“Yes. Send them. Any person you can think of that stands out as a suspect?”
“Not a person, but places, behaviors, things like that. The problem we have is some people hit the horror forums without ever visiting any of the social scenes in person. It would be easier for them to hide online.”
“Send all of the thoughts like these you have. My team will run down what makes sense to investigate further. What else did the crime scene tell you?”
“Not much,” he says, “not from yesterday’s scene or the prior two. I was at them all. Whoever did this studies more than horror movies. They study crime scene procedures.”
“A little like you?” I challenge.
His eyes go wide again. “I didn’t do this,” he says quickly. “Please tell me you don’t think I did this.”
“I’m going to check you out, and until it’s proven otherwise, you’re a person of interest.”
He stiffens. “Should I write an essay on my life decisions and how I got here?” he snaps.
“Yes. Do it. I’ll read it.”
He blinks. “You’re serious?”
“As an alibi, which you can provide me for each of these crimes.”
He pales. “I don’t know if I have one for all of them. In fact, I know I was watching a movie alone when the first murder was called in.”
“There are cameras all over the place. You know that. I can find out a lot of things easily. Where do you live?”
“Nowhere near the crimes. East Village.”
Because he’s not the guy. I’ve started profiling in my head, and this guy lives in the neighborhood where the murders took place. He probably thinks those he killed were unworthy in some way. That’s what God complex killers do, and this one is a God complex killer. I push off the table. “I’ll let you know what I find out at the autopsy. Call me if you figure out anything worth knowing.”
“You give me permission to call you?”
“I didn’t know you needed permission, Jack.”
“It’s better with permission.”
“Don’t go blowing up my phone. I’ll get angry. You don’t want me angry. Ask the people on Reddit who think I’m a serial killer.”
“They don’t really think that. It’s just for fun.”
“Okay,” I say, and I walk to the door, glancing back at him. “Killers know killers, Jack. And you know killers.” With that, and without pointing out that I do, too, I walk out the door. Jack’s not stupid. He’ll get the point.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
I’m not usually the girl who avoids people. I’m the girl who gets in people’s faces and makes them run away, and I’m proud of it. But I hate the fucking press, and I hate political fodder and want no part of either. So call it whatever you will, I’m getting the hell out of this police station before any of that shit finds me. I text Jay to meet me at the back of the NYPD offices. By the time I exit the building, Jay is waiting on me, and the two of us get the hell out of Dodge. We walk a few blocks left and then another few right before we find a Starbucks, destined to be our new caffeine sanctuary.
I’m fast on the draw when it comes to ordering a venti white mocha with an extra shot, and I’m already at the table, waiting impatiently on my beverage when my boss calls. “Director,” I answer.
“I hear the press conference is about to start. Where are you?”
“The land of the living. Starbucks. Where are you?”
“Close to the police station. I’ll go dump my stuff and meet you at the autopsy. What time?”
“Better yet, why don’t I come find you after the autopsy?”
“You really don’t want me there, do you?”
“It’s not that I don’t want you there, Director. I just don’t want you there, Director.”
“Fine. I’ll meet you at the Starbucks next to the ME’s offices. When?”
“Around four, but I’ll text you after I talk to the ME and confirm the time for the autopsy today.”
“All right, Special Agent Love-Mendez, or whatever you’re in the mood to be called. I’ll see you soon.” He disconnects.
Jay returns to the table with our drinks, scowling as he slides into a seat next to me. “You know you’re right, Lilah. People are so damn stupid. I’m Mexican. I’m proud of it. I’m not Cuban, Spaniard, or Puerto Rican, and hell no, I am not Latinx. Mexican. Just Mexican. All of those other things are fine, but don’t tell me I’m anything but Mexican.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Stupid people who are not Mexican telling me I cannot be Mexican.”
“Ooookay. You’re Mexican, Jay. Happy?”
“No. Are we going?”
“Yeah. We’re going.” I sip my coffee and it’s wrong. “Stupid people. This is wrong. I’m not leaving without my proper coffee.”
“I’ll meet you outside.”
Holy hell, whoever told him he wasn’t Mexican pissed him off.