The Devils Teardrop

body counts. Oh, I told the police in White Plains and Philly. But nobody paid much attention to me.” He laughed bitterly, waved his arm around the room. “Took—what?—twenty-five dead before anybody’d perk up their ears and listen to me.”
    Parker asked, “What can you tell us about the Digger? Hasn’t anybody gotten a look at him?”
    “No,” Czisman said, “he’s a wisp of smoke. He’s there and then he’s gone. He’s a ghost. He—”
    Lukas had no patience for this. “We’re trying to solve a crime here. If you can help us we’d appreciate it. If not we better get on with our investigation.”
    “Sure, sorry, sorry. It’s just that I’ve lived with this man for the past year. It’s like climbing a cliff—it could be a mile high but all you see is a tiny spot of rock six inches from your face. See, I have a theory why people don’t notice him.”
    “What’s that?” Parker asked.
    “Because witnesses remember emotion. They remember the frantic robber who’s shooting someone in desperation, the cop who’s panicked and firing back, the woman screaming because she’s been stabbed. But you don’t remember calm.”
    “And the Digger’s always very calm?”
    “Calm as death,” Czisman said.
    “Nothing about his habits? Clothes, food, vices?”
    “No, nothing.” Czisman seemed distracted. “Can I ask what you’ve learned about the accomplice? The dead man?”
    “Nothing about him either,” Lukas said. “He had no ID on him. Fingerprints were negative.”
    “Would you . . . Would it be all right if I took a look at the body? Is it in the morgue?”
    Cage shook his head.
    Lukas said, “Sorry. It’s against the regs.”
    “Please?” There was almost a desperation to the request.
    Lukas, though, was unmoved. She said shortly, “No.”
    “A picture maybe,” Czisman persisted.
    Lukas hesitated then opened the file and took out the photo of the unsub at the accident site near City Hall and handed it to him. His sweaty fingers left fat prints on the glossy surface.
    Czisman stared for a long moment. He nodded. “Can I keep this?”
    “After the investigation.”
    “Sure.” He handed it back. “I’d like to do a ride-along.”
    Where a reporter accompanies police on an investigation.
    But Lukas shook her head. “Sorry. I’ll have to say no to that.”
    “I could help,” he said. “I might have some insights. I might have some thoughts that’d help.”
    “No,” Cage said firmly.
    With another look at the picture Czisman rose. He shook their hands and said, “I’m staying at the Renaissance—the one downtown. I’ll be interviewing witnesses. If I find something helpful I’ll let you know.”
    Lukas thanked him and they walked him back to the guard station.
    “One thing,” Czisman said, “I don’t know what kind of deadlines he”—Czisman nodded toward Lukas’s file, meaning the unsub—“came up with. But now that he’s gone there’s no one to control the Butcher . . . the Digger. You understand what that means, don’t you?”
    “What?” she asked.
    “That he might just keep on killing. Even after the last deadline.”
    “Why do you think that?”
    “Because it’s the one thing he does well. Killing. And everybody loves to do what they do well. That’s a rule of life now, isn’t it?”
    * * *
    They huddled once more in the surveillance room, in a cluster around Tobe Geller and his computer.
    Lukas said into the speakerphone, “How ’bout the other crimes he mentioned?”
    Susan Nance responded, “Couldn’t get any of the case agents in Boston, White Plains or Philly. But the on-duty personnel confirmed the cases are all open. Nobody heard of the name Butcher, though.”
    “Forensics?” Parker asked, just as Lukas started to ask, “Foren—?”
    “Nothing. No prints, no trace. And the witnesses . . . well, the ones who lived said they never really saw either the unsub or the Digger—if it was the Digger. I’ve put in requests for more info on the shootings. They’re calling case agents and detectives at home.”
    “Thanks, Susan,” Lukas said.
    She hung up.
    Geller said, “I’m getting the other analysis . . .” He looked at the screen. “Okay . . . Voice stress and ret scans—normal readings. Stress is awfully low, especially for somebody being cross-examined by three feds. But I’d give him a clean bill of health. Nothing consistent with major deception. But then, with practice you can beat most polygraphs