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Whatever that letter is and wherever it came from, it definitely has strong religious undertones. No one can deny that.
* * *
MARK
I read Eva’s text that she was meeting a journalist claiming to have gotten a letter from the killer about an hour after she sent it.
A female journalist appearing out of the blue with something like that?
My mind spiraled and touched all the ways a meeting like that could go horribly wrong, especially since she wasn’t answering my calls. I don’t think I’ve ever been more relieved as I was to find all of them bunched up around the journalist’s computer in the office. Or happier to be having dinner with Eva, come to think of it. And that’s saying something. Probably that we need to either solve this case fast or create some distance from it. Not that I’ve ever been good at doing that. Neither has Eva, for that matter.
We’re in one of the restaurants near the office. It’s in an old riverside townhouse with whitewashed walls, exposed wooden beams, and small windows. It’s also dimly lit and cozy. Eva has already finished her breaded turkey steak and potatoes and is eying my roast like she’s about to ask for some.
“Here,” I say and place a large piece of it on her plate.
“That’s too much,” she complains half-heartedly as she digs right in.
“You think the letter is bullshit?” she asks between bites.
We’ve already gone over everything I learned at the church, and her journalist friend. Now for the hard questions, I guess.
“We’ll treat it as though it’s genuine,” I tell her. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if it’ll lead us to someone completely unconnected to the case.”
“I disagree,” she says and leaves it at that until she’s done chewing.
“The kinds of victims that are chosen and the way they’re killed, plus the poses and the half smiles on their faces, it all fits with what is written in the letter,” she continues. “Not to mention with the way it’s written. I think this killer chooses his victims carefully and probably stalks them for a while. Just like he said in the letter, I think he chooses them on the day of the dead.”
She has a focused, slightly detached look in her eyes, but it turns into impatience, as I say, “You think he prowls the cemeteries on November 1stto scout out potential victims?”
“Maybe,” she says.
“What bothers me is that there isn’t much new information in that letter,” I say and slide a good chunk of what’s left of the potatoes on my plate onto hers. I’m usually the one finishing her food, but I’m happy going hungry if it means she has this good an appetite.
“As in, not much that hasn’t already been in the press spun into a weird little story with a warning to stay away at the end,” I add, since she’s just looking at me questioningly. “The thing is also very fluidly written, if you know what I mean?”
She shakes her head because she’s chewing.
“As though it’s been rewritten a couple of times to make it just right,” I say.
“But that’s the point,” she says after swallowing heavily. “This person we’re looking for is methodical and thinks everything through before doing it. That includes his reasons for killing, I’m certain of that. And the result is the letter.”
“But why wouldn’t they just send it to you directly?”
This time she looks genuinely puzzled and doesn’t answer right away.
“I have been thinking the same thing,” she says.
“And we might be looking for a woman,” I add. “We’ll have to investigate this journalist friend of yours.”
She nods and looks down at her plate, which is once again almost empty.
“This job…” she says and leaves it at that.
“At least Sojer most likely isn’t our guy,” I say and lean back in my chair. “He was at NPB headquarters all of last night up until the call came in that they found Tara Merc’s body, I checked.”
“I think a man is more likely than a woman, given the strength needed to subdue the victims,” she says. “But there is a gentleness to the murders and the reasoning behind it that could point to a female too.”
She pushes her plate away and leans back with a sigh. “Oh, I don’t know. Are we the ones causing all this? Everywhere we go, bodies start piling up.”
