Game by Barry Lyga Page B

the fourth murder? The bit about a flashing light?”
    “Yeah, that’s the only real bit of eyewitness testimony wehave. Witness saw a bright flash down on the subway tracks where we later found the body. Thought it was a train at first, but it was coming from the wrong direction.”
    “He took a picture….” Jazz mused.
    “Yeah, that’s what we think. His trophy.”
    “But that doesn’t… that doesn’t quite track.”
    “How do you mean?”
    “I mean, he already has a trophy. The penises.”
    Hughes rubbed his eyes. “He doesn’t always take them. Sometimes he does. Sometimes he doesn’t.”
    “Yeah, but…” Jazz frowned. “Why
two
different trophies? It’s not unheard of, but it has to mean something.”
    Hughes took the last piece of pizza. It was cold and stiff, like rigor mortis. “I wish I had more to tell you. But this is why I wanted you involved.”
    “I?”
    “I. Me. We. Whatever. I was the one who lobbied to bring you in, is all.”
    Hughes ate the pizza, chewing with a thoughtful look on his face. “Okay, look, let’s do the rundown one more time. The things we know for sure, all right?” He started ticking facts off on his fingers as he spoke, reciting from memory. “Based on the direction and angle of the slashing wounds, as well as the footprint we found at the third crime scene, he’s between five-ten and six-one, probably something like a hundred ninety, two hundred pounds. He’s right-handed. Most likely white. He’s escalating and he’s smart, so he’s older—mid-thirties. Very organized, so he may be married.Most likely in a stable relationship of some sort. His kill zone seems to be centered on the Red Hook/Carroll Gardens area, but he’s killed as far away as Coney Island. His comfort zone is clearly Brooklyn, which makes him a local. That’s what we know for certain.”
    “Wrong,” Jazz said. “Those
aren’t
things you know for certain. Those are things you
think
you know for certain. For all we know, those are things he wants you to think you know. Staging the scenes to maximize your confusion. Like here”—he pointed to a photo—“this scene. This murder. He dumps the guts into a KFC bucket. Why do that? Just to mess with you, I guarantee.”
    “Or he just likes KFC, ’cause he did the same thing with another one a little while later. Not everything can be faked,” Hughes scoffed.
    “Wrong,” Jazz said again, insistent. “Everything and anything can be faked. Billy avoided capture for decades. Every time he killed, some cop somewhere sat down and said, ‘Well, here’s what we know for certain.’ And every time, they were wrong, and Billy lived another day.”
Livin’ another day is what it’s all about, Jasper, m’boy, ’cause every day we live is another chance to kill.
    Hughes slumped in his chair, defeated. “I’ve spent months chasing this bastard and you’re telling me I’m no closer than the first day.”
    “No. I’m just saying you can’t assume you’re any closer. Once you start making assumptions, a guy like this owns you. You were right about one thing: He’s highly organized.But… he’s also picked on some street people—a bunch of homeless, some prostitutes. High-risk victims, if the guy is settled and married like you think.”
    “A random middle-class white dude hanging out with homeless people would stick out,” Hughes agreed. “But so far, we don’t have any witnesses. Nothing.”
    “You should announce that you
do
have a witness,” Jazz said. “They almost caught Billy that way once. Cops had nothing, but they leaked to the press that they had an eyewitness and they were closing in. Billy felt like he had to go in and give them some cock-and-bull story about why he was in the area and how he couldn’t have been the killer.”
    “What happened?”
    Realized it was better to run, Jasper.
Billy laughed in his memory.
You remember that: Sometimes, the best thing to do is just run. Don’t look back. Don’t look