Show Me (Thomas Prescott 4) by Nick Pirog (warren buffett book recommendations .txt) 📕

that made me think the guy was left-handed.

When I was consulting with the FBI, we were investigating a serial rapist who would strangle his victims with a length of rope. The bruising around the women’s throats was always deeper on the left side and it was because the guy was right-handed. After he was caught, he confessed his crimes, even going as far as to show how he wrapped the rope over the victim’s head, crossed his arms, and pulled it taut. He naturally pulled slightly harder with his dominant hand, which due to his arms being crossed, increased the bruising on the opposite side of the victim’s throat.

In this case, the ligature marks were more pronounced on the right side of Mike Zernan’s throat, which led me to believe he was strangled by a left-handed man.

There was another thing. Contrary to what I’d said to Eccleston, I didn’t think the murder weapon was a cord or a belt. There was a cut under Mike Zernan’s Adam’s apple, which I was almost certain was caused by a garrote.

A garrote is a military weapon, a three-foot length of thick wire with handles on the ends, which often cuts into the victim’s skin during strangulation.

I didn’t tell Chief Eccleston any of this. Sometimes it’s better if people don’t know how smart you really are.

“Okay, I told you the truth,” I said. “Now charge me with something or cut me loose.”

Another Mountain Dew later and the Chief finally let me go.

On my way out, I bypassed the front desk. The woman who gave me Mike Zernan’s name and address was sitting in her chair, a blank expression on her face. We briefly made eye contact, and she whipped her head away like I was the witch from the Narnia books who will turn you to stone.

Guilt can do that.

I put myself in her shoes. She either figured that I killed Mike, which would be her fault because she sent me there, or my going there pissed some people off and they killed Mike. Either way, she thought she was to blame.

Sure, she may have set the ball in motion, but the only person to blame was the asshole who wrapped a garrote around Mike’s neck. Or whoever sent him there to do it.

“I’ll give you a ride.”

I glanced at the door. Miller was holding it open for me.

I nearly forgot that I hadn’t driven to the station myself. I must have suffered brain damage from Miller’s sleeper hold.

“Don’t you have Fight Club to get to?” I asked.

“Fight Club is tomorrow,” he said with a smirk.

“The first rule of Fight Club is to not talk about Fight Club.”

Idiot.

“Oh, right.”

He followed me down the steps and said, “Seriously, let me give you a lift to your car. It’s the least I can do.” He had the decency not to add, “after kicking the piss out of you.”

“I can Uber.”

“We don’t have Uber.”

“I’ll get a taxi.”

“We only have a couple. Could be an hour or more.”

“I’ll walk.”

“It’s four miles.”

“I’ll run.”

He laughed.

“What?”

“You don’t seem like the running type.”

“I used to run almost every day.”

“When?”

I shook my head. I hated being fat.

“Listen, don’t worry about me. I’ll find my way back to my car just fine.”

“Quit being such a pansy and let me give you a lift.”

He wasn’t going to let up.

“Fine. But I’m not sitting in the back seat again.”

“Don’t worry. We’re not taking a squad car. We’ll take my truck.”

His truck was an F150. It was on big wheels, and Miller needed the assistance of a step bar to get in. It was obvious the truck was compensating for Miller’s small size, and I wanted to comment on this. But I was also still a little dizzy from the fallout from my last ill-advised remark.

I settled in the passenger seat, and we drove in silence for a half mile.

Then I asked, “Why was Mike Zernan let go from the police department?”

Miller glanced at me in his periphery. He seemed to be considering if he should be communicating with a known suspect about the very person he was suspected in killing. After two blocks he said, “He wasn’t let go. He was offered early retirement. He was struggling with PTSD.”

“From the Save-More murders?”

Miller shook his head. “No, from Iraq.”

“He was in the military?” I don’t know why this came as such a shock. Many men and women in law enforcement were veterans. Still, from my experience, they usually retained a couple of ingrained idiosyncrasies from their time in the service: cadence, posture, grooming, etc. Mike didn’t have any that I’d noticed.

“He did two tours in the Gulf War.”

I digested this, then said, “He seemed pretty normal to me.”

“On the surface, yeah. But I’d seen him go blank a few times for no reason. Sitting at his desk, eyes glazed over, breathing heavy.”

I had those same symptoms. But not from PTSD. From eating an entire pizza and twenty buffalo wings.

Miller continued, “And according to the Chief, he had bouts of paranoid schizophrenia. Thought people were following him. Thought someone bugged his house. It was recommended by the shrink that he should be on meds.”

“Well, someone did strangle him. Maybe he had a right to be paranoid.”

He didn’t respond to this.

I prodded, “You have any idea who it could have been?”

He turned and glared at me.

Maybe he did think I was involved.

He turned back to the road, and I changed the subject to something more friendly. I asked, “So when you ask a girl to marry you a second time, after she’s already called off the first engagement, what goes through your head?”

I watched as his hands flexed around the steering wheel. I brought my arms up slightly to protect myself. I didn’t think he could kick me in the face while driving a car, but I wasn’t taking any chances.

We drove another half mile in silence. He seemed to move past my Wheeler inquiry so I refreshed his memory.

“I mean, she’s already broken your heart once.