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Chad shuddered at the paintings of clowns above the bed, before fixating on a skull high up on the shelf.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Eleanor snapped. She reached up and grabbed the skull. “It’s not real, it’s made of resin.”
Tate had covered one of his walls in real crime scene photos. Graphic photographs. He slept opposite pictures of dismembered heads.
A silver whistle hung from a drawing pin.
A noose hung off his wardrobe door.
There was a whiteboard on the wall above the desk displaying Tate’s schedule. Handwritten in black marker pen, all capital letters, all straight blocky letters rather than curved.
It matched the letters on the torsos.
Chad kept his expression neutral as he continued to take in Tate’s bedroom.
“Oh, there it is,” Eleanor said, snatching a red hoodie off the back of the desk chair. She held it up, only to slump and reluctantly reveal the back to Chad.
Drampton Leavers.
She tossed it onto the bed and rushed to open the wardrobe. Chad tensed, fearing what was inside. A pile of clothes fell to the floor, and Eleanor cursed and got on her knees to pick them up.
“I’m always telling him to fold them up, not just throw them inside.” She shook her head. “Boys will be boys.”
Chad frowned at a blinking red light on the shelf. He approached it, moving the skull aside to see where the blinking light was coming from.
There was a camera watching them.
Small, compact, but effective.
Chad knew because it was one of the cameras he used.
So sensitive it would pick up a speck of dust and notify him of movement.
Wherever Tate was, he knew Chad was in his room.
Eleanor stopped folding the clothes and looked up at him. “I know what you’re thinking, and you’re wrong. I hate all this as much as you, but he likes…”
“Serial killers.”
“Lots of people do. Lots of people watch those documentaries. Millions. It doesn’t mean anything. In fact, it’s a good thing.”
“A good thing?”
“He’s interested in how police procedure works … the process. How they catch the monsters.”
Chad gestured to the walls and kept his voice soft. “Does this look like Tate is celebrating the detectives or the monsters?”
“It’s normal. They’re in all the papers, all over TV, and in the movies. Whatever you’re insinuating, you’re wrong. My Tate isn’t one of them. He doesn’t have it in him.”
“I need to call my DI.”
Eleanor blocked his path. “You said only you would look.”
“I need a second opinion.”
“No.” She shoved him in the chest. Chad fell backwards and landed on the bed. Something crinkled beneath the sheets. He shifted to the side, and lifted the duvet to be confronted with what looked like hundreds of letters. Chad swept his hands through them. “What are all these?”
“Nothing.” Eleanor rushed over and began gathering them up. One fell from her hastily drawn pile and drifted to the floor. Chad snatched it up before she could stop him.
