Читать книгу The Killing Game - J. Kerley A. - Страница 8

“Class is about over for tonight, folks,” I announced. “Any final questions?”

I set aside the projector’s remote and studied the recruits, surprised to discover the class wasn’t entirely made up of dolts. Several were complete dullards, of course, a red-faced mouth-breather named Wilbert Pendel coming to mind. No matter what I said, Pendel wanted to talk about guns. The other students began telling him to shut up. He muttered, stamped a foot on the floor like a mini-tantrum, then sulked in silence.

But on the whole the class seemed several notches above my expectations. They were fast learners, too. A cell phone had gone off early on. “Don’t think of that as a phone,” I’d said. “Think of it as a warning bell. When the next phone rings I will stomp it into its components. Thank you.”

Not an electronic peep since. I’d explained various homicide cases solved by Harry and me – with histories, photos, news stories – and the recruits now regarded me with eyes both admiring and envious, which wasn’t offensive in the least.

In response to my call for final questions, a tentative hand climbed into the air. “I have a question, Detective.”

“What was your name again?”

“Wendy Holliday, sir.”

Initially, I hadn’t been well disposed toward the auburn-haired Holliday, her slender frame, piercing gray eyes and pursed lips reminding me of a temperamental college girlfriend, but the long-legged recruit was one of the night’s best surprises: observant, analytical, and inquisitive, making intelligent – if wrong – conjectures about cases presented.

Intelligence took brains. Right took years.

“Your question, Holliday?” I asked.

“I’d like to know your most nightmarish scenario, Detective Ryder,” she said. “Real or imagined.”

I started to wave the question away as frivolous, but when everyone in the class leaned forward with interest, I considered what truly frightened me and reached into my briefcase for the rolled coins I kept forgetting to take to the bank. I broke open a tube of pennies and poured them into my palm.

“Here’s my nightmare scenario,” I said, flinging the coins skyward. They tinkled down across the floor, spinning, rolling into corners, dropping at the legs of desks and chairs.

“Penny-ante crime?” said a recruit named Wainwright, buying a round of laughter.

“Come on, kiddies,” I said, stepping in front of the lectern. “What inference can be made from the pattern?”

Several recruits stood to better survey the floor. I saw a tentative hand.

“Yes, Miz Holliday?” I said. “Have you discovered the pattern?”

“I don’t think there is a pattern, Detective Ryder. The coins fell at random.”

“Bingo,” I said. “Imagine a purely random victim selection process: the killer walks down the street with closed eyes, opens them and sees someone – cab driver, elderly woman, shopper, child in a playground. He tracks and kills that person. Without a motive – monetary, sexual, psychological, power, vengeance – the detective is never sure one death is connected to another. It’s my idea of a nightmare situation.”

“What about evidence at the scene?” a recruit named Terrell Birdly asked.

“I was purposefully simple for the sake of the answer,” I said. “If the perpetrator leaves his prints behind – or blood or semen or the mortgage to his home – the case gets easier to solve. But let me enhance our scenario by giving the killer three traits: high intelligence, a basic knowledge of police procedures, and an awareness of the confusion he’s causing. Now you’ve got big trouble.”

“You’ve dealt with random killings, sir?” Birdly asked.

I shook my head. “I’ve never personally seen a killer without some form of motive, though it eludes the killer himself. Even with severely deranged minds, I’ve always found a motive behind the madness.”

I was making that information up on the fly. But it felt right.

“Seeing all the cases you and Detective Nautilus solved,” one young woman gushed, “I figure if anyone could catch a random killer, it would be you, Detective Ryder.”

She was cute and her breathy words sent a pleasant blush to my neck. “I expect you’re exactly right,” I said, bouncing on my heels. “And on that note, class is dismissed …” I held out my cupped hand, fingers making the gimme motion. “After the pennies have come home.”

Gregory had done a half-hour’s worth of faces followed by two strenuous sessions on his Bowflex, pushing to his limits as he watched his sweating body in the mirror, muscles shining and rippling.

Frail, Ema? I’ll show you frail … I’ll turn into the fucking Hulk next time.

He’d followed with a shower, then gone to his office to write code. He worked in a suit, but after being on the job four hours allowed himself to hang the jacket over the back of his chair and roll his sleeves to mid-forearm.

Gregory took a break, sitting in the dark with honeyed tea and graham crackers covered with organic peanut butter. He winced at the yowl of a horny feline outside his window. He had called the Animal Control department twice in the past week, but the cats eluded the nets.

After his recent breakfast with Ema, Gregory had considered her comments, then grudgingly purchased a Havahart Cat Trap and Rescue Kit, the most humane way to trap cats, according to Ema. He’d set the ridiculous cage-like contraption in his backyard at dawn. Probably time to check it.

Gregory changed from suit into chinos and a polo shirt. Tucking a flashlight into his pocket, he stepped into the backyard, the steamy air smelling of the pine straw at the base of the trees.

Feeling a delicious shivering in his loins, Gregory tiptoed to his burlap-camouflaged trap at the rear of the long yard. He snapped the fabric away and shone his flashlight down.

He had a cat.