a snake bites her, and she dies.”
After considering this for a moment, Dulac rocked back in his chair. “That’s some messed-up shit. What about the bees?”
“The same: he had the queen and her attendants trapped, and the swarm was trying to stay near. He also posed her the same way he did Phil: running, but looking back. He used stakes, which we think he must have put in place a day or two before. There’s no reason anybody would have noticed because the industrial park is abandoned, which is why he had to use the lights to draw the security guard’s attention, although I think—”
“Running where?”
“In the story, Eurydice is running away from a beekeeper; I told you—”
“No, bro. Where is Susan running?” Dulac shoved aside more photographs and grabbed the pencil-drawn crime scene layout. “She’s here, facing which direction.”
Somers turned the page in his hand and then tapped one side.
“What’s over there?”
They pulled up Google Maps, did some more twisting and turning of the page, holding up crime scene photos to coordinate.
“Straight at that fucking building, man. She’s running straight at the fucker. What’s in there?”
“No idea,” Somers said. “But remember, she’s looking back, she’s running away—”
“Yeah, I heard you. God, old people are so fucking repetitive. I’m saying, this guy staged everything. Lights, camera, action, you know? And he likes games. So why does he go to so much trouble to make it look like she’s heading here,” Dulac tapped the screen, “when he could have done this somewhere else. Like her house, you know? Why go to all this trouble? He picked the last place because it represented a fuck you to the law. Why this place?”
Blinking, Somers rubbed his jaw.
“And he’s got a tight window to do it,” Dulac said. “At the very earliest, she’s dead by ten. That barely gives him two hours to transport the body, making sure nobody sees him and nobody follows him, and then to stage Susan like this. That’s not a lot of time, bro. He’s doing this for a reason, picked this place for a reason.”
“I’m not saying you’re wrong,” Somers said slowly. “It’s a good point—”
“It’s a fucking badass point. It’s a fucking Emery-Hazard-level fucktastic point.”
“—but serial killers, even they don’t always understand their rituals. He might not have been making a conscious choice.”
“But we need to check,” Dulac said.
“But we need to check,” Somers said. “I’d also like to get a look at Susan’s apartment. And talk to neighbors, coworkers, anybody who might have noticed something unusual in her life.”
“Dude, you’re ancient. Your brain is slipping. We’ve got to start with Wesley, right? I mean, if anything had been going on with Susan, he would know.”
Somers’s eyes cut toward the door to the interview room.
“I’m going to let you slide, bro, because you were up all night and your fuck-old body can’t keep up.”
Somers shook his head and began gathering up the photographs.
“What?” Dulac said.
“What do you think?”
“Dude,” Dulac said, his eyes dragged toward the interview room. “No way.”
“He’s the romantic partner. You know they’re always the first place we start.”
“Yeah, but, he’s like . . . Wesley.”
“They picked him up first thing. Riggle went at him pretty hard until he asked for a lawyer.”
“Riggle’s an asshole,” Dulac said.
“I thought he was your new silver-fox daddy.”
“He’s a total asshole. If he honestly thinks Wesley could—”
“He does think that. And I don’t blame him, not entirely. Wesley’s history isn’t exactly spotless, ok? Drug abuse, living on the street, mental illness. I bet we’ll find some violence if we dig deep enough.”
“Yeah, but that’s—”
“And he’s got a lot going against him besides: he’s relatively new to town, and he moved here just before the Keeper’s first killings. He has a personal connection to the most recent victim. If we’re right, and the Keeper has fixated on Hazard for some reason, well . . . Wesley and Hazard haven’t exactly had smooth sailing between them.”
“Dude,” Dulac said, seeming to struggle for words. “He’s Wesley.”
“And he’s trans.”
“Dude.”
“Look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t think Riggle will care about that.”
After a moment, Dulac glanced away, tugging on his collar. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. There’s no way Wesley did this. No way.”
“Whoever took Mitchell,” Somers said, pausing for breath because it was hard to say, almost as hard as thinking it, “we think Mitchell knew him. Trusted him.”
“You’re saying the Keeper of Bees, he’s somebody we know? Somebody, like, we interact with?”
Somers dragged fingers through his hair and shrugged.
“Fuck,” Dulac