Chasing Darkness by Robert Crais Page A

said, “Most of these guys, they’ll take hair or a piece of jewelry or maybe some clothes as a way of reliving the rush. But pictures are a deeper commitment.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œThese women were murdered in semi-public places. He didn’t take them into the desert or some soundproof basement somewhere. They were killed in parking lots or near busy streets or in parks where someone could happen by. Grabbing an earring or a handful of hair is easy—you grab it and run—but he had to stick around to take the pictures. He chose high-risk locations to make his kills, then increased the risk by staying to take a picture when someone might see the flash.”
    â€œMaybe he was just stupid.”
    Starkey laughed.
    â€œI think he got off on the complexity. He was tempting fate by taking the pictures, and each time he got away with it he probably felt omnipotent, the same way bomb cranks feel strong through their bombs. The rush isn’t so much the actual killing—it’s the getting away with it.”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œDid Lindo talk to you about the composition?”
    I shook my head. Lindo hadn’t mentioned the composition, and I hadn’t thought about it. The pictures had all looked pretty much the same to me.
    â€œA picture isn’t a part of the experience like a more traditional trophy—it’s a composition outside of the experience. The photographer chooses the angle. He chooses what will be in the picture, and what won’t. If the picture is a world, then the photographer is the god of that world. This dude got off by being God. He needed to take the pictures because he needed to be God.”
    I couldn’t see Lionel Byrd feeling like a god, but maybe that was the point. I tried to imagine him stalking these women with the clunky, out-of-date camera, but I couldn’t picture him with the camera, either.
    â€œI don’t know, Starkey. That doesn’t sound like Byrd.”
    Starkey shrugged, then looked at the canyon again.
    â€œI’m just sayin’, is all. I’m not trying to convince you.”
    â€œI know. I didn’t take it that way.
    â€œWhatever this jackhole did or however he was involved, you need to understand you aren’t responsible for his crimes. You played it straight up and did your job. Don’t eat yourself up about it.”
    I met Carol Starkey when Lou Poitras brought her to my house because a boy named Ben Chenier was missing. Starkey helped find him, and the friendship we developed during the search grew. A few months later, a man named Frederick Reinnike shot me, and Starkey visited me regularly at the hospital. We had been building a history, and the friendship that grew with it made me smile.
    â€œI ever thank you for coming to the hospital all those times?”
    She flushed.
    â€œI was just trying to score with Pike.”
    â€œWell, thanks anyway.”
    She kept her eyes on the canyon.
    â€œHear much from the lawyer?”
    The lawyer. Now I turned toward the canyon, too. Once upon a time I shared my life with a lawyer from Louisiana named Lucy Chenier. Ben was her son. Lucy and Ben had moved to L.A., but after what happened to Ben they returned to Louisiana and now we lived apart. I wondered what Lucy would think of Lionel Byrd, and was glad she didn’t know.
    I said, “Not so much. They’re getting on with their lives.”
    â€œHow’s the boy?”
    â€œHe’s good. Growing. He sends me these letters.”
    Starkey suddenly pushed from the rail.
    â€œHow about we go somewhere? Let’s hit the Dresden for a few drinks.”
    â€œYou don’t drink.”
    â€œI can watch. I’ll watch you drink while you watch me smoke. How about it?”
    â€œMaybe another time. I want to catch the news about Byrd.”
    She stepped back again and raised her hands.
    â€œOkay. I got it.”
    We stood like that for a moment before she