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By Root 1028 0

fueled by his rage and fury about how life in America was structured and how this had—no matter the size of his wealth—trapped him. The fantasies were an escape. This was the book’s thesis. It was about society and manners and mores, and not about cutting up women. How could anyone who read the book not see this? Yet because of the severity of the outcry over the novel the fear that maybe it wasn’t such a laughable idea was never far away; always lurking was the worry about what might happen if the book fell into the wrong hands. Who knew, then, what it could inspire? And after the killings in Toronto it was no longer lurking—it was real, it existed, and it tortured me. But that had been more than ten years ago and a decade had passed without anything remotely similar happening. The book had made me wealthy and famous but I never wanted to touch it again. Now it all came rushing back, and I found myself in Patrick Bateman’s shoes: I felt like an unreliable narrator, even though I knew I wasn’t. Yet then I thought: Well, had he?

Kimball had articles printed off the Internet that he was now leafing through and wanting to share with me, as I sat disconsolately in my office, staring out the window at the lawn sloping toward the street and the detective’s car parked there. Two boys raced by, teetering on skateboards. A crow landed on the lawn and picked disinterestedly at an autumn leaf. It was followed by another larger crow. The lawn instantly reminded me of the carpet in the living room.

Kimball could tell I was trying to distract myself, that I was trying to wish it all away, and gently said, “Mr. Ellis, you do understand where I’m going—”

“Am I a suspect?” I asked suddenly.

Kimball seemed surprised. “No, you’re not.”

There was a tiny moment of relief that fled in an instant.

“How do you know I’m not?”

“The night of June first you were in a rehab clinic. And on the night Sandy Wu was murdered you were giving a lecture at the college on . . .” Kimball glanced at his notes—“on the legacy of the Brat Pack in American literature.”

I swallowed hard and collected myself again. “So this is obviously not a series of coincidences.”

“We—that is, myself and the Midland Sheriff’s Office—believe that whoever’s committing these crimes is actually following the book and replicating them.”

“Let me get this straight.” I swallowed again. “You’re telling me that Patrick Bateman is alive and well and killing people in Midland County?”

“No, someone out there is copycatting the murders from the book. And in order. It’s not random. It’s actually fairly careful and very well planned, to the point where the assailant has even gone so far as to locate people—victims—with similar names or similar, if not exact, occupations.”

I was freezing. Nausea started sliding through me.

“You have got to be kidding me. This is a joke, right?”

“It’s no longer a theory, Mr. Ellis” was all Kimball would say, as if he was warning someone.

“Do you have any leads?”

Again, Kimball sighed. “The big obstacle in terms of our investigation is that the crime scenes themselves—even with the fairly formidable amount of planning and time the killer spent at each one—are, well, they’re”—and now he shrugged—“immaculate.”

“What does that mean? What does that mean when you say ‘immaculate’?”

“Well, basically forensics is baffled.” Kimball checked his notes, though I knew he didn’t need to. “No fingerprints, no hair, no fibers, nothing.”

Like a ghost. That was the first thing I thought. Like a ghost.

Kimball repositioned himself on the couch, and then looking at me directly asked, “Have you received any strange mail lately? Any kind of correspondence from a fan that would lead you to suspect that maybe something isn’t quite right?”

“Wait—why? You think this person might contact me? Do you think he’s after me?” I was unable to contain my panic and immediately felt ashamed.

“No, no. Please, Mr. Ellis, calm down. That doesn’t seem to be where this person is heading,” Kimball said, failing to reassure me. “However, if you feel someone has contacted you in a way that