at least two dozen times before, but never on his own; as a detective he always had Pete Huntley to help him, and before Pete, two previous partners. Most of the letters were threatening communications from ex-husbands (and an ex-wife or two). Not much challenge in those. Some were extortion demands. Some were blackmail—really just another form of extortion. One was from a kidnapper demanding a paltry and unimaginative ransom. And three—four, counting the one from Mr. Mercedes—were from self-confessed murderers. Two of those were clearly fantasy. One might or might not have been from the serial killer they called Turnpike Joe.
What about this one? True or false? Real or fantasy?
Hodges opens his desk drawer, takes out a yellow legal pad, tears off the week-old grocery list on the top. Then he plucks one of the Uni-Ball pens from the cup beside his computer. He considers the detail about the condom first. If the guy really was wearing one, he took it with him . . . but that makes sense, doesn’t it? Condoms can hold fingerprints as well as jizz. Hodges considers other details: how the seatbelt locked when the guy plowed into the crowd, the way the Mercedes bounced when it went over the bodies. Stuff that wouldn’t have been in any of the newspapers, but also stuff he could have made up. He even said . . .
Hodges scans the letter, and here it is: My imagination is very powerful.
But there were two details he could not have made up. Two details that had been withheld from the news media.
On his legal pad, below IS IT REAL?, Hodges writes: HAIRNET. BLEACH.
Mr. Mercedes had taken the net with him just as he had taken the condom (probably still hanging off his dick, assuming it had been there at all), but Gibson in Forensics had been positive there was one, because Mr. Mercedes had left the clown mask and there had been no hairs stuck to the rubber. About the swimming-pool smell of DNA-killing bleach there had been no doubt. He must have used a lot.
But it isn’t just those things; it’s everything. The assuredness. There’s nothing tentative here.
He hesitates, then prints: THIS IS THE GUY.
Hesitates again. Scribbles out GUY and prints BASTARD.
7
It’s been awhile since he thought like a cop, and even longer since he did this kind of work—a special kind of forensics that doesn’t require cameras, microscopes, or special chemicals—but once he buckles down to it, he warms up fast. He starts with a series of headings.
ONE-SENTENCE PARAGRAPHS.
CAPITALIZED PHRASES.
PHRASES IN QUOTATION MARKS.
FANCY PHRASES.
UNUSUAL WORDS.
EXCLAMATION POINTS.
Here he stops, tapping the pen against his lower lip and reading the letter through again from Dear Detective Hodges to Hope this letter has cheered you up! Then he adds two more headings on the sheet, which is now getting crowded.
USES BASEBALL METAPHOR, MAY BE A FAN.
COMPUTER SAVVY (UNDER 50?).
He is far from sure about these last two. Sports metaphors have become common, especially among political pundits, and these days there are octogenarians on Facebook and Twitter. Hodges himself may be tapping only twelve percent of his Mac’s potential (that’s what Jerome claims), but that doesn’t make him part of the majority. You had to start somewhere, though, and besides, the letter has a young feel.
He has always been talented at this sort of work, and a lot more than twelve percent of it is intuition.
He’s listed nearly a dozen examples under UNUSUAL WORDS, and now circles two: compatriots and Spontaneous Ejaculation. Beside them he adds a name: Wambaugh. Mr. Mercedes is a shitbag, but a bright, book-reading shitbag. He has a large vocabulary and doesn’t make spelling errors. Hodges can imagine Jerome Robinson saying, “Spellchecker, my man. I mean, duh?”
Sure, sure, these days anyone with a word processing program can spell like a champ, but Mr. Mercedes has written Wambaugh, not Wombough, or even Wombow, which is how it sounds. Just the fact that he’s remembered to put in that silent gh suggests a fairly high level of intelligence. Mr. Mercedes’s missive may not be high-class literature, but his writing is a lot better than the dialogue in shows like NCIS or Bones.
Homeschooled, public-schooled, or self-taught? Does it matter? Maybe not, but maybe it does.
Hodges doesn’t think self-taught, no. The writing is too . . . what?
“Expansive,” he says to the empty room, but it’s more than that. “Outward. This guy writes outward. He learned with others. And wrote for others.”
A shaky deduction, but it’s supported by certain flourishes—those FANCY