Let Me In by Adam Nicholls (books under 200 pages .TXT) đź“•
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- Author: Adam Nicholls
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The killer stood among the crowd, reveling in the glory of his kill. There were so many people around, and it was all because of him—all because of the work he’d done on Carrie Whittle. The police would have no clue either, as he’d been so careful at the scene.
Although there was that one thing…
Leaving the pizza hat at the crime scene was hardly his crowning moment, but everybody made mistakes. This was one that could cost him dearly, he knew, but at least he could learn from it and move on. Sure, the police now had his fingerprints, and probably hair from the hat, but at least they weren’t in the system. As far as he knew, that was.
The people around him shuffled, making way for newcomers on the scene. From where he stood, beginning to perspire among the ever-shifting collection of spectators, the killer saw a familiar face approach the tape. There was no telling quite how he knew him, but the killer had one of those feelings—a knowing that’d been buried in his past. Maybe they’d crossed paths once or twice in their younger years, or maybe he’d just seen the guy on the news before, but he definitely recognized him somehow. And if the man recognized him too?
The killer shrunk back between the civilians.
After showing his detective badge to the officer, the man went into the house, ushering a tall, well-built black man through the doorway. This face was new to him. He couldn’t have been a cop—the way he followed the leader made him appear far too detached for that—so maybe he was a hired hand. Or worse: an apprentice.
Whoever they were wasn’t important. What was important was the work he’d just done. After stabbing the husband and discovering he was still alive, he’d moved on to the wife, who’d stumbled into the hallway and had all of three seconds to understand what she was seeing. The man she’d married was bleeding out all over their hideous rug, and she wouldn’t be far behind. From there, he’d chased her into the dining room and grabbed her hair, yanking her onto the floor. The killer had mounted her, taking his knife to her face and making some adjustments. Even if she’d lived through that, she probably wouldn’t have wanted to; he’d taken away her beauty, which was the only thing to redeem her foul attitude. The killer had enjoyed every second of taking that away from her, laughing at her howls and screams as he sliced those perfect cheeks right off her horrified face.
“Move it, people.”
The strong, authoritative voice of a police officer broke his trance. The people around him—the sheep—shuffled and pushed, stepping back only when two officers and a wooden barricade forced them to. The killer moved with them, enjoying the excitement of the murder scene, grinning at the flashing red and blue that lit up everyone’s faces. It was the blue of something pleasant, like the ocean, but the red was deep like blood, and it took him back to the moment he’d completed his surgery.
He had stabbed Carrie in the stomach. Multiple times, in fact, but not before dragging the husband in to watch. Mr. Handsome had scowled, wheezed, and cried as his wife was killed in front of him, and then his time had come. Only minutes later had the killer abandoned the uniform and returned to see his work incognito.
It was a beautiful memory he would hold dear, but he couldn’t linger on it too long. There was more work to do, after all, and if he focused too much attention on this one, he was sure to make a mistake with his next victim, and she wasn’t too far away.
Not far at all.
Morgan supposed it was time to get to work. It’d been months since his last case, and perhaps that had contributed to his stagnation. Unemployment—at least, not having a current case to focus on—could be torture on the mind. On the other hand, it gave him time to spend with Rachel. When she wasn’t running a charity event anyway.
Gary had given him all he needed to start: a look at a baseball cap from Pizza Palace. The officers who found the victims’ bodies had found it in the bathroom, and it matched the bag and empty box found in the hallway. The presumption was that the killer had either dressed as a pizza delivery guy to gain entry to their home, or he was an incredible dumbass who happened to leave some easy evidence lying around.
Morgan doubted it was the latter.
While Gary held a temporary suspension on the evidence, Morgan had time to reach Pizza Palace before the police did. The building was only a few blocks away, sitting on the corner with a wide double door and plenty of room to sit and eat. The inside gave a rich aroma of hot cheese and bread, making Morgan’s stomach growl like a feral dog. His watering mouth made him forget that he’d already eaten tonight, but he wasn’t here to eat so much as he was to work. That much was easy to remember.
Customers brushed past him as he approached the counter and asked to see the manager. The black-haired, crow-faced man behind the counter paused before responding, as if a poor choice of words could put him behind bars.
“Who’s asking?” he finally said.
“Morgan Young. I’m a PI.”
“Well, he’s not here.”
“He’s not?”
“Did I stutter?”
Morgan checked over his shoulder to ensure he wasn’t holding up a line, but he also knew there was only a certain amount of time before the police arrived, and if they didn’t cause difficulties for him, he didn’t know what would. “Look, nobody wants to talk to the cops if they can help it—I get it—but a married couple was murdered tonight, and one of your worker’s hats was found at the crime scene. Do you realize how bad that looks?”
The man’s face grew deep red. He rested his hands on the counter, squeezing his fingers—all the traits of a guilty man, or could it simply be that he was anxious of police involvement? A storm of officers would be bad for business, and they both knew it.
“I’m the manager,” he confessed.
“Pleased to meet you.” Morgan stood up straight. “Do you know of any reason why the hat might be at the crime scene?”
“Not a clue.”
“How many employees do you have, Mr.…?”
“Morales. And I have six employees.”
“Where are they tonight?”
“Here. Why?”
“Every one of them?”
“What is this, Twenty Questions?” Mr. Morales snapped.
Morgan took a deep breath. People could be difficult, that was no secret, but fatigue was coming for him, blurring his vision and making him weak. The enticing smell wasn’t doing much to help either. “I just need to get the facts straight.”
Two customers shuffled in, and Mr. Morales gave a short wave as if he knew them. It was like a signal that he wouldn’t be long. He sighed. “My nephew, Rico, recently requested a new uniform. He said it was stolen, but I guessed he just left it at home and didn’t want to take the blame, you know?”
“Is he here now?”
“In the corner.”
“Mind if I talk to him?”
Mr. Morales shrugged. “Don’t take too long. It gets busy soon.”
“Thank you.”
Morgan left the counter and glanced around the tables. As promised, a young man who looked just like his uncle sat in the corner booth. He wore a crisp, new Pizza Palace uniform that was yet to be ironed, and he stared at Morgan with the same black-ringed eyes as Mr. Morales. “Are you Rico?”
“Who’s asking?”
The bluntness of his reply told Morgan he’d found the right guy. Without asking or waiting for an invite, he slid into the booth opposite the boy, keeping his hands clasped in front of him. It was an easy technique he’d learned from a reputable detective many years ago—when suspects are being questioned, they like to see your hands. It relaxes them, lets them know you’re not about to pull out a gun or a pair of handcuffs.
“Your uncle tells me you had a uniform vanish on you. What can you tell me about that?”
Rico stared over Morgan’s shoulder at his uncle, then returned his attention to the subject at hand. “Just that. I came in to pick up my paycheck, and my uniform was on the hanger. My uncle asked me to start work early, so I went for my uniform, but by then it’d gone missing.”
Morgan kept his voice low and soft. “When was this?”
“What does it matter?”
“Two people were murdered tonight, and the killer was wearing your uniform. Trust me, it matters.”
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