Jonathan Kellerman - A Cold Heart

“He would’ve preferred the smooth bit,” I said. “Being subtle and dramatic meshed with his sense of theater. He probably decided to be cautious because of my questions about Kevin. He didn’t feel threatened enough to stop, but he knew we were getting closer.”

“Guess so,” he said. “Still, the idiot never lost his arrogance. Drove all over town without thinking to check for a tail.”

“In the end, an amateur,” I said.

“Once a loser, always a loser.” He stretched, paced some more, sat back down. Stared past me. Crust in the corner of his eyes. Hit-or-miss shave.

All those days with no sleep.

I said, “What’s the good stuff you found in his basement?”

“Baby Boy’s guitars, seven sets of low E guitar strings, a black trench coat that had been dry-cleaned recently, a box of surgical gloves, and newspaper clippings about all the victims. Not organized, tossed together in one big box file. He clipped reviews, interviews- like the one Robin gave to that guitar magazine- and newspaper accounts of the killings.”

His jaw tightened. “Here’s the bad thing, Alex. In addition to Baby Boy, Julie, Vassily, China, the Bernet girl, and Mehrabian, there were four others. All within the last five years, filling the time period we wondered about. A potter snuffed in Albuquerque, another dancer- male theatrical dancer- killed in San Francisco and dumped in the Bay, a glass artist from Minneapolis, and Wilfred Reedy, the old jazz guy killed four a half years ago down on Main Street. Everyone assumed that was a dope thing, because like I told you, Reedy’s kid was an addict and Main Street can get mean, but looks like he was Shull’s first.”

“Shull have all of Reedy’s LPs?”

He stared at me. “Yeah. In terms of the out-of-town cases, we’re looking for conventions Shull might’ve attended.”

I tried to feel relieved that it was over. Tried to get past the image of all those bodies.

“You were right about something else, Alex. Shull didn’t go for writers because he considers himself an active writer. On top of the box file, was an envelope marked T.G.A.N. Took me a while to figure that out. The Great American Novel. Inside was a title sheet. I xeroxed it for you.”

He drew a folded piece of paper from an inside pocket, opened it, spread it on the table.

Blank, except for three lines typed in the center:

The Artist

A Novel by

A. Gordon Shull

“That’s it?” I said. “Just the title?”

“That’s all he wrote. Literally. Guy must’ve blocked.”

Jonathan Kellerman is one of the world's most popular authors. He has brought his expertise as a child psychologist to numerous bestselling tales of suspense (which have been translated into two dozen languages), including thirteen previous Alex Delaware novels; The Butcher's Theater, a story of serial killing in Jerusalem; and Billy Straight, featuring Hollywood homicide detective Petra Connor. His new novel, Flesh and Blood, will be published in hardcover in fall 2001. He is also the author of numerous essays, short stories, and scientific articles, two children's books, and three volumes of psychology, including Savage Spawn: Reflections on Violent Children. He and his wife, the novelist Faye Kellerman, have four children.