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He makes a note and moves on to the next image—a letter, some sort of spam mail, “To the resident of apartment 214,” written across the top. Then more paper, photographs of mess and rubbish.
Shenton frowns and growls quietly under his breath. Cara looks at him.
“Problem?” she asks. She knows this sort of police work is monotonous, but sometimes it’s the only way to unearth a lead.
“No, it’s just …” Shenton pauses and Cara stares at him. “Look at this mess. All this rubbish, this litter. It’s not like him.”
“Him?”
“The Echo Man.” He looks at Cara, and she notices a red blush creep its way up from his collar. He knows he shouldn’t have used the name, but she lets it go. “Look at everything else he has done,” he continues. “He takes the right tools to decapitate those bodies to the Kemper scene. But how did he get home? There must have been another car. Same with Manson. Same with Dahmer. He’s organized. He’s planned. He’s clever.”
“You have a theory, Toby?” Cara asks.
“Everything he does is deliberate, right?” Cara nods her head. “So this”—he points to the mess in the photo on the screen—“is deliberate too. There’s something here.”
Cara looks back at the photo. There’s so much stuff. So much rubbish. “Perhaps it’s just another aspect of Dahmer’s apartment. Dahmer was messy, so he has to be too?”
Toby turns back to the screen and zooms in on the photo. She sees him examining it closely.
“Shenton?” she starts, and he looks back at her. “You know about this, right? About these killers?”
“I know a bit.”
“You know more than a bit. Do us a profile.”
“Boss?”
“You know, a psychological profile of the killer? What makes him tick? Who is he?” Cara’s not sure if this is the right move, but since Marsh won’t release the budget for a proper psychologist, how can it hurt? They could ignore it, after all.
Shenton pauses. “I could …”
“So do it.” Cara nods at him, then looks up as Griffin appears at their desk.
“She’s here,” he says to Cara, and Shenton looks up eagerly.
“Can I go with DS Griffin?” he gasps with the enthusiasm of a new puppy, and Cara sees Griffin roll his eyes. He doesn’t want to do this interview with Shenton there, Cara knows that. But then a little bit of mentoring might be just the development her brother needs.
“Griffin, take Toby,” she says.
But then Shenton seems torn. “But the profile …” he stutters, looking as though he might cry.
“Go,” Cara smiles. “Your psychological insights can wait an hour or so.”
Griffin glares at Cara, then sighs, defeated. “Come on then.”
CHAPTER
33
THE WITNESS HAS a strong Southern American accent. Returned from visiting relatives, she says, the crime scene tape gave her quite the fright. Her hands flutter at her crêpey mottled neck; she seems more excited than scared.
Griffin issues the standard warnings for the voluntary interview, and she signs the paperwork. Brassy blonde hair, makeup layered on with a trowel. Her perfume fills the small room, almost making Griffin’s eyes water. He hasn’t got much hope for the interview, but she’s the last neighbor on the list, living in apartment 215.
“And you say you’ve never met the resident of 213?” Griffin asks.
Next to him Shenton is already being annoying, busy scribbling notes on a pad, seemingly trying to capture every part of their conversation despite the fact it’s all being recorded.
“Knocked on the door a few times,” she confirms. “To complain about the smell. But he never answered.” She taps her bright blue nails against the tabletop, the noise grating on Griffin’s nerves. “Good thing too—he was a depressing-looking guy.”
