“What about the Creeden homicide?” Dad’s attention drifted back my way. “It’s the first known kill, and even though it’s nearly fifteen years cold, I’m hoping it will turn up something useful.”
“First one means he’s still learning, most likely to make mistakes,” Don added.
“Humans make mistakes. I’m starting to wonder if what we’re searching for is something else entirely,” Will said through a bite of chow mein.
“He’s human. I can guarantee that.” Samantha took a sip of her soda.
I blinked at her, wondering if she was being serious or making a joke.
She wasn’t making a joke.
“Anyways,” I started again, “I’ve lined up several interviews next week that I’m optimistic will produce something useful.”
“Phone interviews?” Dad asked.
“In person. Noah’s mom lives in Lincoln nearby, and I’m long overdue for the perfunctory mother-in-law lunch date.”
“Good.” Dad indicated at Amelia, who instantly scribbled something. She’d only been his assistant for a few weeks and was already reading his mind. “Visit the scene if possible, bring doughnuts and coffee to the police station, and make sure you talk to any of the detectives who might have retired since then. Buy them a Budweiser and porterhouse or whatever it is people in Nebraska like.” He rapped on the table. “I’m counting on you to bring something valuable to the table.”
“I’ll try my best.”
He reached for his glass again. “Do your best.”
Seventeen
Parked outside the police precinct in downtown Seattle, I found myself fixated on a particular piece of graffiti sprayed on a concrete column buttressed beneath an overpass. This was different than the typical profanities, initials, or gang signs spewed across old abandoned buildings and freeway infrastructures.
Freshly painted, given its prominence above the rest of the graffiti, an oval with a line cutting horizontally through the center stretched several feet long. Done in black, it was the Greek symbol for theta, the eighth letter of the Greek alphabet.
It was the symbol for death.
It had also become a mark the public had assigned to the Huntsman. A black theta. The mark of death.
It had started small, only known about in fringe society, but then a major news station ran a report on it and the concept exploded into the mainstream. A few weeks ago, a person might pass the occasional weirdo with a theta symbol penned in black Sharpie across the back of their hand, but fast forward a few weeks and a person couldn’t drive to the grocery store without passing bumper stickers, shirts, and pins hanging off backpacks and purses, from your average high school student to your aging veteran.
At the Public Market, vendors were carrying shirts with the theta symbol accompanied with the caption of Justice for all. They were selling out.
The Huntsman had been elevated from a cult following to an icon of pop culture, the first serial killer to gain mainstream acceptance. Serial killers before him had always drawn a small fan base of emotionally fragile women, but this was different. The Huntsman not only came with the adoration of those unstable girls wanting to marry him whenever he was caught and thrown into prison for the rest of his life, but your everyday mother, from inner-city to suburban, supported his mission of wiping out pedophiles. They saw him as the dark but necessary hand of justice, an angel of death who protected the most innocent and vulnerable of society.
The Huntsman had support in the male category as well, from dads, husbands, boyfriends, and students because, veiled as they might keep it, most men at their base believed in good old-fashioned justice where eye-for-an-eye was more life-for-an-eye.
The elderly, who had known hard times those of us under fifty couldn’t begin to understand, regarded the Huntsman as a necessary evil who was finally cleaning up the streets. And the kids . . . they talked about him almost as though he were the latest and greatest superhero to hit the big screen. An analogy I’d heard from one of the other attorney’s pre-teen was Deadpool meets Suicide Squad meets Batman.
Whatever that meant.
Huntsman fever hadn’t only hit the Greater Seattle area, but had swept across the nation. Rallies were arranged by satellite supporters in most major cities in the country. Protests had begun to crop up as well, Huntsman supporters waving signs outside of courthouses and demanding true justice for those standing accused inside. The supporters had even christened themselves with a name—The Disciples. As though they were some devote band of followers who’d do anything for their leader, some of which I didn’t doubt would.
The Huntsman’s mark—I was still staring at it, half-hypnotized. Up until now, the public had praised the efforts of anyone involved in catching a serial killer, but not this time. No one would thank us for catching the Huntsman. Some would probably attempt to impede our efforts. But I was a state’s attorney, a guardian of the law the way it was written.
I didn’t have the luxury of deciding which murders were justified and which should be prosecuted.
When a teen boy stopped in front of the theta graffiti to snap a selfie, I forced myself out of the SUV.
The telltale buzz of the police precinct hit me the first step I took through the doors. This place was busier than the 405 at rush hour just about any given time. The scent of old coffee, musk, and body odor permeated the precinct.
After waving at the receptionist stationed up front—too busy arguing with some frantic woman to notice me—I wove through the bullpen of desks to a familiar one tucked into the back corner.
“Sorry I’m late. Traffic,” I greeted, ceremoniously setting down the cardboard box in my hand, complete with a large coffee.
“Don’t worry about it, kid. I was catching up on paperwork anyway.” Ed hooked his foot beneath the empty chair at the desk beside him and pulled it in my direction. “You didn’t mention the reason for your visit, but I bet I don’t need to play twenty questions to figure it out.” His giant gray eyebrows pulled into his hairline.
“I bet you don’t either,” I replied as I took a seat in the procured chair.
“You know, your father’s been down here harassing me for a few weeks now with little to show for it.” Ed tipped his cup of coffee at me before taking a sip. “What makes you think I’m going to give you information I haven’t given him, someone I worked with for three decades?”
“One, because I’m nicer than him, and two”—I opened the cardboard lid, flourishing my hand at the contents inside—“I come bearing poppyseed muffins, your favorite, unlike the stereotypical baker’s dozen he shows up with.”
Ed chuckled that deep rumbling one of his, digging out a muffin. “Bringing doughnuts to cops. Pretty sure that’s a frowned upon typecast in these modern times.”
I shook my head when he offered me one.
“Good. More for me.” He winked, licking his fingers after removing the paper liner from the base of his muffin.
“So?” Placing my elbow on his desk, I rested my face in my hand and flashed an innocent smile. “Anything you might be able to share with an eager woman who’s like a daughter to you about the Skovil investigation?”