As I’d watched him leave, I’d seen how he’d paused at the warehouse entrance to scan the entire space one more time. Memorizing faces, vehicles, details he might need later.
Seeing his cruiser disappear down the street, hearing the normal sounds of construction gradually resume, my heart hammered in my chest. The radio's volume had returned to normal, rapping a beat the sole of someone’s boot mimicked. I stood still, pinned by the tension in the air.
"What was that about?" Deacon had called over from his section of the warehouse.
"Some kind of investigation downtown," I replied, forcing myself to return to my floorboards. "Asked if I'd seen anything unusual."
"Unusual, like what?" Thompson joined the conversation, setting down his circular saw. "He didn't say much from where I was standing."
Reed appeared from behind a stack of drywall, pulling off his work gloves. "You guys haven't been reading the papers? There's been some serious shit going down in the city, man. Serial killer type shit."
He produced a folded newspaper from his back pocket, spreading it on a makeshift table of sawhorses and plywood. The headline read "CARVER KILLER STRIKES AGAIN" in bold black letters that demanded attention.
The crew gathered around the paper like moths to flame. This is how news spreads in working-class neighborhoods: shared newspapers, whispered conversations, details passed from person to person until truth becomes indistinguishable from speculation.
"Says here they found another body last Tuesday," Reed read aloud. "Same MO as the others. Carved open. Real fucked up, holy shit."
"How many victims now?" Deacon had asked, leaning over Ramírez's shoulder to see the photographs.
"Six, maybe seven. Paper says the cops aren't releasing all the details, but whatever this guy's doing, he's got a signature." Ramírez traced a paragraph with his finger. "Listen to this: 'The perpetrator appears to select victims based on specific criteria, suggesting a highly organized and methodical approach.'"
Thompson had whistled. "Organized and methodical. Sounds like someone who plans things out."
"Yeah, and get this—they're calling him 'the Carver' because of what he does to the bodies after." Reed's voice had dropped to the conspiratorial tone people use when discussing violence. "Sources say he leaves messages, carved into the skin. Like he's trying to tell the cops something."
I continued working while they talked, each screw going in at precisely the right angle, each board fitting exactly where it belonged. Their fascination with the details didn’t surprise me. People were drawn to darkness they didn’t understand, like children poking at roadkill with sticks.
"Who's running the investigation?" Thompson asked.
"Says here it's some cop named Jenkins. Officer Harry Jenkins." Reed had folded the paper back up. "Apparently, he's got a reputation. Old school, you know? The kind of guy who doesn't mind bending rules to get results."
Unsurprising.
The word formed in my mind without invitation. Of course, Jenkins would be the type to cut corners, to let passion override procedure. Men like him believed the ends justify the means, especially when they're convinced they're hunting monsters.
What they didn’t realize is that real monsters don’t make mistakes that can be exploited by bending rules and aggressive questioning. Real monsters are patient. Careful. They don't leaveevidence for ambitious cops to find or create patterns that can be mapped and predicted.
"Think they'll catch him?" Deacon asked.
"Guy's been at this for months without getting caught," Thompson replied. "Either he's really smart or really lucky."
I’d had to bite back a laugh.
"Smart," I’d said quietly, driving another screw home with mechanical precision. "Lucky people probably don’t wind up chased down by the law."
They nodded in agreement, returning to their own work. The conversation had drifted to other topics—weekend plans, overtime schedules, complaints about the job site's portable toilets. Normal concerns of normal men living normal lives.
But Jenkins's visit had changed something. What was theoretical before—the investigation, the manhunt, the net slowly tightening around the city—had become personal. Too close. That witness description, vague as it was, had been enough to put me on his radar.
He suspects me, even if he can't prove it. He would do everything to know anything about me. That meant I had to know him first.
The flicker of irritation I’d begun to feel since wasn’t about fear. Fear would be logical, appropriate. This is something else entirely—professional annoyance at the suggestion that Harry Jenkins might be smart enough, thorough enough, dedicated enough to catch me.
He isn't. Which means I’ve got to find out just what he is.
***
Maggie's Diner sits on the corner of Fifth and Main like a piece of the 1950s that got lost in time and decided to stay. Red vinyl booths, checkered linoleum floors, and the kind of coffee that could strip paint if you let it sit long enough. I've been coming here for two years now, always ordering the same thing—black coffee and whatever pie they have left from the lunch rush.
