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Authors: Dan Wells

BOOK: I Don't Want To Kill You
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‘Your dad told you about me, right?’
 
She looked up. ‘What?’
 
‘No one knows what I did in that house. Most people don’t even know I was there – but your dad does, and he told you, right?’
 
She nodded. ‘You saved all those people. And you attacked Agent Forman.’
 
‘And you asked me out anyway?’
 
‘That’s
why
I asked you out.’
 
I paused just a moment before continuing, ‘What else did he tell you?’
 
‘About you?’
 
‘About anything. About Forman, or the Handyman, or the Clayton Killer. Does he tell you other things?’
 
‘He . . .’ She paused. ‘I ask him about his job a lot, actually - I think it’s fascinating – but he hasn’t said much about the killers. But he told me about Forman’s house, and what Forman was doing in there – what he did to you, and to those women. He wanted me to know what was happening, so I’d be prepared if anything happened to me.’ ‘So are you?’
 
She paused again, longer this time.
 
‘I think so,’ she said. ‘I know some self-defence moves, I carry Mace. I know what parts of town to stay away from, and what parts are safe, but the Mayor was just killed inside of City Hall, so I don’t know if anything’s safe any more.’
 
‘Forman kidnapped me inside the police station,’ I said. ‘He pulled a gun, he beat up Stephanie, and he abducted us both right there. No witnesses, no chance for help, nothing.’
 
‘That’s horrible,’ she said. She looked at me, and her eyes softened.
 
‘It was horrible,’ I agreed, ‘but it wasn’t the end. We hung on for two more days, and we won. And it wasn’t because I had Mace, or because I stayed away from danger zones, it was because I knew what was going on, and I knew how he thought and what he did. I knew what he wanted, and I turned it against him.’
 
She was watching me, resting her chin in the palm of her hand. ‘You know, you really are different.’
 
I had her interest now; she was really thinking about what I was saying. ‘Do you remember what you said this morning about Mr Coleman?’ I asked.
 
‘Jeez, what a dirtbag.’
 
‘You said you gave up. He did something wrong, you were going to stop him, and then you just gave up.’
 
‘Well, come on now, it’s not like I can have every guy who looks at me arrested—’
 
‘I’m not accusing you of anything,’ I said, holding out my hand to calm her down. ‘I tell you right now, if I looked like you I think the attention would drive me insane; I don’t know how you do it.’ She smiled a little at that, and I went on, ‘What I’m saying is that the killers in town are just like that – it’s on a bigger scale, but it’s the same thing. Something bad happens, and you can try to do something about it or you can sit back, and when you
do
try to do something it usually gets worse before it gets better. That’s what happened to you, and that’s what happened to me with Forman.’
 
It was time to show her who I really was. ‘Do you know why I was in the police station that night?’
 
‘No.’
 
‘I was helping Forman track the killer, though it turned out to be him all along. He was . . . I know this sounds weird, because I’m only sixteen, but he was running the case past me, bouncing ideas around to see if I had any insights.’
 
She raised her eyebrows again. ‘You’re kidding.’
 
‘I was there when the Clayton Killer attacked my neighbours,’ I said. ‘I mean, everyone knows I was there, but I was
really
there, right in the middle of it, and not just because I lived across the street and heard a noise. I’d been studying the Clayton Killer for months, trying to figure out who he was, and who he was attacking, and why, and once I figured all of that out I thought I could figure out how to stop him. I
did
figure out how to stop him. I saved Kay Crowley, and I almost saved Dr Neblin.’
 
‘And Mr Crowley, too,’ she said.
 
She didn’t know Mr Crowley was the killer – nobody did. I nodded, and went on; it wouldn’t hurt to bend the truth a little bit.
 
‘I almost saved him too,’ I agreed. ‘And Forman knew that – he knew everything I’d done to track the Clayton Killer – so when the second killer started dumping bodies all over town, Forman asked for my help tracking him, too. And then it turned out that he was the killer, and he was really just trying to find out how much of a threat I was. Once he realised that I was almost there – that I’d almost traced the whole thing back to him – he locked me up so I couldn’t stop him.’ It wasn’t the full truth, but it was all I dared to trust her with at the time. The demons would stay secret.
 
‘You’re kidding,’ she said again, laughing, then stopped and frowned. ‘You’re serious?’
 
‘Yeah.’
 
‘I had no idea.’ She sat back in her chair, staring at the table, then looked up at me. ‘What are you, some kind of genius detective?’
 
‘That’s just the thing,’ I said. ‘Anyone can do this, but nobody ever does. They leave it all to the police or the FBI, but if you pay attention and follow the case, you can find all the clues.’ I couldn’t tell her that I planned to go after the killer myself, so I took the safe route. ‘We can tell the police everything we find, and help them stop this killer.’
 
That was it – I’d said it all. I’d told her who I was: John the Dragonslayer. I’d either piqued her interest or driven her off completely. I watched her, waiting to see what she said.
 
She watched me back, her eyes moving over me, searching.
 
‘You really are serious,’ she said.
 
I didn’t even nod, I just stared back, waiting. After a long moment she shrugged.
 
‘So what do we do?’
 
‘Are you sure you want to do this?’
 
She nodded. ‘My dad’s a cop, John. You’re going to have to try pretty hard to freak me out.’
 
‘That’s a challenge I’ll accept,’ I said, and she smiled warily. ‘So let’s get right into it. The central question of criminal profiling is this: what did the killer do that she didn’t have to do?’
 
‘She?’
 
‘I think the Handyman might be a woman,’ I said.
 
‘Why?’
 
‘Just a hunch.’
 
She smirked. ‘I’m beginning to think this isn’t nearly as scientific as you led me to believe.’
 
‘There’s very little science in criminal profiling,’ I admitted. ‘It’s all educated guesses and shots in the dark.’
 
‘Does it ever work?’
 
‘It works all the time,’ I said. ‘How about . . . okay, here’s an example: the Trailside Killer, from San Francisco. He killed a bunch of people, both women and men, in the middle of the woods, and he kept at it for a year before they finally caught him. The forensic evidence showed that the attacks were all fast, like really fast, which usually means that the killer doesn’t want to be seen, but this was in the middle of nowhere – there was no one else around for miles. The profiler on the case decided that the only reason to go that fast when there was no danger of getting caught was that the killer was ashamed of something, and he didn’t want the victims to notice it.’
 
‘So the profiler predicted that the killer had a big ugly scar or something,’ said Marci, ‘and the police started looking for people with scars. Does that really help?’
 
I smiled. ‘It’s even better than that. You see, even though there were no witnesses in the woods, there were plenty at the trailheads and the parking lots, and nobody they interviewed had ever mentioned somebody with a physical deformity. So the profiler guessed that the killer had a deformity nobody could see, but that still made him feel awkward and outcast. He told the police to look for a guy with a stutter.’
 
‘He got all that just from the speed of the attacks?’
 
‘Well, there was obviously more to it than that – I’m just paraphrasing – but your reaction is pretty typical. Even the police laughed at the profiler. And then they caught the guy, and he had a really debilitating stutter.’
 
Marci shook her head, her mouth open. ‘That’s freaky.
 
‘Freaky and crazy and incredibly accurate,’ I said. ‘
If
you know what you’re doing.’
 
‘So the Trailside Killer did something he didn’t have to do,’ said Marci, nodding, ‘and figuring out the reason for that told them something valuable about him.’
 
‘Exactly,’ I said. She’d picked this up a lot quicker than Max had.
 
‘All right,’ said Marci, ‘I think I get it. But how does the Handyman thing make you think she’s a woman?’
 
‘Just forget the gender thing for now,’ I said. ‘Let’s go back to my question: what did the killer do that “it” didn’t have to do?’
 
‘He cut off their hands.’
 
‘Correct.’
 
‘And that tells us what – that he hates hands?’ She laughed. ‘You realise this is impossible.’
 
It gets even harder when you factor in the knowledge that the killer’s a demon
, I thought.
I still don’t know what the demon is doing with the hands and tongues she steals
.
 
‘I don’t really have any good ideas about the hands,’ I admitted. ‘It could be anything. So we start with something else.’
 
‘Like what?’
 
‘Like, well . . . the wounds are all very clean; the hands and tongue were removed very carefully. What could that tell us?’
 
‘That the killer is very clean,’ she said. ‘That’s what all the plastic drop cloths are for, too, right?’ She grinned wickedly. ‘So maybe it is a woman, after all.’
 
‘Very funny,’ I said, ‘but certainly possible. Strong attention to cleanliness also suggests age: younger killers are sloppier, more impulsive, and old killers tend to be more meticulous.’
 
‘So this is an older killer, possibly a woman,’ said Marci, ‘who plans ahead and is very careful about everything. That fits perfectly, because she attacked the Mayor in City Hall instead of at home, where the security system was so much better.’
 
‘How do you know that?’
 
‘Dad said something about it.’ She whistled. ‘Wow, this profiling stuff actually works.’
 
‘Told you so.’
 
‘Then it also stands to reason,’ she said, ‘that the killer carries around a pretty big bag of stuff.’
 
‘Why?’ Nowhere in my analysis had I ever considered a bag.
 
‘Because she has so much stuff she needs,’ said Marci. ‘A woman is never without her purse, especially not an organised woman like this, so she has to have a big bag full of plastic sheets, and a gun, and a hacksaw, and whatever else she uses. That’s a lot of stuff.’
 
‘That . . .’ I paused. ‘You’re right, that is a lot of stuff. I hadn’t thought of that.’
Because I was so sure the demon used her own claws for the killing, and that was colouring the rest of my theories. It’s entirely possible that she just uses a normal weapon, like Forman did, and that means she’d have to carry it with her – but then, what kind of weapon could have made the wrist wounds?
 
‘You’re good at this,’ I said.
 
Marci rolled her eyes. ‘This is the last thing I ever wanted to be good at.’
 
‘But the thing about the hands,’ I said, ‘is that they weren’t removed with a hacksaw – there was none of the tissue damage that you’d expect with a saw.’
 
‘Now it’s my turn to ask how you know something.’
 
I stopped short. The lack of tissue damage was something they’d never mentioned on the news. I’d learned it in the mortuary, and my involvement in the mortuary was supposed to be a secret. How much should I tell her?
 
Marci was looking right at me, not accusing but simply curious. She was being completely honest and open. I needed to learn how to be the same.
 
‘I help my mom in the mortuary,’ I said. ‘I helped embalm Pastor Olsen.’
 
‘Holy crap.’ She shifted in her chair. ‘Isn’t that completely . . . icky?’

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