possible to gather information. They pushed and shoved and shouted out questions. “Who is the victim?” “Male or female? Age?” “Any connection to the other victims?” “How did he die?” “Can we see the body?” Police detectives assigned by Higgins to manage the media gave vague answers to the firestorm of questions.
I stood in the background, watching as the events unfolded. Everyone, it seemed, acted with authentic urgency. It looked like controlled chaos. I wasn’t in the briefing room when Higgins and the FBI did all the planning, but if Academy Awards were given out for the most realistic faked murder scene, I’m sure this would have won.
The discovery of a body in Dorchester, and its possible link to the serial killer terrorizing Boston, dominated the morning news and topped headlines on both local and national media outlets. Everyone, Special Agent Brenner included, believed the Fiend would contact me via my cell. He’d done it before. He’d do it again. So I was kept under close supervision. The FBI set up a tech center that could triangulate a cell signal if he did make contact.
An hour passed. And then another. Four hours to go, and still no word.
The tightness in my throat matched that of my stomach. Not a second went by when I wasn’t thinking of Ruby. I wanted to hold her, to feel her touch, feel her body pressed up against mine. I couldn’t shake the feeling of being cursed. King Midas in reverse. Everything I touched turned to poison.
I said my mantra over and over again. And no matter what it takes, or how far I have to go, I’m not going to let her die.
“It’s like fishing,” Detective Gant said to me, depositing a steaming Styrofoam cup of coffee in front of me. “Bait the hook, cast a line, and wait for a bite.”
I ignored Gant’s tasteless analogy by watching the video of Oliver Grayson’s dead body. We took the recording using my iPhone’s camera just after sunrise. Morning dew collected around the head in a crown of beaded water. The sky ignited with streams of pinks and yellows, all the markers of a beautiful day. We wanted the video on my phone in case I had to send it to the Fiend. The illusion had to be complete and perfect. I killed Oliver Grayson. I took a video of the body as the sun poked out over the horizon.
Afterward, the MEs bagged up Grayson—again—and Clegg left to escort them to a funeral home where the body would be cremated. Wailing sirens added authenticity to the departure. I stayed behind, camped out in a conference room at the VFW headquarters, along with a host of other law enforcement types, playing the waiting game.
I watched the video several times. Grayson looked to me like the other victims of the SHS Killer. Poor Oliver had two fingers set on the eyes, two on his waxy lips, and fingers protruding from each bulbous ear. The added blood was ketchup, but on video I couldn’t tell the difference. I didn’t see a cadaver. I saw a dead body, a murder victim. What I saw was my obligation fulfilled.
Three hours to go. Still no word.
A song popped into my head. The waiting is the hardest part. Tom Petty. Hadn’t I sung that to Ruby in Dr. Anna Lee’s office? Hadn’t that won me a point in our never-ending game? How prophetic a tune, how true it was.
And then it happened. My phone rang. My first thought was that Gant was right: it was like fishing. I did feel that jolt of adrenaline when a slack line suddenly goes taut. Everybody in the room—Higgins, Gant, Kaminski, Brenner, Agents Bob, Brewer—all tensed as well. I could see it on their faces. They felt the pull on the line, too.
“Shut up! Everybody shut up!” somebody screamed. “Everybody shut the hell up!”
Silence descended like a curtain. Voices went from a murmur to complete quiet in a few breaths. My phone rang again, sounding out the haunting chime of marimbas. I heard Brenner whisper, “Make sure our equipment is a go.” Burner phone or not, I knew that by triangulating the nearest cell phone transmission masts, coupled with cooperation from my cell provider and a lot of sophisticated equipment, they could pinpoint at least a general location of the Fiend.
I answered the call. “This is John.”
“Of course it is,” the Fiend said, his rasp on full display. “How are you, John? How are you feeling? Congratulations.