developed friendships? Nothing honest, of course, no deeply shared intimacy or any other disposition that defines friendship, merely the appearance thereof. And I’m so good at it. People like me, Lieutenant. Is that why they open the door?
Shall I toss you a tidbit? Here’s something your analysts will want to know: When I am with them, when they beg me to stop, when they tell me I’m hurting them, when they ask why, I ask back, “How does it feel? What does it feel like inside?” They never know what to say. They don’t even understand what I’m asking. I dig deeper. I press on. I don’t let them rest. I want to know. How Does It Fucking Feel? At least I give them something tangible to grieve, some pain that can be pinpointed, heroically endured. People forgive you for pain. Sometimes it’s good to have an ache you can really sink your teeth into. This is why people cut themselves, I now understand. We are practically bleeding all over everything most of the time anyway. Might as well see the goddamn trail of arterial spray we leave behind.
No empathy, you decide. Totally egocentric. But how would I know how to hurt them if I did not myself have a comprehensive understanding of pain and degradation? One must have a non-egocentric viewpoint in order to enjoy the true pleasures of egocentricity. Sick, sick, sick, you say. Don’t judge me by your own values. It won’t help you to find me. We merely employ a different set of ideals, you and I. Someone so terribly ill would have trouble, wouldn’t they, avoiding detection for so long? And I have been at it longer than you think, Lieutenant.
I said hello to him on that elevator morning and we shook hands. Did your heart jump at reading that? A public setting, witnesses, video cameras. Oh, how that must intrigue you. What building and what elevator? Had we met before? He gave me his wolf smile and I knew at that instant he was every bit as much of a predator as I am.
Shall I give you a clue to make that hopeful heart of yours skip a beat?
David, black hair, expensive suits, up and coming.
Three days, Lieutenant. Tick-tock.
The light from Peachtree Street casts a stained glow over my loft at night and I love the warmth of it and the marquee at the Fox across the street outlined in fat, round bulbs. But tonight my home seemed eerily dark and silent as I sat with notebook and pen and this uninvited guest, another letter from a murderer.
When I answered my phone an hour later, Rauser said, “You speaking to me? I’ll make the coffee if you’ll let me come up.”
He had called from the lobby and appeared two minutes later in Levis and a royal blue T-shirt with APD embroidered on the left sleeve in bright yellow, looking like he needed a nap and a shave. He went straight to the kitchen and dumped espresso beans in the coffee grinder. He knew where to find things here. We’d both spent a lot of time in the other’s home.
“Coffee,” he said, and put our cups down on the coffee table, sat, turned toward me, and put his hand on mine. “Thanks, Street. I just need to talk this through with somebody who understands this shit.”
I nodded. What else could I have possibly said to that?
He crossed an ankle over his knee and slurped the coffee he’d loaded with cream and sugar. “I don’t think this guy’d be letting off warning shots if there was time to find David,” he said flatly. “But we’re sure as hell gonna try. I don’t care if we have to look at every tape from every building in this city, we’re gonna catch this bastard.”
We were quiet for a moment. I thought about what that arduous process would be, about the time and resources it would gobble up, about some unlucky cop from each shift sitting for hours watching surveillance tapes, grainy and indistinct. And what exactly would they look for? Someone shaking hands on an elevator, walking the halls and talking? And then what? Spending hours, perhaps days, running down the names of those individuals, getting statements? The killer was putting out just enough information to keep APD chasing their tails.
Three days, Lieutenant. Tick-tock.
“Maybe the entire scenario is bullshit and he’s just playing us. The bullshit factor’s high with these guys.” Rauser was making notes on his own