. . Stop! Please . . . About an hour ago . . . Thank you for being so thoughtful . . . Rot in hell you piece of shi—”
Gregory slipped the phone from Caitlin’s grasp and stated perfunctorily, “Todd Gregory, Special Agent in Charge.” Gregory whipped out a small booklet, which I can only imagine was titled Serial Killer Phone Call Procedure Booklet, and said, “Would you like to turn yourself in?”
I mentally gagged, then made eye contact with Caitlin. I walked over to her and asked, “You okay?”
She nodded and I asked, “What did he say?”
“He didn’t think that we’d found Ginny yet. He was calling to tell us where to find her. Then he started telling me what he did to her. How she begged him to stop. How he got on top of her—” She shook her head silently and soon had her head buried in my chest. She caught herself, straightening, and stated, “We should really go listen in.”
As we made our way back to the group, Gregory rifled through four or five pages of his booklet, then read, “We can help you. What do you want from us?”
I’d had enough. I wrestled the phone from Gregory’s runway model grip and pressed End . Gregory stammered, “What did you do that for? There are certain steps that need to be taken. I was following procedure—Federal procedure.”
I said calmly, “He’ll call back.”
Gregory plunged his face into his hands, then glared at me incredulously. “No, he won’t call back. This isn’t a movie you idiot. This is real life, and in real life when you hang up a serial killer he doesn’t call ba—”
Gregory’s tantrum was interrupted by the distinct ring of a cell phone. I noticed Caitlin forcing a smile down as I depressed Send and put the phone to my ear. I cleared my throat and said, “Jack ‘n the Box.”
I looked at Gregory, who appeared to be in the middle of a deep breathing exercise, trying to find his chi. Or maybe it was his nine millimeter.
Tristen did not find this amusing. “Who is this?”
“Can you hold on a sec I have another call?” I pulled my ringing cell phone from my pant pocket and answered it. It was Lacy. She wanted to know if I could take her to the doctor in the morning. I told her of course I would and hung up. I coughed into my hand then returned to my buddy Tristen. “Sorry about that. You were saying.”
He said the words slowly, “Who is this?”
“Thomas Prescott. But you can address me as King Tom, Thomas the Magnificent, or The-Man-Who-is-Going-to-Cut-Off-Your-Dick-and-Shove-it-Down-Your-Throat.”
I could hear him breathing heavily on the line, then he said, “Thomas Prescott. I saw your name in the paper. Mr. Big Shot serial killer hunter.” He paused, then added, “So what do you think of my work so far?”
“I’ve seen better.” For the record, I had not.
“I’m just getting warmed up.”
I took a second to digest this, which oddly enough, felt like indigestion. I said, “Can I ask you a question?” I didn’t wait for a response, “Why her? Why Ginny Farth?”
“She needed to suffer.”
“Why? Why did she need to suffer?”
He said solemnly, “So he would suffer.”
He? “Who’s he you piece of shit?”
He didn’t reply and I prodded, “Tristen? You there? Tristy?”
I looked at Gregory, Gleason, and Caitlin, then shrugged. I handed the phone to Gregory and said, “What does it say in your little manual to do when a serial killer hangs up on you?”
Chapter 8
It was closing in on nine when Lacy finally authorized an acceptable hanging locale for her resplendent painting. (The locale, if you must know, was the wall directly across from her bed. She wanted it to be the first image she saw when her sight came back. My idea.) As for the painting, it was exquisite. Lacy had a unique style, capturing the essence and mood of, well, Lacy. She painted the picture in her head; that was her signature. Even when she had her sight, she painted the image etched on her eyelids.
After
Gregory slipped the phone from Caitlin’s grasp and stated perfunctorily, “Todd Gregory, Special Agent in Charge.” Gregory whipped out a small booklet, which I can only imagine was titled Serial Killer Phone Call Procedure Booklet, and said, “Would you like to turn yourself in?”
I mentally gagged, then made eye contact with Caitlin. I walked over to her and asked, “You okay?”
She nodded and I asked, “What did he say?”
“He didn’t think that we’d found Ginny yet. He was calling to tell us where to find her. Then he started telling me what he did to her. How she begged him to stop. How he got on top of her—” She shook her head silently and soon had her head buried in my chest. She caught herself, straightening, and stated, “We should really go listen in.”
As we made our way back to the group, Gregory rifled through four or five pages of his booklet, then read, “We can help you. What do you want from us?”
I’d had enough. I wrestled the phone from Gregory’s runway model grip and pressed End . Gregory stammered, “What did you do that for? There are certain steps that need to be taken. I was following procedure—Federal procedure.”
I said calmly, “He’ll call back.”
Gregory plunged his face into his hands, then glared at me incredulously. “No, he won’t call back. This isn’t a movie you idiot. This is real life, and in real life when you hang up a serial killer he doesn’t call ba—”
Gregory’s tantrum was interrupted by the distinct ring of a cell phone. I noticed Caitlin forcing a smile down as I depressed Send and put the phone to my ear. I cleared my throat and said, “Jack ‘n the Box.”
I looked at Gregory, who appeared to be in the middle of a deep breathing exercise, trying to find his chi. Or maybe it was his nine millimeter.
Tristen did not find this amusing. “Who is this?”
“Can you hold on a sec I have another call?” I pulled my ringing cell phone from my pant pocket and answered it. It was Lacy. She wanted to know if I could take her to the doctor in the morning. I told her of course I would and hung up. I coughed into my hand then returned to my buddy Tristen. “Sorry about that. You were saying.”
He said the words slowly, “Who is this?”
“Thomas Prescott. But you can address me as King Tom, Thomas the Magnificent, or The-Man-Who-is-Going-to-Cut-Off-Your-Dick-and-Shove-it-Down-Your-Throat.”
I could hear him breathing heavily on the line, then he said, “Thomas Prescott. I saw your name in the paper. Mr. Big Shot serial killer hunter.” He paused, then added, “So what do you think of my work so far?”
“I’ve seen better.” For the record, I had not.
“I’m just getting warmed up.”
I took a second to digest this, which oddly enough, felt like indigestion. I said, “Can I ask you a question?” I didn’t wait for a response, “Why her? Why Ginny Farth?”
“She needed to suffer.”
“Why? Why did she need to suffer?”
He said solemnly, “So he would suffer.”
He? “Who’s he you piece of shit?”
He didn’t reply and I prodded, “Tristen? You there? Tristy?”
I looked at Gregory, Gleason, and Caitlin, then shrugged. I handed the phone to Gregory and said, “What does it say in your little manual to do when a serial killer hangs up on you?”
Chapter 8
It was closing in on nine when Lacy finally authorized an acceptable hanging locale for her resplendent painting. (The locale, if you must know, was the wall directly across from her bed. She wanted it to be the first image she saw when her sight came back. My idea.) As for the painting, it was exquisite. Lacy had a unique style, capturing the essence and mood of, well, Lacy. She painted the picture in her head; that was her signature. Even when she had her sight, she painted the image etched on her eyelids.
After
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