. It might be hard to see the cases, but I needed to help somehow—even if it caused me pain. Adam knew I was important for the case and that my collaboration would be a great help. I could see it in his eyes and in the way he had been seeking me out, but I understood his concerns.

"I’ll step back if I get too involved," I added.

"The problem is, you’re already involved," Adam retorted, sighing in exasperation. "I’ll see what I can do, okay? I can’t put you at all the crime scenes, but I’ll share as much information as I can, and you help me in whatever way you can."

I knew, from his look, that this was the best I could get from him.

"I accept."

We moved forward. Eleanor was already there and waved at us, making space for me to look ahead. I tried to ignore the knot in my stomach when I glimpsed the details. The scene was horrifically organized. The third one had been very different from the previous ones in every sense. If the police team hadn’t ensured the connection between the cases, I would never have believed that these three deaths were the work of the same killer. In front of me, I had a glimpse of scenes that only lived in my head, and the feeling was almost too much to bear.

It was the materialization of everything darkest.

There was no blood, as one would expect. The pale, rigid, lifeless body lay on the grass, beneath a tall tree that shielded it from the sunlight. The man had a serene expression, which made me think that when he died, he felt relief. His clothes were in place, and his hair also seemed combed and styled. If we ignored the inhuman color of his skin, we would be looking at a perfect mannequin. But a careful look revealed that it wasn’t a mannequin.

His body parts had been separated as if it were a human puzzle. The skull was disconnected from the neck, the fingers separated from the hands, the arms from the torso. This person had become a pile of pieces, all perfectly aligned and arranged to look like they were connected to the whole, but they weren’t. No blood, no mess. As soon as I saw him, I knew which book had been copied because the body was separated into dozens of parts, all arranged in the exact position where they should be, the spots where the joints were separated, keeping one bone disconnected from another.

The murder had replicated exactly what I described in my book, from the crime scene to the precision of the cut. My eyes watered as I thought of the human being dead on the grass and how his life was taken as if it meant nothing, because to the killer, he was nothing more than an object to be used. I felt nauseous, with a stomach ache, but I did everything I could to not react in front of the investigators. If they noticed what it was doing to me, they wouldn’t let me near another crime scene, and I really needed to participate in the investigation. So I just looked away from the body and studied the rest.

I imagined the killer. I closed my eyes and fantasized, just for a moment, that we were one. First, I chose the victim. He wasn’t a random park visitor because it would have been impossible to do all that in public. Probably, the choice was premeditated, because the appearance of the man resembled the description of Harry Floyd, the first victim in the book the killer was copying. I imagined myself hidden in the shadows, waiting for his presence, and then, later, when I attacked him from behind and threw him to the ground. There might have been some struggle, but I managed to immobilize him with ease. If the killer had been consistent, there would be a single syringe mark on the victim’s neck, used to kill him before the pieces were cut.

"Does he have a mark on his neck?"

Adam crouched down and checked.

"Yes."

"The book copied this time was 'The Butcher of Blue River,'" I said. "The killer was diagnosed with obsessive-compulsive disorder, so he avoided physical struggles. He didn’t like to be touched and had issues with blood. So, he killed with a syringe and only sliced the body afterward. To avoid bodily fluids."

Adam cursed.