That could be his next story.
Chapter 88
NEIL STEPHENS, AP, jostled shoulder to shoulder with the other press, all of them competing for “money shots” across the street from the yellow house where the FBI man’s body had been found. Of course, he already had his million-dollar shot—a nice close-up on Brian Kitzmiller’s face. Eyes wide open, neck bleeding out like a stuck pig’s.
“Some crazy scene, huh?” Another lensman turned to speak to him. A brown-skinned fireplug of a guy. “Whole story’s unbelievable, right? You been covering it from the beginning?”
You could say that, DCAK thought to himself.
“Just got to town,” he said, making sure to flatten his vowels for a kind of nasal Chicago accent. Jest gaht to town. He loved details like that. That’s where the grace was, and the devil too. “Doing a piece on the detectives and CSI. That’s my angle here. Folks love their CSI. This little turn of events is just a, uh—”
“Lucky coincidence?”
The killer returned the guy’s cynical smile. “That’s right, I guess. Lucky me.”
“Here they come!” someone shouted, and Neil Stephens of the AP raised his camera along with everybody else.
The door across the street opened. Detectives Cross and Stone came out first, ahead of the body. They both looked like they’d been eating the same shit sandwich—and it looked good in telephoto.
Click! Nice little two-shot of the opposition. Beaten to a pulp but not quite defeated. Still standing, anyway.
Cross looked especially pissed off. His hands and shirt were covered in Kitzmiller’s blood.
Click!
Another classic shot.
The two of them joined the other cop—John Sampson, Cross’s friend—who was waiting on the sidewalk. Stone said something in the big lug’s ear—click!—and Sampson shook his head. He apparently couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Probably the news that it was Brian Kitzmiller up on the roof.
Click, click, click!
This shit was golden.
The little guy next to him kept talking while he worked, a real live chatterbox. “They say Cross over there is one of our best. Seems like he’s getting his ass kicked a little on this one.”
“Looks that way, huh?” Neil Stephens said, and kept snapping away, getting each of the three detectives’ faces close-up, as tight as he could go. Nothing too arty, but good stuff. Keeping it real.
Then he pulled back some and got all three of them in one master shot.
Click, click, click!
Then he stopped shooting and just watched their faces through the viewfinder for several heartbeats. Is that how he’d take them out in the end? All three in one shot heard round the world? Or maybe do it nice and slow—one at a time.
Stone.
Sampson.
Cross.
He hadn’t decided yet. There was no rush—better to enjoy the journey and get there when he got there. However it went down, the ending would be the same: dead, dead, and dead. And he would be a legend—right up there with the best.
“So you say you just got to town?” The little guy was still blabbing his ass off. “Guess that means you haven’t talked to any of them yet, huh?”
“Not yet,” Neil Stephens said. Naht yet. “But I’m definitely looking forward to it.”
Chapter 89
THERE IS A SAD LITTLE DEATH of hope and optimism that happens every time something tragic and unforeseen like this goes down. It was as if Kitz’s murder opened up a little more room for hatred in my heart. Was that true? All I could hope for now was that we would get the killer—or killers—and stop all this somehow.