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Brilliant.
Don't you agree, Dr. Jenkins?
Vincent finished the pretzels and soda and wrote another letter to his sister. Clever Vincent drew a few cartoons in the margins. Pictures he thought she might like. Vincent wasn't a terrible artist.
There was a knock on his door.
"Come in."
Gerald Duncan pushed the door open. The men said good morning to each other. Vincent glanced into Duncan's room, which was perfectly ordered. Everything on the desk was arranged in a symmetrical pattern. The clothes were pressed and hanging in the closet exactly two inches apart. This could be one hurdle to their friendship. Vincent was a slob.
"You want something to eat?" Vincent asked.
"No, thanks."
That's why the Watchmaker was so skinny. He rarely ate, he was never hungry. That could be another hurdle. But Vincent decided he'd ignore that fault. After all, Vincent's sister never ate much either and he still loved her.
The killer made coffee for himself. While the water was heating he took the jar of beans out of the refrigerator and measured out exactly two spoons' worth. These clattered as he poured them into the hand grinder and turned the handle a dozen times until the noise stopped. He carefully poured the grounds into a paper cone filter inside a drip funnel. He tapped it to make sure the grounds were level. Vincent loved watching Gerald Duncan make coffee.
Meticulous . . .
Duncan looked at his gold pocket watch. He wound the stem very carefully. He finished the coffee--he drank it fast like medicine--and then looked at Vincent. "Our flower girl," he said, "Joanne. Will you go check on her?"
A thud in his gut. So long, Clever Vincent.
"Sure."
"I'm going to the alley on Cedar Street. The police will be there by now. I want to see whom we're up against."
Whom . . .
Duncan pulled his jacket on and slung his bag over his shoulder. "You ready?"
Vincent nodded and donned his cream-colored parka, hat and sunglasses.
Duncan was saying, "Let me know if people are coming by the workshop to pick up orders or if she's working alone."
The Watchmaker had learned that Joanne spent a lot of time in her workshop, a few blocks away from her retail flower store. The workshop was quiet and dark. Picturing the woman, her curly brown hair, her long but pretty face, Hungry Vincent couldn't get her out of his mind.
They walked downstairs and into the alley behind the church.
Duncan hooked the padlock. He said, "Oh, I wanted to say something. The one for tomorrow? She's a woman too. That'd be two in a row. I don't know how often you like to have your . . . what do you call it? A heart-to-heart?"
"That's right."
"Why do you say that?" Duncan asked. The killer, Vincent had learned, had a tireless curiosity.
That phrase too came from Dr. Jenkins, his buddy the detention center doc, who'd tell him to come to his office anytime he wanted and talk about how he was feeling; they'd have themselves a good old heart-to-heart.
For some reason, Vincent liked the words. The phrase also sounded a lot better than "rape."
"I don't know. I just do." He added that he'd have no problem with two women in a row.
Sometimes eating makes you even hungrier, Dr. Jenkins.
Don't you agree?
As they stepped carefully over the icy patches on the sidewalk, Vincent asked, "Um, what are you going to do with Joanne?"
