elected Pope of Rome. Both posts are reserved for men favored by God with an extraordinary genius for swathing the bitter facts of life in bandages of soft illusion.
—H. L. Mencken
Then, just as slowly, the letters faded back into the darkness. The scratching noise ceased. For a few seconds, silence, then:
Smash cut to MLK Drive. 3:00 a.m. Under a streetlight stand Andre Banks and the two cops, Appleby and Harper. All from the vantage point of the roof of the elementary school.
Suddenly there’s music.
Kate Smith, booming “God Bless America.” Esme jumped a bit, startled by the loud sound.
Kate’s Smith’s voice soars as—
Harper goes down.
Appleby goes down.
Andre Banks, panicking, tries for shelter behind the squad car.
The music continues.
Andre Banks goes down.
Smash cut now to an hour later. The local cops are swarming the scene. Pennington, O’Daye. Perry Roman. All ten of them familiar faces now, from the news reports, from what’s about to happen.
The first victim is Perry Roman. He drops down like a bag of cement.
The detectives search for their attacker, but it’s all in vain. They’ve already been snared, and marked for slaughter. One by one they collapse.
Officer O’Daye is the last one standing. She is struggling to pull her partner’s body out of the line of fire. She’s the last to die.
The music suddenly halts.
Cut to black.
Esme didn’t realize she was crying until the soundtrack stopped, and she heard sobs, and knew they were her own.
Around midday, Esme took a break from her work to call her neighbor Holly McKinley. Surely Holly had remembered to pick Sophie up from school, right? Esme flipped photographs of the Amarillo crime scene upside down and waited through one, two, three rings before Holly picked up.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite crime-fighter,” chirped Holly, probably between swigs of Evian. “How is life down in the Lone Star State?”
“It’s okay. How’s the weather up there? I heard it was supposed to snow.”
They small-talked for a few minutes more, and finally Esme asked to speak with her daughter.
Holly hesitated.
“Oh…she can’t come to the phone right now…”
Esme swallowed hard. “Why’s that?” Her mind became flooded with images of Sophie stranded on the steps of the schoolhouse, Sophie in tears, Sophie all alone.
“Well, Esme, I’ll be honest. She’s covered in green paint.”
“Beg pardon?”
“Oh, don’t worry. It’s just finger-paint. She’s making you a card. Turns out I had finger-paint and construction paper in the closet from when Merideth was her age and, well, there you go. Don’t worry. I’m making sure she’s not eating any of the paint.”
“Holly, can you put her on speakerphone?”
“Speakerphone? What a novel idea. No wonder you’re such a VIP! One second.”
While Esme waited, there was a knock on the conference room door. It was Tom.
“I have the updated psych profile,” he said. “Thought you’d want to take a peek.”
“Sure. But just a peek. I’m underage.”
“Who’s underage?” warbled Holly from thousands of miles away. “Esme, you’re not doing anything worth gossiping about, are you?”
Tom went to exit but Esme signaled for him to stay.
“Holly, am I on speakerphone?”
“Hi, Mommy,” replied Sophie.
Esme’s face lit up. “Hi, baby! I hear you’ve been making me a card.”
“I was drawing the state of Texas in green paint.”
“Why green?”
“Because it’s your favorite color.”
So precious. She spotted Tom, still in the doorway. “I miss you, baby. You know that, right?”
“Sure, Mommy,” Sophie replied. She sounded so casual. “What are we having for dinner?”
“That’s up to your father.” Esme got an idea. “Tell him I said you should have macaroni and cheese.”
“But he hates macaroni and cheese.”
Yep. Rafe hated its creamy taste, its gooey texture, and, most of all, its cheesy aroma, which lingered for days. This would show him. Act like an ass? Deal with mac and cheese.
Esme told Sophie how much she loved her and kissed the air, pretending it was her. Then she hung up.
“Macaroni and cheese, huh?” Tom’s face was aglow with bemusement. “I think I ate that every day one summer. When I was six.”
They sat down at the table. Esme reviewed the profile Norm had typed up. It didn’t take long.
“The card should be back soon from the lab,” said Tom. He was referring to the Shoebox greeting which Galileo had left on Darcy’s body. Esme had already reviewed the missive scrawled inside: Don’t stare into the barrel of a gun.
“Fingerprints?”
Tom shook his head. “Not likely.” The killer was too cautious.
“Handwriting analysis?”
“Well, the way he dots his i’s proves he was abused by his mother.”
“Really?”
“No.”
Esme examined the crime scene photos. “He’s an atheist on