it up?
The game was everything for this kind of killer, even more tantalizing now than the basic compulsions of a violent serial offender. Toying, evading, taunting those who were trying to stop him. That was the hook. That was the whole reason for killing Dobbs, for shooting Rauser. Entertainment. And it didn’t matter who was in the way. The killer no longer needed a specific type of victim, someone who symbolized something. He could have stayed hidden. Charlie Ramsey had been set up beautifully. Wishbone didn’t have to resurface and try to kill Rauser. And yet here he was, so driven by rapacious ego that he couldn’t stay down.
My phone rang at the light at Fourteenth and Peachtree. “Are you all right, Keye?” It was Diane. “Are you taking care of yourself? What can I do?”
“I’m okay. Really. I’m heading back to the hospital. Rauser’s getting better, I think.”
“The doctors are taking care of Rauser. You have to take care of yourself too,” she insisted, quietly but firmly.
I was silent.
“We all miss seeing you around here. Maybe getting away from the hospital would be good, you know? Take your mind off things. Margaret says we have a lot of work we could give you. And I miss you.”
I heard the chimes on my phone letting me know I had unread email. “Hey, I gotta go. Don’t worry, Diane. I’m fine. Really. I’ll call you if I need you, okay? Love ya.”
I went through the light and pulled over in the passenger drop-off area in front of Colony Square. Brit Williams had sent an email saying the police department had contacted the fetish site publishing the BladeDriver blog. They’d requested all the details it stored on this user, including user name and passwords, addresses, phone numbers, but it would take a subpoena to get the records released and that would take time. Williams agreed that the blog was about the Wishbone killings but disagreed there was evidence Wishbone had written it. Anyone who was closely following the investigation could write fiction around the details and publish it. That the style and cadence were practically identical to the Wishbone correspondence Rauser and I had received was not something Brit was ready to accept as evidence. After all, the letters had been published for anyone to copycat. He had made the chief aware of a blog that had an entry the night Rauser was shot that was suspicious enough to warrant investigating. But there was nothing at all, Williams told me, in the vague ramblings of this blogger to link the attempted murder of Aaron Rauser to Wishbone. In his opinion, Wishbone was in custody and neutralized. The shooting in the park was about a thug who had a personal vendetta against Rauser or perhaps against anyone prominent in law enforcement.
I drew in a breath. I realized I was shaking. The air was crisp but still too warm to have stripped us winter bare; the leaves were hanging on and probably would through Christmas. A line of Japanese maples had turned cherry red up on Fifteenth. Colony Square and the High Museum were decked out head to toe for the holidays. NPR was playing the president’s address on health care reform. There was a group of people waiting to get into a restaurant next door, laughing. Life ticked by, unstoppable despite heartache or tragedy. I felt removed from it all. Pain does that. It’s utterly self-absorbed.
I was pissed at Williams. He’d let me down. I answered his email. Bullshit, Brit. What would Rauser do if it was you in that hospital bed? Anything it took regardless of what the chief said, that’s what he’d do.
My phone went off a couple of seconds after I’d hit Send—a text alert, an unknown address. Good to hear from you, Keye. Please do rest, my dear girl. What fun would life be without someone to challenge me? W.
The message I had posted on the BladeDriver blog had obviously been delivered.
I sat there for a minute trying to collect myself before I went back to the hospital. I missed Rauser. I wanted to talk to him again about this. I wanted to hear his voice teasing me about getting so obsessed. I won’t rest until I find you.
I put my nose to the aftershave I’d found in his bathroom, musky and quiet, not too sweet. The scent took me back to moments when he’d climbed in my car or I’d climbed in his, when he’d come for dinner