More Twisted

sympathy to the dismayed owner of the car, who lived a few doors away.
    Finally the onlookers grew bored, or repulsed by the bitter smell of the burnt rubber and plastic, and they returned to their beds or their late-night snacks or their mind-numbing TV. But their vigilance didn’t flag; the moment they stepped inside, every one of them locked their doors and windows carefully—to make certain that the strangler would not wreak his carnage in their homes.
    Though in Clara Steading’s case, her diligence in securing the deadbolt and chains had a somewhat different effect: locking the Hunter inside with her.
    “Jesus,” Altman muttered. “That’s just what happened in the Kimberly Banning case, how the perp got inside. He set fire to a car.”
    “A convertible,” Wallace added. “And then I went back and found some passages that’d been marked. One of them was about how the killer had stalked his victim by pretending to work for the city and trimming the plants in a park across from her apartment.”
    This was just how the first victim of the Greenville Strangler, the pretty grad student, had been stalked.
    Wallace pointed out several other passages, marked with asterisks. There were margin notes too. One said, “Check this one out. Important.” Another jotting was “Used distraction.” And: “Disposing of body. Note this.”
    “So the killer’s a copycat,” Altman murmured. “He used the novel for research.”
    Which meant that there could be evidence in the book that might lead to the perp: fingerprints, ink, handwriting. Hence, the reporter’s CSI gloves.
    Altman stared at the melodramatic dust jacket on the novel—a drawing of a man’s silhouette peering into the window of a house. The detective pulled on his own latex gloves and slipped the book into an evidence envelope. He nodded at the reporter and said a heartfelt “Thanks. We haven’t had a lead on this one in over eight months.”
    Walking into the office next to his—that of his assistant, a young crew-cut detective named Josh Randall—he instructed the man to take the book to the county lab for analysis. When he returned, Wallace was still sitting expectantly in the hard chair across from Altman’s desk.
    Altman wasn’t surprised he hadn’t left. “And the quid pro quo?” the detective asked. “For your good deed?”
    “I want an exclusive. What else?”
    “I figured.”
    Altman didn’t mind this in theory; cold cases were bad for the department’s image and solving cold cases was good for a cop’s career. Not to mention that there was still a killer out there. He’d never liked Wallace, though, who always seemed a little out of control in a spookyway and was as irritating as most crusaders usually are.
    “Okay, you’ve got an exclusive,” Altman said. “I’ll keep you posted.” He rose then paused. Waited for Wallace to leave.
    “Oh, I’m not going anywhere, my friend.”
    “This’s an official investigation—”
    “And it wouldn’t’ve been one without me. I want to write this one from the inside out. Tell my readers how a homicide investigation works from your point of view.”
    Quentin Altman argued some more but in the end he gave in, feeling he had no choice. “All right. But just don’t get in my way. You do that, you’re out of here.”
    “Wouldn’t think of it.” Wallace frowned an eerie look into his long, toothy face. “I might even be helpful.” Maybe it was a joke but there was nothing humorous about the delivery. He then looked up at the detective. “So whatta we do next?”
    “Well, you’re going to cool your heels. I’m going to review the case file.”
    “But—”
    “Relax, Wallace. Investigations take time. Sit back, take your jacket off. Enjoy our wonderful coffee.”
    Wallace glanced at the closet that served as the police station’s canteen. He rolled his eyes and the ominous tone of earlier was replaced with a laugh. “Funny. I didn’t know they still made instant.”
    The detective winked and ambled down the hall on his aching bones.

    Quentin Altman hadn’t run the Greenville Strangler case.
    He’d worked on it some—the whole department’d hada piece of the case—but the officer in charge had been Bob Fletcher, a sergeant who’d been on the force forever. Fletcher, who’d never remarried after his wife left him some years before, and was childless, had devoted his life to his job after the divorce and seemed to take his inability to solve the Strangler