Maybe to amuse himself. Whatever the man's reasons, Nick decided to play along.
"The guy heated the knife in the fireplace—the one he used to burn the girl. He tied her to that hospital bed. She was cut loose, I assume by those boys who found her. The hunters."
Whitehall nodded. "Yep. But that's almost all in the newspaper."
"The guy is about five eleven," Nick offered.
"How you figure?"
Nick motioned toward the window. "Those sheets aren't that old. They were likely hung by our man, in case someone wandered by and tried to peek inside. There's no chair for him to stand on. He probably wouldn't bother, anyway. He stood on the ground to hang the sheets, stretching a little. With the height of the nails and the angle at which they were driven in… I'd say he stood about five-eleven."
Whitehall pulled his cigarette from his mouth and flipped it back and forth between his fingers. "Go on."
"The girl is hiding something. She has to know a few more details about the killer than she revealed. She said she couldn't see very well, but it couldn't have been that dark in here." Nick pointed to the window. "The moon would have been on that side of the cabin. And it was almost full that night. As late as it was, it would have been far enough above the trees to provide some light through the droop at the top of the sheets."
He turned and pointed again. "Also, if our suspect heated the knife in the fireplace, he obviously had a fire going. The angle of the bed tells me the firelight would have illuminated him quite well, depending on which side he stood. And my guess is he'd want to face the door, keep an eye out for intruders. That side of the bed would definitely have been lit well enough that she could have seen some detail. Something about his height, weight, eyes…" Nick stopped. He hadn't strung that many words together in years.
"Is that all?" Whitehall asked.
"That's it." Nick didn't tell the sheriff about the pill. He wanted to check that out for himself. It was probably the only piece of information Whitehall didn't already have.
"That's what I thought. You ain't dumb. You could prob'ly find Jimmy Hoffa before those two dimwits could find their dicks." The sheriff took the cigarette he'd had in his mouth and slipped it back in the pack.
Nick looked at the smoke he held in his hand, wondering if it had suffered similar treatment. He stubbed it out on the floor. Picking up the butt, he stuffed it in his jeans pocket.
"Wonder why he calls himself Tin Man," Whitehall murmured.
Nick shrugged. "I wondered about that myself."
"Probably from the movie. You know, The Wizard of Oz ."
"What was the Tin Man's thing?" Nick asked. "I get them mixed up."
"You seen the movie?"
"A long time ago, when I was a kid."
Whitehall nodded. "The Tin Man was the one without a heart."
Like me , Nick thought. Hollow inside . "The guy's saying he's a heartless bastard. Makes sense."
"Maybe so, maybe so," Whitehall murmured. "Although most serial killers don't think of themselves that way. Maybe he's in the recycling business."
Nick raised his eyebrows. "Recycling?"
"You know. Tin."
Nick gave a small smile. "I guess anything's possible."
The old sheriff put a hand on Nick's shoulder. "You need anything from me, let me know. The case belongs to the city, but I got my finger in the pie. Figured I'd better, if I want to see anything solved. Maybe us two together can get something done."
"Okay. Thanks," Nick said.
Unprompted, Whitehall offered up some information. "The SOB was a customer in the restaurant Miss Skyler ate in that night. Ran a check on credit-card receipts, but nothing came up that caught our fancy. No leads at all so far. You got as much on this guy as we do."
The sheriff sighed and walked to the door. Before he left, he turned back. "You're right about the girl, though, Lassiter. She's hiding something. I just can't figure out what—or why. But she's locked up tighter than Fort Knox." He tipped his hat back and
"The guy heated the knife in the fireplace—the one he used to burn the girl. He tied her to that hospital bed. She was cut loose, I assume by those boys who found her. The hunters."
Whitehall nodded. "Yep. But that's almost all in the newspaper."
"The guy is about five eleven," Nick offered.
"How you figure?"
Nick motioned toward the window. "Those sheets aren't that old. They were likely hung by our man, in case someone wandered by and tried to peek inside. There's no chair for him to stand on. He probably wouldn't bother, anyway. He stood on the ground to hang the sheets, stretching a little. With the height of the nails and the angle at which they were driven in… I'd say he stood about five-eleven."
Whitehall pulled his cigarette from his mouth and flipped it back and forth between his fingers. "Go on."
"The girl is hiding something. She has to know a few more details about the killer than she revealed. She said she couldn't see very well, but it couldn't have been that dark in here." Nick pointed to the window. "The moon would have been on that side of the cabin. And it was almost full that night. As late as it was, it would have been far enough above the trees to provide some light through the droop at the top of the sheets."
He turned and pointed again. "Also, if our suspect heated the knife in the fireplace, he obviously had a fire going. The angle of the bed tells me the firelight would have illuminated him quite well, depending on which side he stood. And my guess is he'd want to face the door, keep an eye out for intruders. That side of the bed would definitely have been lit well enough that she could have seen some detail. Something about his height, weight, eyes…" Nick stopped. He hadn't strung that many words together in years.
"Is that all?" Whitehall asked.
"That's it." Nick didn't tell the sheriff about the pill. He wanted to check that out for himself. It was probably the only piece of information Whitehall didn't already have.
"That's what I thought. You ain't dumb. You could prob'ly find Jimmy Hoffa before those two dimwits could find their dicks." The sheriff took the cigarette he'd had in his mouth and slipped it back in the pack.
Nick looked at the smoke he held in his hand, wondering if it had suffered similar treatment. He stubbed it out on the floor. Picking up the butt, he stuffed it in his jeans pocket.
"Wonder why he calls himself Tin Man," Whitehall murmured.
Nick shrugged. "I wondered about that myself."
"Probably from the movie. You know, The Wizard of Oz ."
"What was the Tin Man's thing?" Nick asked. "I get them mixed up."
"You seen the movie?"
"A long time ago, when I was a kid."
Whitehall nodded. "The Tin Man was the one without a heart."
Like me , Nick thought. Hollow inside . "The guy's saying he's a heartless bastard. Makes sense."
"Maybe so, maybe so," Whitehall murmured. "Although most serial killers don't think of themselves that way. Maybe he's in the recycling business."
Nick raised his eyebrows. "Recycling?"
"You know. Tin."
Nick gave a small smile. "I guess anything's possible."
The old sheriff put a hand on Nick's shoulder. "You need anything from me, let me know. The case belongs to the city, but I got my finger in the pie. Figured I'd better, if I want to see anything solved. Maybe us two together can get something done."
"Okay. Thanks," Nick said.
Unprompted, Whitehall offered up some information. "The SOB was a customer in the restaurant Miss Skyler ate in that night. Ran a check on credit-card receipts, but nothing came up that caught our fancy. No leads at all so far. You got as much on this guy as we do."
The sheriff sighed and walked to the door. Before he left, he turned back. "You're right about the girl, though, Lassiter. She's hiding something. I just can't figure out what—or why. But she's locked up tighter than Fort Knox." He tipped his hat back and
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