Spiders in the Grove (In the Company of Killers #7)(11)

Ware doesn’t look convinced, as I knew he wouldn’t be at first; he crosses his arms over his chest and shakes his head.

“But what made you come to that conclusion?” he asks. “You need something solid from the evidence that points in that direction, or else it’s just another theory.”

I smile. “The mirrors,” I say. “They are there for a reason. You’ve studied serial killers all your life, Mr. Ware; you already know that most, if not all of them, either take a trophy, or leave something behind.” I lean forward like him, and rest my arms on the table. “But I think you’ve been looking at the wrong one: your killer has an obvious interest in his victim’s teeth, I agree with that, and I’m still as stumped as you are, but I don’t think the teeth are what you need to focus on, or that all the victims are men—you need to focus on the mirrors; the teeth are probably just the aftermath of his rage”—I point at Ware shortly—“but the mirrors, they are the part of the puzzle telling the actual story.”

OK, now he’s starting to look convinced—hell, I’m starting to convince myself!

Ware stares off at nothing; his expression is that of a man contemplating the most complex puzzle he’s ever tried to put together.

Finally, he nods, and takes a deep breath.

“So, about that one direction you think this case is pointing?” he reminds me.

I rest my back against the chair again.

“I believe this killer, this man, wants to be a woman, or absolutely believes he is a woman. I believe he hates men, and kills men—men he resembles in ways that, stereotypically, make him a man—because by killing them, he’s killing that part of himself. Of course, the feeling only lasts for so long before it wears off, like it does with all serial killers, and he has to kill again. There’s also a good chance”—I point my index finger upward—“that the killer was molested and raped by men, maybe just one man, I don’t know, but I think that’s where it all stems from.”

“What about the hair sample and the female DNA found at a crime scene?” Ware asks.

I tilt my head to one side, playing my piano with the skill of Chopin. “How long have you been hunting this killer, Mr. Ware?”

“Ten years.”

“And what is something common in many serial killers, especially after such a long time killing, and not getting caught?”

“They tend to want to get caught.”

“And in the media, when there’s a news report about the possibility that your untitled killer has struck again, what does the media always refer to him as?”

Ware looks now as if a bright light just flipped on inside his head.

“They refer to him as a man,” he answers. “As he.”

“And what is one thing many serial killers crave other than their need to satisfy their urges?”

“Attention. And proper recognition.”

“So, not only is he not being recognized properly because he’s constantly referred to as being a he, but he hasn’t even been given a title, therefore he doesn’t get the attention he seeks. The DNA, the hair sample, it’s all an attempt to make you and the media see him for who he believes he is: a woman.”

Ware feels like a total fool, I can see it in his face, but, he’s newly energized; I can practically hear him talking to himself, how he’s changing all of his plans, making room for the new ones. The guy may admire me at unhealthy levels, but he’s ready to get up right now and leave me sitting here so he can get to work on this new theory he believes will break his case.

Of course, everything I told him is bullshit.

This serial killer is definitely a woman; the stereotypical evidence about all the victims being men, is true. I have nothing concrete to back up my belief, but I don’t need it. Sometimes you just know, you trust it, you feel it in your gut. Although, with this new DNA evidence Ware has given me, it may well be the concrete evidence I need. And it may lead me right to her. Is this what she wanted? Does she want to get caught? By me, of all people? I think she does. I think our uncanny similarities are so much more than coincidence.

I have successfully steered Kenneth Ware in the other direction. For now. But he is an intelligent man, and what makes an intelligent man more dangerous is one who has that driving need to accomplish the thing he wants the most. This elaborate story I came up with will hold him off for a little while, but a man like Ware, I know, cannot be held off indefinitely.

But I have time. And, like Ware, I have a driving need to find this serial killer before he does.

And I will.





Niklas


I rap my knuckles on the door, and wait; there’s not much to look at while I wait, but I look, nonetheless. A small patch of grass, not much bigger than a carpet sample, sits beside the bottom step; it’s such an out-of-place thing, surrounded by dirt and bits of gravel and glass from the driveway. Tons of potholes look like landmines—the whole fucking trailer park is one giant fucking pothole. And I smell shit. Everywhere. I look down and turn my left foot sideways to check the bottom of my boot, then the right, relieved I didn’t step in any on my way up the dirt-and-brick sidewalk. But there are piles of shit spread across the yard—I’m surprised that small patch of grass was left untouched. Cats. They’re everywhere, too; I feel like they’re just waiting for the right moment to ambush me.