Love in the Time of Serial Killers(23)

“I don’t know how you sleep, reading this kind of thing,” Conner said.

“It’s better than melatonin.”

“Really?”

I gave a little laugh. “No,” I said. “Not really. Currently, I don’t sleep much. But that’s to be expected with the dissertation and with—” I gestured around the living room.

“Your nighttime surveillance activities?”

I pulled a face, snatching the book from him. “Those have mostly stopped, thank you very much,” I said. Or at least, Sam hadn’t been up to anything interesting lately. No more suspicious sounds or mysterious items being moved from his truck to the garage late at night. In fact, it had been fairly quiet next door since the party, with the exception of a single splash I’d heard the other night around eleven, as though Sam were taking a late-night dip in his pool.

Conner gathered up a box he’d put together of stuff he wanted to take to his apartment, stopping briefly one more time at the door before heading out. “All I’m saying is, maybe it’s time to call Crime Stoppers if you think your neighbor’s up to something so bad.”

It was so tempting to hurl the book at Conner, but it was property of the library and I wanted to be able to return it in one piece. “I don’t,” I said. “I was just giving in momentarily to the paranoia that is my evolutionary birthright for survival. You can let it go now. I have.”

“Mmm,” Conner said. “That’s a shame.”

“Why’s that?”

Conner gave me an infuriating smirk. “Because,” he said. “I happen to know from Josue that Sam finds you very interesting, as well.”





EIGHT





THE SECOND TIME I went to the library, Alison was there again, working behind the counter. Luckily she was busy helping another patron, so I slid the serial killer’s daughter’s memoir in the book return slot and made my way upstairs before she saw me.

I wasn’t looking for anything particular in the true crime section—just looking to be inspired. I should be writing about In Cold Blood right now, had no idea why I was putting it off. It was arguably the book that had gotten me the most excited to write about the genre, although maybe that was the problem. Maybe I was starting to feel the pressure.

There was another book on the shelf about the Sunrise Slayer. This one was more standard true crime fare, a black cover with the title written in matte red letters, a grid of eight pictures underneath. It looked like a cross between a 1980s Stephen King novel and a grisly yearbook. I grabbed it and started back downstairs, heading to one of the self-service kiosks in the middle of the main floor.


OUT OF ORDER

Please bring your items to the front desk for checkout.



I stood for a minute, just staring at the office paper taped to the front of each of the machines, the message typed out in efficient Times New Roman. I glanced over at the front counter to verify what I already knew with a sinking feeling in my stomach. Currently, Alison was the only staff member stationed behind the main computer, which meant that there would be no way for me to avoid her if I checked the book out.

I wanted to read the book. I didn’t want to have to talk to Alison. It seemed like an impossible conundrum.

So naturally, I went back upstairs, plopped myself at a study table, and opened the book to begin reading.

It was weird that with all my interest in true crime I’d never really read much about this serial killer who’d struck so close to home. He’d earned his moniker by mostly attacking women on their morning jogs—this, of course, being the reason why you’d never catch me pounding pavement, my earbuds blasting Paramore so loud I couldn’t hear the inevitable threat. Also, because jogging sucked.

The real surprise in the book was the way he’d been caught. They’d suspected him for a decade, all the way into the midnineties, because he lived nearby and had been stopped by a police officer once for peeping in windows. But it actually ended up being the daughter who inadvertently provided a crucial piece of evidence that allowed them to put everything together.

Her home had been burglarized, and she filled out a report listing all the items that had been stolen. Among them was an innocuous piece of jewelry—a thin gold chain with a bird pendant. She described the bird as more swallow than dove, its wings spread. There was a staff member who’d recently been recataloging cold case files, and the description struck a chord. A necklace with a similar description had been one of the items believed removed from a victim of the Sunrise Slayer’s, almost fifteen years earlier.

I had to sit back after reading that whole passage. In her whole memoir about her father the serial killer, the daughter had never mentioned that detail. It seemed like a huge omission. She’d been given the most macabre gift possible, and then her description of that gift was what, in a roundabout way, landed her father in prison.

I’d already read the Wikipedia article on the Sunrise Slayer, and knew that he’d died there a few years ago, at the age of sixty-seven. But I wondered if the daughter still lived in the area.

I put the book back on the shelf when I was done with it, making sure to slide it in its correct alphabetical slot. Then I headed out into the sunshine, grateful again that I’d made it the whole time without having to interact with Alison. It wasn’t that I was planning to avoid her for the entire rest of the summer . . . but also, that plan didn’t sound too bad.