‘You don’t really think there’s a serial killer out there, do you?’

‘I’m not sure, but it’s a big coincidence if there isn’t.’

‘Are there similarities with the victims? The murders? Are the victims connected?’

Alfonse’s questions are good ones. All three answers are negative. Other than the fact all three bodies were found in a public place, there is no apparent link between the victims. There may be when Chief Watson identifies the lady found at the reservoir; until then, there’s nothing to link the three victims.

‘There aren’t any connections or similarities that we know of. But what’s worse – a serial killer targeting the residents of Casperton or three separate killers?’

He doesn’t answer so I explain my theory to him.

‘If it is a serial killer, maybe by helping the police we can use their resources to help us find the person who murdered Kira.’

‘I see your point.’ His lips purse as he gives a pointed look at the clock above the sink. ‘So, what’s our next move gonna be?’

‘You look into the wives and girlfriends angle tomorrow. I’ll read over the police reports and get a handle on where they’re up to. I’ll see you about nine.’

I take his sigh as confirmation. I can manage on less than six hours’ sleep, but he likes a solid eight every night.

Sleep isn’t in my plans when I get home. There are far too many questions assaulting my brain for it to allow itself to be shut down.

35

I dump my keys on the counter and flick on the stereo. It’s not that I’m lonely, it’s just sometimes I need a background noise to keep me sane. Living alone suits me, but whenever I read I like to have other voices around me. I select a playlist comprising soft rock ballads and recline my chair.

I start with the police reports about Paul Johnson.

Like Kira, he lacks any known enemies. It isn’t that he was well liked, more that he was inoffensive. Reading about his life via the statements taken from co-workers and family members, it seems like he was insignificant to a lot of people.

He kept his business private, did what was expected of him and then went home to his apartment.

According to his sister, Johnson’s ex-wife had put him out one day, only to move a boyfriend in the next.

He’d gone without a quibble. It was the sister who’d put a roof over his head and spent long nights talking him through the break-up. When he was ready, she helped him find a rental apartment.

The police report detailing his finances doesn’t show any obvious reasons for him to be killed for money. His alimony payments were made on time and there were regular deposits into his daughter’s bank account. A footnote indicates his daughter is studying sociology at the Community College in Salt Lake City.

A search of Johnson’s apartment has found a life insurance policy naming his daughter as the main benefactor. The payout isn’t enough to put the daughter in the frame. Compared to what he was already giving her, the payout would cover no more than three years in college.

Following the same logic, I look down the columns until my eyes land on the one detailing his balance.

Imbalance may be a better term. He’s five hundred bucks overdrawn.

The next page I read shows his credit card statement. While not maxed-out it is near its limit. A look back at the bank statements and I find what I expect to.

His salary is due to be paid in a few days. Johnson is living in a boom and bust cycle with most of his income going to his ex-wife and daughter. Left with just enough to get by on, he’ll have been ever fearful of unexpected bills. I spend more per week on groceries than he’s got left to pay for food, gas and other incidentals.

It is stories like this that keep me single. A decent man has been discarded by an unfaithful wife and left to live the life of a pauper. With no money to spare on luxuries, he’d struggle in the dating pool. All he had to look forward to were lonely nights and the day when he’d be free of his responsibilities.

The feelings of bitterness would be overwhelming. Like a cancer of the mind, the resentment would devour happiness as his self-confidence plummeted.

These are my fears. After Mother was abandoned by my father, I saw first hand how corrosive rejection can be. I’ve felt it once, and it isn’t an experience I want to repeat. Despite Mother’s reassurances that it was her my father left, Sharon and I had talked long and often about the fact he’d rejected us too.

My realisation of the irony in the situation brings a wry smile to my lips as I turn to the next page. I’m investigating the murder of a woman besotted with me and a man I am terrified of becoming. What Kira wanted from me would leave me as vulnerable as Johnson had become.

The next pages I read tell me little about Johnson’s life, but give me great detail on his death.

In clinical terms, Emily Green’s neat handwriting tells of the blunt trauma from a wheel wrench found with his body. Hedging her bets, she estimates there are between ten and fifteen separate blows to his head.

The terminology is unfamiliar to me, but I don’t need to be a doctor to understand he died from having his brain bashed in.

The accompanying pictures from the crime scene and autopsy don’t make for easy viewing, but I examine them for clues regardless of my distaste.

When I’ve finished with the pictures, I lie back in the recliner and close my eyes. A slide show of Kira, Johnson and the as yet unnamed woman plays as I consider the different methods of their deaths.

Kira died from a precise stab after suffering a frenzied attack and was dumped under a bush.

Johnson’s head was staved in and his corpse bundled into the trunk of his car.

The old woman had her throat cut in a very exact way. Then she’d been cleaned up and deposited in a public place where she was sure to be found.

Considering the attacks as a whole, I look for commonalities. Two of the attacks have shown frenzy at some level. To counterbalance this, there are also elements of precision and forward planning.

There had been no blood on the old woman’s clothes and very little where Kira was found. This speaks of them being killed elsewhere and deposited at the places they were found.

The precise cut on the old woman and the single penetrating stab to Kira’s heart tell of an attacker who knows the human body and how best to attack it.

Johnson’s death speaks of opportunism, the wheel wrench to hand when the killer happened upon Johnson changing a flat.

My next thought is Kira and the woman are connected while Johnson is a random victim, killed as much by chance as by his murderer.

36

The Watcher raises the takeout coffee to his lips as he walks down Third. The early morning light glints off the dewdrops as he savours the Java. It’s a rare treat and is for cover more than anything else.

A dozen or so yards ahead of him is a potential target. The pock, pock, pock of her heels on the sidewalk is at odds with the tree-lined avenue and the hour. It’s the sound of the city, of business. It’s measured and regular, not the arrhythmic clack of a drunk girl staggering home.

Her Facebook status told him she was an HR manager for one of the oil companies. It also told him she had a colleague from head office joining her for the day, which hotel the colleague was staying at and the hour she was supposed to collect him.

Facebook holds a lot of other information about her. Like how much of a dog lover she is; how terrible she feels for her niece who’d discovered a body. Best of all there was even a post detailing the time she’d be dropping off her colleague at the airport.