The Man Who Killed His Brother by Stephen R. Donaldson Page B

twenty-four-hour diner. After we’d ordered a good-sized pile of food, Ginny asked Ted to show us his note. He took it out without even a question—he looked like he was numb with shock. She scanned it, held it up to the light, then handed it to me.
    It was a half sheet of good twenty-pound bond, neatly torn along one edge. The handwriting scrawled every which way. I held the paper up to the light and looked through it. It had part of the same watermark that was on the two notes in my pocket. I dug them out and gave them to Ginny.
    She compared them from several angles, studied all three of them against the light, then handed Lona’s and Ted’s notes back to me.
    With the torn edges together, they matched perfectly. Ted’s note held the top third of the watermark missing from Lona’s. There couldn’t be any doubt about it—both these notes came from the same sheet of paper.
    Sonofabitch! It was all I could do to contain myself. Fortunately the food began to arrive. I shut myself up by shoveling things into my mouth while Ginny told Ted about Alathea.
    Just to look at him, you wouldn’t have thought he heard a word she said. But when she asked him, “How long ago did Mittie disappear?” he blinked suddenly, and tears started running down his cheeks. It was hard to watch. His eyes were gushing, but he didn’t let out a whimper. A couple minutes passed before he finally answered faintly, “Three days.”
    Five—no, six—days after Alathea turned up missing.
    For no reason in the world that I was aware of, I found myself thinking, The bastard’s getting greedy. More time
had passed between the disappearances of the other seven girls.
    Then Ginny asked, “How old was she?”
    He had to struggle to make himself audible. “Thirteen.” Then he covered his face with both hands. “She’s all I have.”
    When Ginny looked over at me, her eyes were glittering the way they’d glittered after she’d shot the punk who broke her nose. “I’m ready to hear the details now,” she said flatly. I glanced at Ted, but she answered, “He has a right to hear this.”
    He must’ve been paying attention despite his grief. He pulled out a dirty handkerchief, blew his nose hard. Then he fixed his watery eyes on me and didn’t let go.
    I put my notes on the table beside my plate and started to recite.
    The basic facts were simple enough.
    Two years ago, Marisa Lutt, a seventh-grader at Ensenada Middle School up in the Heights, failed to return home from school. Her parents filed a complaint almost immediately. Five days later, they reported receiving a letter from her, asking them not to worry. Her description—“very attractive” —was given to all police units. A detective spoke to her friends, her parents, and their friends, but failed to trace her. Three months later, she was killed by a truck while walking in the middle of the southbound interstate. The M.E. found evidence of massive heroin addiction, which he described as being of recent origin. He also found evidence of intensive sexual activity. The coroner concluded that she’d turned to prostitution to earn money for heroin. Death accidental as a consequence of an overdose. Investigation in progress to determine where she obtained her drugs. She was thirteen years old.
    Twenty-two months ago, Esther Hannibal, a seventh-grader at Matthew Pilgrim Junior High down in the southeast part of town, failed to return home from school. Her parents reported her missing, but refused to file a complaint and didn’t call again. Her description—“good-looking”—was given to all patrol units. Five months later, she fell off
the roof of an abandoned building in the old part of town and died a few hours later of internal injuries. The M.E. found evidence of massive heroin addiction, which he described as being of recent origin. He also found evidence of intensive sexual activity. The coroner concluded that she’d turned to prostitution to earn money for heroin. Death