The Killing Vision - By Will Overby Page 0,3
his watch again. “We’ve gotta go.”
* * *
On the short drive into town, passing the plows working desperately in the fields before the rain came, Joel turned down the radio and took a quick glance at his brother. Wade sat on the passenger side, staring out at the passing land, chewing his thumbnail. “So, what did Marla say?” Joel asked.
“About what?”
“The car.”
“Oh.” Even though the day was dark, Wade was wearing sunglasses, which made it impossible for Joel to read his eyes when he said, “She didn’t put up much of a fight.”
Joel pondered this for a moment, then turned his attention back to the road. “They found that girl’s body.”
“Who?”
“You know. The McElvoy girl. The one that’s been missing so long.”
Wade nodded. “I’d forgot about her.”
“They said her throat had been cut.”
Beside him, Wade said, “Turn up the radio.”
* * *
As they walked through the front door of the cable office, Betsy, the office manager, stood behind the counter with her arms crossed, several files in one hand. “Well,” she said, “if it isn’t the Roberts boys.” Betsy was good at intimidating people, which was one reason she was successful in her job; in the two years since she had started, overdue accounts were down by sixty percent and employee absenteeism was almost nil. “I was wondering about you two,” she said, tossing her blonde hair, which really meant, You’re late. “Got several orders for you in the box,” she said. “The other guys are already out.” She headed off toward her office.
At the other end of the service counter, Rhonda Rose, the billing clerk, suppressed a snicker. All the guys in the office thought Rhonda was hot. Though only a couple of years out of high school, she possessed the confidence and aloofness of someone much older, someone who was aware of her sensuality but not driven by it. Wade talked about her sometimes, especially after he had had a few beers, going into detail about what the two of them would do in his bed if Marla wasn’t around.
“You guys are in trouble,” Rhonda said, stretching out the last word as if singing it.
Wade sauntered to the counter and leaned over it, propped on one elbow. “Just how much trouble are we in?” he asked, grinning.
She smiled back at him. “Plenty.”
“Then you may have to punish me,” he said. “Joel’s on his own.”
Rhonda rolled her eyes. “Whatever.”
Outside, as they climbed back in the truck with their work orders, Wade whistled through his teeth. “Goddamn, she’s sexy. Man, wouldn’t you like to have some of that?”
Joel looked away, feeling his face turn hot. “She’s pretty.”
Wade shook his head. “Pretty. Yeah.” He slugged Joel in the arm. “You fuckin’ faggot. You could probably go out with her if you wanted to.”
Joel snorted. “Right. I’m every woman’s dream date.”
“You could clean up a little better, you know. Get a decent haircut. Shave off that fuckin’ goatee.” He grabbed Joel’s dark whiskers and tugged. Joel shoved Wade’s arm away, catching a fragment of thought from Wade’s head.
(fat ugly)
Joel started the truck and pulled out of the parking lot. He hated Wade when he got on these personal trainer kicks. It was bad enough knowing how unattractive you were without having your own brother reiterate it. Besides, Joel knew better than to try to get involved with anyone; he understood that when he touched someone, when he was able see them, they ceased to be appealing to him. There was something both sickening and frightening about being in another person’s head. But of course, that was not anything he could tell Wade.
* * *
8:23 PM
Lieutenant Mike Halloran was standing in the city hospital morgue, watching with sickening fascination as the county medical examiner unzipped the black bag containing what remained of Sarah Jo McElvoy. Her face, the color of rotten egg yolk, was framed with matted, dirty blonde hair that brushed against the gaping, puckered tear in her throat. One eye was gone, its socket sunken and shriveled; the other gazed blankly at the ceiling, white and clouded. Her lips hung open to reveal a mouth blackened inside with river silt. But it was the stench that got him, the smell of putrefying flesh and the fishy smell of the river. The smell of death.
Halloran pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and covered his nose and mouth. He glanced across the table at his partner, Detective John Chapman, a big strapping guy with short red hair and freckled skin. Together the