Senseless by Mary Burton Page A

hell was he thinking? He reached in his pocket and pulled out his black gloves and then slid them over trembling hands. He wiped the banister with his shirttail and then retraced his steps back to the window. He wiped all around the sill and the jamb.
    As he furiously wiped every flat surface, he kept getting the feeling that he was being watched. He saw that crazy son of a bitch in every shadowy corner. A crack of a branch outside nearly made him piss in his pants. But no one was there. It was just him and the fears that had gripped him since Saturday night.
    He’d thought getting back to work would put his life back on track, but now he wondered if he’d ever shake the fear that this guy would find him and do to him what he’d done to that woman.
    Please. Her screams echoed in his head.
    Time slipped away from him and he wasn’t sure how long he had been standing there when he shook off the funk. “Shit. Man, get a grip.”
    As he turned back toward the stairs, police lights appeared in front of the house. Flashing blue and red, lights from three cars illuminated his silhouette in the window frame. He glanced back over his shoulder. He could have run and vaulted over the back fence. His limberness and quickness had been his trademark. Instead, he raised his hands, savoring an odd sense of relief.
    Maybe in jail he wouldn’t hear the woman’s screams.
    Just after one A.M. Donovan parked at the crime scene. He checked the recorder in his pocket, grabbed a notepad from the passenger seat and pulled a ball cap over his head. Since he’d earned a byline at the paper a decade ago, he’d never run his picture or appeared on television. In fact, he’d been a little paranoid about keeping his identity secret. He rationalized that anonymity allowed him more access to a crime scene. Except for a few cops, no one knew what he looked like.
    For a moment he just stood and surveyed the scene. The firemen flooded burned-out embers with more water, making the charred beams hiss and spit tendrils of smoke. At least a dozen fire and police vehicles crowded the end of the cul-de-sac, but most of the curiosity seekers had drifted away, likely deciding that the real excitement had passed. Many would wander back in the morning.
    He suspected the medical examiner had long since removed the body, so he decided to visit the ME’s office and see what he could dig up.
    He recognized Detective Deacon Garrison and swallowed an oath. Garrison knew his face and resented Donovan’s negative portrayal of a victim earlier this year. Garrison had sought him out, cornering him in a coffee shop. They’d gone head to head over the story.
    Garrison’s quick smile was a weapon he used to get information. Many said the city’s top cop could squeeze blood from a turnip. So if he had been given this case, it meant something.
    Donovan moved up to the yellow crime scene tape. “Detective, got a minute?”
    Garrison’s gaze swung around. He smiled but his stance remained rigid and closed. “Donovan.”
    “The one and only.” He surveyed the charred rubble. “Looks like you got one hell of a mess on your hands.”
    “They pay me to clean up the messes.”
    Donovan shoved a lock of hair off his face. “So what did happen?”
    “Can’t say for sure right now. We’re still sifting through it all.”
    “Anything you can tell me?”
    “No.”
    Detective Malcolm Kier moved toward him, his muscles poised to fight. The city’s newest detective looked tired and impatient. He’d only crossed paths with Kier once or twice but the man could be a raging bull when provoked. “Who called you, Donovan?”
    Donovan enjoyed pissing these two off. He shrugged, sliding long fingers into his pocket as he approached the yellow crime scene tape. “Word gets around.”
    “And when I find out who is passing around the words, I’m gonna can them.” Garrison’s smile belied the ice in his gaze.
    Donovan had little regard for the source’s fate because they most