J.D. Barker - The Fourth Monkey - A twisted thriller you won’t be able to put down

Porter glanced at the man’s dark hair. Hair retained trace evidence of medication and diet. 4MK cut it short, no more than an inch long. The average person’s hair grows half an inch per month, meaning they should be able to get a history dating back at least a couple of months. Drug testing of hair was nearly five times more accurate than a urine sample. Over the years, he had seen suspects flush drugs out of their system with everything from cranberry juice to consumption of actual urine. There was no flushing out your hair, though. This was the reason many drug addicts on probation shaved their heads.

“He has hair,” Porter said quietly.

Eisley furrowed his brow for a moment, then realized Porter’s point. “I didn’t find any sign of chemotherapy, not even a single cycle. It’s possible they discovered the cancer too late and traditional treatment wasn’t an option.” Eisley walked over to another table. The man’s personal effects were neatly laid out. “That little metal tin right there” — he pointed to a small silver box — “is full of lorazepam.”

“That’s for anxiety, right?”

Nash smirked. “Being a serial killer is an odd choice of pastime for someone with anxiety issues.”

“Generic Ativan. With stomach cancer, doctors sometimes prescribe it to help manage acids. Anxiety leads to increased production, lorazepam cuts it back,” Eisley said. “Chances are, he was calmer than any of us.”

Porter glanced down at the pocket watch, now tagged and sealed in a plastic evidence bag. The cover was intricately carved, the hands visible beneath. “Were you able to get prints from this?”

Eisley nodded. “He got a few abrasions on the hands, but the fingertips weren’t damaged. I pulled a full set and sent them to the lab. Haven’t heard back yet.”

Porter’s eyes landed on the shoes.

Eisley followed his gaze. “Oh, I almost forgot about those. Check this out, very odd.” He picked up one of the shoes and returned to the body, then placed the heel of the shoe against the man’s bare foot. “They’re nearly two sizes too big for this guy. He had tissue paper stuffed in at the toes.”

“Who wears shoes two sizes too big?” Nash asked. “Didn’t you say those go for around fifteen hundred?”

Porter nodded. “Maybe they’re not his. We should dust them for prints.”

Nash glanced at Eisley, then around the room. “Do you have a … never mind — I got it.” He hurried over to another counter and returned with a fingerprint kit. With expert precision, he powdered the shoes. “Bingo.”

“Lift them and send them to the lab. Make sure they understand how urgent this is,” Porter said.

“On it.”

Porter turned back to Eisley. “Anything else?”

Eisley frowned. “What? The drug evidence isn’t enough for you?”

“That’s not —”

“There is one other thing.”

He led Porter to the other side of the body and picked up the man’s right hand. Porter tried not to look into the gaping hole in his chest.

“I found a small tattoo,” Eisley told him. He pointed at a small black spot on the man’s inner wrist. “I think it’s the number eight.”

Porter leaned in. “Or an infinity symbol.” He pulled out his phone and snapped a picture.

“It’s fresh. See the redness? He got it less than a week ago.”

Porter tried to make sense of it all. “Could be some kind of religious thing. He was dying.”

“I’ll leave the detecting to you detectives,” Eisley said.

Porter lifted the edge of the white cloth covering the head. The material peeled away with a sound not unlike Velcro.

“I’m going to try and reconstruct his face.”

“Yeah? You think you can do that?” Porter asked.

“Well, not me,” Eisley confessed. “I’ve got a friend who works at the Museum of Science and Industry. She specializes in this sort of thing — old remains and such. She spent the last six years restoring the remains of an Illiniwek tribe discovered downstate near McHenry County. She normally works with skull and bone fragments, nothing this … fresh. But I think she can do it. I put in a call.”

“She, huh?” Nash chimed in. “Did you make a lady friend?” He finished with the shoes and packed up the fingerprint kit. “I’ve got six partials and at least three full thumbs. Three thumbprints, I should say. I don’t mean to imply our unsub has three thumbs, although that would make him a lot easier to identify. I’m going to walk these down. Do you want to regroup in the war room? Maybe an hour? I’ll check in with the captain too.”

Porter thought of the diary in his pocket. An hour sounded good.

16

Diary

Mother saw me, but I did not run away. I knew I should go. I knew this was a private moment, something not meant for my eyes, but I kept watching anyway. I don’t think I could have stopped even if I wanted to. I stayed next to that tree until Mother and Mrs. Carter disappeared from view. More accurately, they sank from view, whether to the bed or the floor, I was not sure.

Beneath me, my bucket wobbled. I wobbled. My legs felt like Jell-O. Wiggle waggle! My heart thudded with a parade cadence. I’ll tell you, it was exhilarating to say the least!

I found myself so ensconced in this activity, I didn’t hear Mr. Carter’s car drive past our house. It wasn’t until it crunched down the gravel driveway next door that I took notice. Mrs. Carter must have heard the car then too. Like a groundhog on the last day of winter, her head popped up in the window frame, her breasts bouncing, her mouth open in a gasp. She spotted me the same moment I saw her. There was nothing to do, I froze looking back at her. She turned and shouted something, and then my mother appeared. She did not look out at me.

Both disappeared from the window.

Mr. Carter’s car door slammed. He was never home at such an hour. Normally he did not return from work until after five, about the same time as my father. He saw me standing next to the tree, perched high on my bucket, and gave me a puzzled glance. I waved. He did not wave back. Instead, he bounded up his front walk and disappeared into his house.

A moment later Mrs. Carter walked briskly out our front door and crossed the lawn, her hands smoothing her dress as she went. She gave me a quick glance as she passed. I offered her a howdy-do, but she did not reciprocate. When she entered her own house, she did so with caution, closing the front door ever so softly behind her.

I jumped down off my bucket and followed her.

I wouldn’t call myself a nosy child. I was curious, that’s all. So I crossed over to the Carters’ lawn without a second thought. I was halfway to their driveway when I heard the slap.

There was no mistaking that particular sound. My father was a firm believer in discipline, and he had brought his hand to my backside on more than one occasion. Without going into detail, I am willing to admit I deserved a good whack or two on each and every one of those occasions, and I hold no ill will toward him for doing so. That sound was well-known to me, and after being on the receiving end (no pun intended) I also recognized the quick scream that followed such pain.

When Mrs. Carter cried out immediately following the slap, I realized that Mr. Carter had hit her. Another slap quickly followed, then another sharp yelp.

I reached Mr. Carter’s car. The engine still made a steady tick, tick, tick. Heat floated above the hood, and exhaust filled the air.

Mr. Carter crashed through the front door as I stood beside his car. “What the fuck are you doing out here?” he growled, before pushing past me and walking across the lawn toward my house.

Mrs. Carter appeared in the doorway but stopped at the threshold. She held a damp towel to the side of her face. Her right eye was puffy, pink, and teary. When she noticed me, her lips trembled. “Don’t let him hurt your mother,” she whispered.