Splintered by SJD Peterson

hair.
    “Byte found the kid I saw at the crime scene. Turns out he’s not a kid, but a twenty-six-year-old man who’s studying criminal psychiatry.”
    Granite raised a brow at Hutch. “You think he’s working this case?”
    “Could be, but so far he’s fitting the profile of the killer,” Hutch informed him.
    “Here it is,” Byte interrupted. “Noah Walker, born to one Barbara Walker. Father unknown.”
    Hutch grabbed a chair and pulled it up close to Byte so he could read the report along with Byte. “I didn’t see his name in any of the reports. Has he been interviewed?”
    “Not on any of our cases. Looks like he was born and raised in Joliet, moved to Chicago about six years ago. Oh wait, holy shit,” Byte cursed. “In 1994 he was interviewed by the Joliet police after his mother and sister were killed”—Byte looked over and met Hutch’s gaze—“by the Eastside Strangler. He was eight.”
    Hutch’s pulse sped even further as excitement coursed through him. This could be their guy. Weeks without a single lead and finally it looked like they might get a break. “Who took him in after the death of his mom and sister?”
    “Maternal grandmother. One Sophia Walker.”
    “I want an address,” Hutch demanded as he went to his feet. “Granite, get dressed. We’re going to go talk to this guy.”
    “One step ahead of you,” Granite tossed over his shoulder before he disappeared into the bathroom.
    “You think this could really be our guy?” Byte asked.
    “He certainly fits the profile,” Hutch said as he checked his weapon and then slipped it into his holster and buckled it into place. He grabbed his shoes, sat on the edge of the bed, and laced them up. “Close to the correct age range, Caucasian, smart, knowledge of forensics, absent father, and raised by an older relative. I’d say it’s either one hell of a coincidence, or we may have just gotten a break.”
    Byte scribbled the address on a sheet of paper and handed it to Hutch. “Hyde Park area, only about twenty minutes from here.”
    “Thanks,” Hutch said, accepting the piece of paper, and then yelled out to Granite, “Stop fucking primping and get your ass out here.”
    “You want me to come with?” Byte asked.
    Hutch pulled on his sports coat and grabbed his keys and wallet. “Nah. You keep digging. I want to know everything about this guy. Who his friends are, where he hangs out. What he fucking eats for breakfast. I highly doubt he’s going to admit to anything, and given his background, I suspect he’ll lawyer up the instant he discovers who I am and why I’m there.”
    “I’m on it,” Byte assured him.
    Granite stepped out of the bathroom dressed in a pair of black skinny jeans and an Insane Clown Posse T-shirt. “Jesus fuck, Granite,” Hutch growled. “Would it kill you to wear a goddamn sports coat once in a while?”
    “No problem, boss,” Granite said. He went to the small closet and pulled out a red plaid suit coat and shrugged it on. “Better?” he asked.
    “Why do I even bother?” Hutch grumbled and headed out the door.
    “Don’t know,” Granite chuckled. “You’d think you’d be used to my superior fashion sense by now. In fact, I would have thought I’d have been able to teach you a thing or two about it after this many years.”
    “Fuck you,” Hutch growled.
    “Not going to happen,” Granite shot back as he hurried to catch up with Hutch, checking his weapon as he moved. “But I’ll be more than willing to stuff you as full as a hoarder fills their house.”
    Hutch pressed the button on the elevator, then turned to Granite, who was grinning smugly. “Wipe that shit-eating grin off your face. That was totally lame.”
    “Bullshit, it was fucking brilliant,” Granite said confidently. “Have you ever been in the house of someone with a severe hoarding disorder?”
    “No, and to be honest, I’ll be glad when you run out of cheesy lines.”
    “Not going to happen,” Granite assured