Silent Screams - C. E. Lawrence [74]
He had to make the voice stop before his head burst. He had to make God happy, and he knew of one way to do that—thanks to his Master. He looked at his watch. It would be dark soon, and then his work could begin.
Chapter Thirty-two
“Oh, yeah, he’d be just a dream in court,” Butts said, rolling his eyes.
He was sprawled in one of the chairs facing Chuck’s desk. Lee sat across from him in the matching one. They were in Morton’s office the next day, comparing notes. Chuck was perched on the windowsill, arms folded. Nelson sat in the captain’s chair behind the desk, his fingertips drumming the arm of the chair. Detective Florette sat in a straight-backed chair in the corner, his posture as disciplined and rigid as the starched cuffs of his immaculate white shirt.
“A lot of credible sources make lousy witnesses in court,” Chuck pointed out. “You know that as well as I do, Detective Butts. We both cover the Bronx, for Christ’s sake.”
“Excuse me, Mr.—uh, Willow, is it?” Butts continued. “Can you tell me who, if anyone, in this courtroom is an informant working for the FBI? Oh, I see—that man in the long black robe? And how do you know that? Oh, because of the microchips they planted in your brain?”
“All right, Detective, knock it off,” Chuck said wearily. “Obviously this guy isn’t usable in court. The question is, is it a lead we can work with?”
Nelson shrugged. “He may turn out to be the only eyewitness we have so far.”
“Unless that really was the Slasher that Campbell saw at the funeral,” Butts pointed out.
“I don’t see how it could have been anyone else,” Florette pointed out. “That last text message seemed pretty conclusive.”
By now they had all been told about the text messages Lee had been receiving; there was general agreement among them that the killer was probably sending the messages about Laura, though Chuck remained skeptical.
“You said this Willow character didn’t get that good of a look at this guy, right?” Butts asked.
“Right,” Lee agreed.
“But you did—assuming it was him,” said Nelson. “Any hits on the families with the sketch of the guy you saw?”
“No. None of them recognized him.”
Chuck picked the police artist sketch up from his desk and held it aloft. Even now, looking at it sent a shiver up the back of Lee’s neck. The artist had captured the intensity of his stare, the look of both loss and danger in his eyes.
“Why don’t you take the sketch to this Willow character, and ask him if it looks like the man he saw?” Chuck asked.
“All right,” Lee replied, “but he said it was too dark to make out any of the man’s features.” What he didn’t say was that he had no idea how to get in touch with Eddie—Eddie always called him, usually from a pay phone on the street. Lee had never mentioned Eddie by name, nor did he say how they had met. He referred to Eddie as “a reliable informant.” No one had pressed him for more information. Everyone in law enforcement had their sources, and they weren’t often choirboys.
“Let’s say we identify the guy that this Willow fellow saw as being the same guy you saw at the funeral—and let’s assume he is the UNSUB,” Florette said. “You said before that chances are he could have a record, but maybe not?”
“Right,” Nelson said. “Sexual killers often begin with break-ins, burglaries, that kind of thing—and sometimes they’re Peeping Toms before they ‘graduate’ to more serious crimes.”
“He’s already graduated,” Chuck pointed out.
“And do you think those text messages came from him?” Butts asked.
“I think it’s likely,” Lee answered. “Otherwise, the timing does seem too coincidental.”
“How about your idea that there’s more than one perp?” Florette asked.
“Yeah, what about that?” Chuck