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Faith allowed herself a moment longer of grief, then stood. In a few minutes, she would call the police and report the death, but before she did that, she wanted to look at the scene herself. A voice in her head told her that she couldn’t allow herself to become obsessed over another killer, but Clark was her friend. She wanted to know what happened to him. If it turned out that the mafia had found him and called a hit on him, then she could bring that to the Boss’s attention and make it a federal case without needing to go through the red tape that normally entailed. It might mean bringing whoever was responsible to justice faster.
It didn’t take much experience to see there had been a struggle. The living room and dining room were torn to pieces. The couch was overturned and the TV was smashed to pieces, along with the stand. The kitchen table and one of the chairs was splintered and debris lay strewn across the laminate floor.
Clark hadn’t gone down easy. That brought an odd comfort to Faith. Maybe it was the Marine in her, but she was glad that Clark had made his murderer work for it.
She couldn’t see any sign of forced entry. The killer had either been allowed in or, more likely, had broken in the same way Faith had.
She looked around a few more minutes but couldn’t find anything that gave a hint of who might have done this. She would have to wait for the cyber unit to crack into his computer before she could check his emails and see if there were any clues there.
She sighed and looked down at Turk. “Well,” she said, “let’s get the cavalry over here and figure out who hurt our friend.”
Turk whined dejectedly and sat, placing his head in between his front paws. Faith stooped and scratched him behind his ear. “I know,” she said softly. “Me too, buddy.”
She looked up and stopped. When Turk felt her hand still, he looked up at her, then followed her eyes. He got to his feet and Faith stood.
They both crossed to the folded scrap of paper that lay sticking just past the door. Faith bent over and picked up the scrap. It was a piece of paper from a notepad, folded over twice. It was high-quality, soft, and slightly thicker than normal notepaper. A little print of a daisy sat at the bottom.
She unfolded the paper. As she read the note, her eyes widened in shock. Her mouth dried out, and her knees began to tremble slightly, but she noticed none of those physical reactions. Her mind was focused entirely on the message written on the paper.
Sorry to have to take him from you like this,the note read,but he was getting too Bold.She noted the capitalization of that word.You’ll be happy to know that he fought like a true warrior, a Prince, if you will.She gasped and nearly dropped the note when she read that.
The next words nearly caused her knees to buckle.But, in the end, no veterinary doctor on Earth could save this bull. He died with honor, but hediddie, and in the end, does it really matter how much honor one has in death?
The good news,the note continued,is that you and I can play again, free of distractions. I think you’ll agree that the game is better when it is a one-on-one contest of wills: the greatest detective versus the greatest criminal mastermind.
I wish you luck, Special Agent. You have been by far the best opponent I could ever hope for. I look forward to the conclusion of our struggle.
At the bottom of the paper was a signature. It was written in elegant handwriting, the ink precisely looped and whorled.
He didn’t name himself the Copycat Killer. He had escalated.
At the bottom of the paper, in beautiful script, was signed
The Donkey Killer
