The responsibility weighs heavy on me, yet I am experiencing a fraction of the burden the chief will bear. In addition to the multiple homicides, he has the everyday concerns of keeping order in a town of twenty-odd thousand.

The biggest worry I’m facing, is the feeling I’m to blame for the latest deaths. If I’d made time to read all of Kira’s journal sooner, both Prosser and Wendy Agnew may still be alive.

While my rational brain tells me it is only a perverse masochistic streak that made me read them in the first place, I’m aware the best breakthrough we’ve made so far has been identifying the killer’s selection process. While not helping us to catch him, it at least gives us a chance to prevent his next strike.

Another part of my psyche is pointing fingers. It has the voice of my mother and the critical attributes of a scorned lover. Like a devil nestling on my shoulder and whispering into my ear, it is telling me I’m out of my depth. That a doorman at a bar shouldn’t be playing detective. It tells me I’m going to fail and people will die because of my failure.

I hear it whispering their blood will be on my hands. That my incompetence has already caused two deaths.

It takes an effort, but I cast the demonic utterances to the back of my mind and force the doubts away.

The road twists and winds its way through the woods. Beristow’s Bluff is a local beauty spot by day and a make-out place by night. Named after one of the founding fathers of Casperton it holds memories for almost every resident.

I reach the car park and leave my car next to Ms Rosenberg’s Chrysler. She’s arguing with a patrolman. He tries to deny me access, but Lieutenant Farrage shouts across and the patrolman steps aside ignoring the protestations and insults coming from Ms Rosenberg.

Give Farrage his due, while he might not like me being there he accepts my presence. The strain of the investigation is starting to show on his face too. Thinking about it, I realise he’ll be under pressure from the chief. As mayor, his father will also be pressing him to solve the case and to top it off, Ms Rosenberg has spent months lampooning him and his abilities. Add the fact no sane person likes to see another human lose their life and it’s no surprise he’s looking so punched out.

His being unfit to lead the investigation is bound to be another factor eating at him. He’ll know for certain he’s out of his depth. The chief bringing Alfonse and I in to help is a public slap to his face, yet he has gone beyond bitterness. For perhaps the first time in his gilded life he is seeing the bigger picture.

Some CSI guys dressed in hooded Tyvek suits complete with overshoe booties are searching the car for evidence.

I see a number of square foot pads leading to the car. I know from my reading it’s how CSI teams approach such a scene. First the ground is scouted for evidence. When the search is done a foot pad is laid and they move forward a couple of feet.

Farrage approaches me. Extends a hand. ‘Look, Boulder, I don’t like you being here any more than you can imagine. But the fact is we need all the help we can get. I can put our differences aside. Can you?’

The gesture and his admission take me by surprise but I don’t hesitate to shake his hand.

‘Of course.’ I point at the car with blood on the windows. ‘What have you got from the scene?’

‘Why don’t you take a look for yourself?’ He reaches into the CSI van and brings out a Tyvek suit, gloves and a pair of overshoe booties.

‘Sure.’

The word carries more than acceptance. It unites us as witnesses to the horror man can wreak on his fellow human beings.

It’s a struggle to wrestle my frame into the suit but I manage not to fall over or rip it in the process. Clad in the protective gear, I place one foot after the other and step onto the foot pads.

As I approach the car, I see the residue of brain matter mixed with the blood on the windows. The stench of vomit carries across from where Kelly Oberton voided her stomach.

I’m glad I haven’t yet eaten. The inside of the car is a grisly mess and has me fighting back the dry heaves. It takes a couple of manful swallows to get me close enough to peer through the windshield. The tableau inside tells a complete story.

Wendy Agnew is sitting in the passenger seat. Her blouse is unbuttoned and one breast has been freed from the functional bra. There is a neat hole in the left side of her face and a larger hole above her right ear.

Around the smaller hole are what look to be scorch marks caused by muzzle flash.

I turn my attention to Donny Prosser and make mental notes of the facts. He’s shirtless, the bullet hole in his right temple shows no burn marks and there are no wounds on his body. His right arm is slumped between the two seats. The dark shape of a handgun lies in his palm.

Looking away from the bodies, I let my eyes wander around the interior of the car. I see a couple of things which suggest a scenario. However, it’s not one I’m inclined to believe.

Breathing only through my mouth, I study the car for a few minutes, then step away with ideas bombarding my brain, twisting and contorting known facts into the semblance of actual events.

I return along the path of foot pads and strip off the protective clothing.

Farrage is waiting for me with an expectant look. ‘What do you think?’

‘It looks like they were about to get it on when he shot her. Then realising what he’d done he turned the gun on himself.’

‘I agree. I’m not sure it’s connected to the other homicides.’

There. Right there in one sentence is the reason nobody in Casperton trusts his detective skills.

He is investigating a serial killer and has taken a look at a dump site and believed everything he’s seen. Without the capacity to think along different lines, everything presented to him is taken at face value, regardless of how much it contradicts known facts. Used to the straightforward and predictable he can’t get his brain to think beyond the obvious.

Some tact is required to avoid disrupting our new-found truce. ‘It looks that way, but maybe the killer wants you to think it’s not connected. Maybe he’s staged the bodies to look this way. Right down to the open box of condoms on the floor.’

‘Why would he do…’ Farrage stops mid-sentence as he realises why a killer would stage a dump scene.

As I watch his face, I can see his mind trying to work out what the next move should be. Fun as it is watching him struggle, I need answers to some questions and his men can be used to obtain them.

‘We need to eliminate the murder suicide angle.’

I spend the next five minutes making suggestions as to what his men should be asking the families of the two victims.

Ms Rosenberg tries to question me as I return to my car, but I blank her, my mind focusing on what to do next.

52

I drive back to Casperton still unsure of what our next move should be. As I’m driving towards the police station, a newspaper headline displayed on an A-frame causes me to pull over.

After snatching a copy of the Gazette from the pile, I start reading while I’m waiting to pay for it. The headline that caught my eye is repeated at the top of the front page.

Serial Killer Stalks Casperton Families

I scan the front page but see few details and a lot of conjecture. The most disheartening thing about it is the journalist has also recognised the pattern. Tracing my finger down the page, I look for the byline. As expected it bears the name of a certain Jewish lady with a New York accent.

This revelation will throw the local population into a state of fear. It’s bad enough there’s a killer on the loose, without every man, woman and child in the town being terrified to call the police in case someone they love becomes the next victim.