Cereal Killer

her fingers and toes.
    “Do you mean to tell me,” she said, “this Charlotte Murray is the one who gave Kevin Connor his airtight alibi? The one who says he was there at the hospital all day and couldn’t have possibly murdered his wife?”
    “Yeah. Why?”
    Time slowed for Savannah, as it often did at moments of high stress... or exquisite delight. She laughed, reached over, and slapped Dirk on the shoulder. “Charlotte Murray is Jim Oates’s sister,” she said. “He’s been on a trip to Vegas this week, and she’s driving his white van.”
    “No way!” Dirk’s eyes lit up with the light of a man who thought he was drowning only moments before but now sees a luxury cruise ship coming to pluck him out of the cold waters of the Atlantic.
    “You got it, big guy.”
    He grinned—an evil grin. “So, whatcha say, Mamma? Is it about time to go to the hospital?”
    She placed her hands on her stomach and began to huff and puff. ‘Yes, sirree, Bob. I feel like I’m about nine and a half months along and finally something’s about to deliver!”
     
    Savannah didn’t exactly hate the hospital—at least, not the way she hated the city morgue. But it was a close second.
    Antiseptic-smelling hallways with highly polished floors and open doors that revealed the unhappy side of living and dying—hospitals reminded her of the fragility of human beings. And in her line of work, she had plenty of reminders of that sad fact already.
    But today, as she and Dirk hurried down the hallway, their shoes squeaking on the shiny linoleum, she was in a far better mood than usual. There was nothing quite like a break in a case to put a spring in a girl’s step... hospital hallway or not.
    And while they were a long way still from figuring out the “why, when, and where” of the case, at least they had a line on “who.” And as Savannah’s brother, Macon, would say, “That’s better than a bite in the ass.”
    “When you interviewed this gal,” she said to Dirk, “did she seem like the type to you?”
    “The type?” Dirk shook his head. “No. Tumblety seems like the type. Assuming there’s a type. And we both know there ain’t.”
    Savannah had to admit it was true. In her years of investigating homicides, she had pretty much concluded that about anyone could commit murder under the right... or wrong... set of circumstances.
    But one killing, done in the heat of passion and regretted a moment later, was one thing. Two, maybe three, murders in a week—that was something altogether different. That took a person of a different mind-set. And it was hard for her to imagine that anyone who had chosen nursing as a profession could do such a thing.
    After hiking for what seemed like miles through the cavernous maze of hallways on the ground floor, they came to the surgical unit where Kevin Connor worked. And more importantly, where Dirk said he had last interviewed Nurse Charlotte Murray.
    They found her desk at the nurse’s station near the elevator bank, but after a look around, Dirk told Savannah that she wasn’t among the nurses milling about in their bright blue smocks and heavy white sneakers.
    Dirk walked up to a young black woman with copious beaded braids who was sitting behind a desk and said, “Is Nurse Murray on duty?”
    Her pretty face lit up with recognition and interest. “You’re the one who was here the other day,” she said, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “The policeman who was asking about Nurse Connor’s wife.”
    “That’s right,” he said, dropping his voice to match her whisper. “Is she around?”
    “She was. I think she’s on a break right now.” Savannah noted the gleam in the young nurse’s eye—the sure sign of a dyed-in-the-wool gossip. And when investigating a case, those were Savannah’s favorite people. You couldn’t trust half of what they told you, but one hundred percent of it was bound to be interesting.
    “Where does she usually go when she takes her breaks?” Dirk asked.
    “Depends on how long her break is,” the nurse replied. “Sometimes she goes to the cafeteria. And since she smokes, sometimes she’s up on the roof, having a cigarette.” She glanced around, then lowered her voice even more. “And sometimes... she takes a nap... in there.” She nodded toward a door down a hallway to their left.
    It was something in her tone and in the quirk of her brow when she said, “... in there,” that set Savannah’s wheels turning.
    She leaned