He surprises me by foregoing the chilli burger I recommend and selects a vegetable and pasta bake. I’d pretty much assumed all FBI agents would be macho dudes who’d eat plenty of red meat and drink bourbon by the bucket.

He doesn’t offer an explanation and I don’t ask for one. His diet is his own business.

I ask about his family and where he’s from, but other than the barest details he doesn’t tell me anything.

Giving up on the small talk, I concentrate on my burger, savouring the burn from the jalapenos and the spicy wedges accompanying it.

As I’m eating, my mind is still leafing through the files. Checking and cross-checking details. After everything I’ve read this morning, I’m still no closer to making a decent connection.

My only hope is Alfonse has something for me. The lack of contact from him suggests otherwise though.

I pay the check as promised and leave Sherri’s with Cuthbert’s understated praise for the diner making me smile.

The gun nestling in the small of my back is uncomfortable, but there’s no way I’m going to remove it.

When we arrive at Alfonse’s, I reassure Cuthbert he can talk freely in front of my friend. The last thing we need is FBI reticence impounding on our conversation.

His mouth and eyes give me two different replies.

Alfonse is at his desk with his laptop open. He looks pissed and not just with his results.

Cuthbert positions himself by the door and leaves us to talk.

‘What you got?’

He pulls a face. ‘Little more than nothing. Ingerson was no saint, but his record is clean enough and the friends of his I spoke to said he was never one to start a fight.’

‘His wife intimated he finished a few.’

‘Sound like anyone we know?’ If his tone drips any more scorn he’ll have to wipe his chin. His eyes bore into mine. ‘By all accounts he’d do enough to stop them and leave it at that.’

I give a half shrug. Big deal, Ingerson’s philosophy matches my own.

Once you’ve knocked the fight out of someone, there’s little point in continuing to hit them. All you do is create room for grudges to develop. Hospitalising people comes with its own risks, namely incarceration and a heightened desire for violent revenge.

‘Did you speak to any of the guys he fought?’

‘Most of them. They all said they’d picked the fight for one reason or another and had their ass handed to them.’

‘What were the reasons they gave?’

He spears me with another glower. ‘Flirting with their girlfriends mostly. The friends I spoke to said he was like that. He’d chat to women and flirt with them but would never follow it up.’

Again it sounds familiar, but at least I try not to flirt with anyone who’s already dating.

‘Any other reasons?’

‘There was an accusation of him being a card sharp during a game of poker which turned into a fight.’

I feel my pulse quicken; money is one of the main reasons for crime. ‘What happened?’

‘After a couple of punches were traded Ingerson showed the guy his cards.’ Alfonse grimaces. ‘A two, six, seven, jack and king spread across all four suits.’

I wince. Even with what little I know about poker, I recognise it’s a poor hand.

‘Did any of the people you spoke to know of anyone with a grudge against him?’

‘None they’d admit to. Even the guys who’d lost to him said he could have pounded on them more but stopped as soon as they went down.’

I get the picture. It’s an unwritten dude rule. When someone hands you your ass, but stops as soon as the fight is out of you, you accept the better fighter won and leave it there.

It’s something I’ve seen many times at the Tree. Two guys will knock seven bells out of each other one night, then get drunk together and reminisce over the fight the next.

‘Is there anybody worth taking a closer look at?’ I’m thinking a couple of hours being grilled by the FBI will shake loose any details someone’s holding back on.

‘Nobody I’ve found yet.’ For the first time since I arrived, he looks at me without anger or fear. ‘I’m gonna keep digging in case I’ve missed something.’

Cuthbert’s pronounced tones enter the conversation for the first time. ‘You sure Ingerson was the first of the Watcher’s victims?’

‘He’s the first as far as the chain is concerned. There may be others who don’t match the Watcher’s methods, but he’s definitely where the chain begins.’

I have a thought. ‘Try looking at his family as well. Perhaps one of them has wronged the killer and he’s exacted a twisted kind of revenge.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He’s targeting family members of those who find the bodies he’s left. Perhaps one of Ingerson’s family found out something about him.’

Alfonse’s face lights up at my suggestion and Cuthbert nods his head. ‘Good idea. I like your train of thought.’

From the taciturn agent, the two sentences are equivalent to a ticker tape parade.

75

Norm watches as the Mustang turns off Main Street and pulls into the police car park. The man with Boulder is a new face in town, but he pegs him as an FBI agent who’s been given bodyguard duty.

The man has the institutionalised air of conformity about him. From the buzz cut to the square stance and expressionless face, he may as well be wearing a windbreaker with ‘FBI’ stencilled on the back in yellow letters. The clothes he wears still carry the creases from where they’ve been folded into their sales packaging.

The man has a bulge in his jacket where a left-handed person would carry a gun. There’s no sign of a shoulder holster but he knows it’ll be there. The lump in the jacket is as obvious to his trained eye as a signal flare.

What he’s waiting for is that fraction of a second when their guard is down and he can make his move.

One positive thing he’s learned from tailing them is Boulder’s unfamiliarity with the gun stuffed into the back of his waistband. Every minute or two he slips a hand round his back, either to check it’s there or to move it into a more comfortable position.

The way his shirt hangs over it is no problem to a trained professional, but a panicking amateur is more likely to get his gun or hand tangled. He might free it in a second or two, but two seconds in a takedown situation is a long time.

Add the element of fear and he’ll only have to worry about the feebie in the first five seconds. Fingering the Tasers in his pocket, he’s content with the time frame; all he needs to do is wait for the right opportunity.

The draw he made earlier has thrown up the one method he’d been hoping not to get. He’d wanted something gorier and more painful for the man whose investigative prowess has caused so many problems. While enjoying the challenge, he’d hoped there would be more time wasted by the town’s detectives before the pattern was recognised.

Boulder’s interference wasn’t something he’d expected, but the fact the FBI would become involved was anticipated.

Whatever happens now, his place in history is cemented. All he has to do is keep going as long as possible. The higher the tally, the greater his legend.

76

I toss the last report onto the pile for Cuthbert and stand up. Arching my back, I go through a few stretches to try and remove the stiffness.

The smell in the office is now of stale bodies and despair. The chief and Doenig have joined us at regular intervals but we’ve had nothing worthwhile to tell them.

Everything we’ve looked at has checked out the same way, and the crime scenes are too public to yield specific samples.

Cross matching the samples for DNA is something Doenig has pushed through the FBI lab, but as with every government department, they’ve suffered cutbacks in both personnel and budget. The soonest they can get us the answers we need is two days away.