SERIAL UNCUT (9 page)

The meatloaf came, steaming hot. But Taylor
wasn't hungry anymore. He was intrigued. If Donaldson was what he
claimed to be, the fat man was one hundred percent correct. Taylor
had never talked about his lifestyle with anyone, other than his
victims. And then, it was only to terrify them even more.

Sometimes, Taylor had fantasies of getting
caught. Not because he harbored any guilt, and not because he
wanted to be locked up. But because it would be nice, just once, to
be open and honest about his habits with the whole world. To let a
fellow human being know how clever he'd been all these years. Maybe
have some shrink interview him and write a bestselling book.

How interesting it would be to talk shop
with someone as exceptional as he was.

"
So you want to swap stories? Trade
tactics? Is that it, Donaldson?"

"
I can think of duller ways to kill
some time at a truck stop."

Taylor cut the meatloaf with his fork,
shoved some into his mouth. It was good.

"
Fine. You go first. You said you
don't like ether. So how do you make your--" Taylor reached for the
right words "--
guests
compliant."

"
Blunt force trauma."

"
Using what?"

"
Trade secret."

"
And what if you're too...
aggressive
... with your use of blunt
force?"

"
An unfortunate side-effect. Just
happened to me, in fact. I recently picked up a tasty little
morsel, but her lights went out before I could have any fun with
her."

"
Picked up? Hitcher?"

Donaldson sipped more coffee and grinned.
"Didn't you know about the dangers of hitchhiking, son? Lots of
psychos out there."

Taylor shoved more meatloaf into his mouth,
and followed it up with some mashed potatoes. "Hitchers might be
missed."

"
So could truck stop
snatch."

Taylor paused in mid-bite.

"
Your fly is open. And I saw how you
were measuring the resident pimp." Donaldson raised an eyebrow.
"Have you relieved him of one of his steady sources of
income?"

Now it was Taylor's turn to grin. "Not yet.
She'll be dessert when I'm done with this meatloaf."

"
And once you're finished with
her?"

Taylor zipped up his fly. "I like rivers.
Water takes care of any trace evidence, and it's tough for the law
to pinpoint the location where they were dumped in. You?"

"
Gas and a match. First a nice spritz
with bleach. Bleach destroys DNA, you know."

"
I do. Got a few bottles in the
truck."

Taylor still couldn't assess what sort of
threat Donaldson posed. But he had to admit, this was fun.

"
Who was your first?" Donaldson
asked.

"
Dad. Fucker had it
coming."

"
How'd you do it?"

Taylor ate more potatoes. "Ran him over. He
fucked up one of my shocks, too. Bones caught up under the
suspension, did a real number on a tie rod end."

The older man chuckled. "That's not
something you can take to your local mechanic."

"
Hell, no. Fixed it myself. Took three
car washes and a rainstorm before that car stopped dripping blood.
How about you?"

Donaldson tipped his coffee cup. "Dad."

"
No shit?"

"
I guess exceptional people like us
think alike."

Exceptional.
Taylor liked that term.

"
So how did dear old Dad meet his
unfortunate end?"

"
Baseball bat."

"
Never tried it. Fun?"

"
Yeah. But too hard to clean. Even the
aluminum models. Not even bleach can get those stains out. And not
east to ditch in an emergency."

Taylor finished up the last bite of
meatloaf. It was good. A loose grind, so you could taste all the
little parts that went into it. Taylor loved texture. Mouth-feel
was even better than taste.

"
Had many emergencies?" he asked
Donaldson.

"
A few close calls. Once I was even
pulled in for a line up. But no arrests. You?"

Taylor grinned. "I'm a law-abiding citizen.
Worst thing on my record is a speeding ticket."

Donaldson slurped more coffee. "Never got a
speeding ticket. Was pulled over for a broken taillight once. Had a
guest in the trunk, and the little bitch kicked it out."

"
She was in there when the cop stopped
you?"

"
Indeed. And let me tell you, that
will get your heart pumping."

Taylor had no doubt. "What'd you do?"

"
I turned around, shot her three times
through the back seat, hoping it didn't go through the trunk or
that the cop saw me. Then I cranked open the windows to get the
gunpowder smell out, pulled onto the shoulder, and hoped he didn't
notice the bullet holes in my upholstery. He didn't. Let me off
with a warning."

"
Would you have killed the pig or let
him take you in?"

"
I would have killed him," Donaldson
said. "I don't like pigs."

"
You and me both, brother."

"
So, here's the ten-thousand dollar
question," Donaldson asked. "How many are you up to?"

Taylor wiped some gravy off his mouth with a
paper napkin. "So that's where we stand? Whipping out our dicks and
seeing whose is bigger?"

"
I've been at this a very long time."
Donaldson belched again. "Probably since before you were born. I've
a lot read about others like us; I love those true crime
audiobooks. They help pass the time on long trips. I collect
regular books, too. Movies. Newspaper articles. If you've done the
same research I have, then you know none of our American peers can
prove more than forty-eight. That's the key.
Prove.
Some boast high numbers, but there isn't
proof to back it up."

"
So are you asking me how many I've
done, or how many I can prove?"

"
Both."

Taylor shrugged. "I lost count after
forty-eight. Once I had one in every state, it became less about
quantity and more about quality."

"
You're lying," Donaldson said.
"You're too young for that many."

"
One in every state in the lower
forty-eight, old man."

"
Can you prove it?"

"
I kept driver's licenses, those that
had them. Probably don't have more than twenty, though. Not many
whores carry ID."

"
No pictures? Trophies?
Souvenirs?"

Taylor wasn't going to share something that
personal with a stranger. He pretended to sneer. "Taking a trophy
is like asking to get caught. I don't plan on getting caught."

"
True. But it is nice to relive the
moment. Traveling is lonely, and memories unfortunately fade. If it
wasn't so dangerous, I'd love to videotape a few."

That would be nice,
Taylor thought, finishing the last bit of meatloaf.
But my trophy box will have to
suffice.

"
So how many are you up to,
Grandpa?"

"
A hundred twenty-seven."

Taylor snorted. "Bullshit."

"
I agree with you about the danger of
keeping souvenirs, but I have Polaroids from a lot of my early
ones."

"
Dangerous to carry those around with
you."

"
I've got them well hidden." Donaldson
stared at him, his eyes twinkling. "Would you be interested in
seeing them?"

"
What do you mean? One of those
I'll show you mine if you show me yours
deals?"

"
No. Well, not exactly. I'm not
interested in seeing your driver's license collection. But I would
be interested in paying a little visit to your current
guest."

Taylor frowned. "I'm not big on sharing. Or
sloppy seconds."

Donaldson slowly spread out his hands. "I
understand. It's just that... you know how it is, when you get all
worked up, and then they quit on you."

Taylor nodded. Having a victim die too soon
felt like having something precious stolen from him.

"
You don't seem like the shy type,"
Donaldson continued. "I thought, perhaps, you wouldn't mind doing
your thing when someone else was there to watch."

Taylor smiled. "Aren't you the dirty old
man."

Donaldson smiled back. "A dirty old man who
doesn't have the same distaste of sloppy seconds as you apparently
have. I see no problem in going second. As long as there's
something left for me to enjoy myself with."

"
I leave all the major parts
intact."

"
Then perhaps we can come to some sort
of arrangement."

"
Perhaps we can."

Donaldson's smile suddenly slipped off his
face. He'd noticed the same thing Taylor had.

A cop had walked into the restaurant.

Woman, forties, well built, a gold
star clipped to her hip. But even without the badge, she had that
swagger, had that
look
, that
Taylor had spent a lifetime learning to spot.

"
Here comes trouble," Donaldson
said.

And, as luck would have it, trouble sat down
right next to them.

-4-

After filling my gas tank and emptying my
bladder, I went in search of food.

The diner was surprisingly full this late at
night. Truckers mostly. And though I hadn't worked Vice in well
over a decade, I was pretty sure the only women in the place were
earning their living illegally.

Not that I judged, or even cared. One of the
reasons I switched from Vice to Homicide was because I had no
problems with what consenting adults did to themselves or each
other. I'd done a few drugs in my day, and as a woman I felt I
should be able to do whatever I wanted with my body. So the scene
in the diner was nothing more to me than local color. I just wanted
some coffee and a hot meal, which I believed would wake me up
enough to get me through the rest of my road trip and into the very
patient arms of my fiancee.

I expected at least one or two catcalls or
wolf whistles when I entered, but didn't hear any. Sort of
disappointing. I was wearing what I wore to court, a brown Ann
Klein pantsuit, clingy in all the right places, and a pair of three
inch Kate Spade strappy sandals. The shoes were perhaps a bit
frivolous, but the jury couldn't see my feet when I took the stand.
I left for Wisconsin directly from court, and wore the shoes
because Latham loved them. I had even painted my toenails to
celebrate our vacation.

Maybe the current diners were too
preoccupied with the hired help to know another woman had entered
the place. Or maybe it was me. Latham said I gave off a "cop vibe"
that people could sense, but he assured me I was still sexy. Still,
a Wisconsin truck stop at two in the morning filled with lonely,
single men, and I didn't even get a lecherous glance. Maybe I
needed to work-out more.

Then I realized I still had my badge clipped
to my belt. Duh.

I quickly scoped out the joint, finding the
emergency exit, counting the number of patrons and employees,
identifying potential trouble. An absurdly dressed man in expensive
boots and a diamond studded John Deere cap stared hard at me. He
gave me a look that said he hated cops, and I gave him a look that
said I hated his kind even more. While I tolerated prostitutes, I
loathed pimps. Someone taking the money you earned just because
they were bigger than you wasn't fair.

But I didn't come here to start trouble. I
just wanted some food and caffeine.

I walked the room slowly, feeling the cold
stares, and found counter space next to a portly man. I eased
myself onto the stool.

"
Coffee, officer?"

I nodded at the waitress. She overturned my
mug and filled it up. I glanced at the menu, wondering if they had
cheese curds--those little fried nuggets of cheddar exclusive to
Wisconsin.

"
The meatloaf is good."

I glanced at the man on my left. Big and
tall, maybe fifteen years older than I was. He had a kind-looking
face, but his smile appeared forced.

"
Thanks," I replied.

I sipped some coffee. Nice and strong. If I
got two cups and a burger in me, I'd be good to go. The waitress
returned, I ordered a cheeseburger with bacon, and a side of cheese
curds.

"
Never seen you here
before."

The voice, reeking of alpha male, came from
behind me. I could guess who it belonged to.

"
Passing through," I said, not
bothering to turn around.

"
Well, maybe you can hurry it along,
little lady. Your kind isn't good for business."

I carefully set down my mug of coffee, then
slowly swiveled around on my stool.

The pimp was sticking his chest out like he
was being fitted for a bra, a few stray curly hairs peeking through
his collar. One of his women, strung out on something, clung
unenthusiastically to his side. Her concealer didn't quite cover up
her black eye.

"
I'm off duty, and just stopped in for
coffee and some cheese curds, which I can't get in Illinois. I
suggest you mind your own business. This isn't my jurisdiction, but
I'm guessing the local authorities wouldn't mind if I fed you some
of your teeth."