Silent Slaughter Read Free

any kind on the letter.
    “You’ve dusted it for prints?” Lee asked.
    “Completely clean. The envelope he used is on the other side.”
    Lee turned over the plastic sleeve and studied the envelope. The letter was addressed to Detective Butts, Thirteenth Precinct, Manhattan, printed in the same font as the letter. There was no sign of handwriting anywhere on the envelope.
    “Probably a waste of time to do DNA testing,” Lee remarked. “He avoided using his handwriting. I doubt he’d be stupid enough to lick the envelope.”
    “That’s what I was thinkin’,” Butts agreed. “Plus, there’s been no crime to link it to yet, and the labs are backed up as it is. What does it mean, Doc? Do we have to worry about this guy?”
    “I’m afraid we do.”
    The department got hundreds of crank letters every year, most of them irritating but harmless. Lee’s experience told him that this one was different. The writer was clearly literate and intelligent. Worst of all, Lee was quite certain, he was very dangerous.
    “What do we do now?” Butts asked.
    “You’re not going to like my answer.”
    “Try me.”
    “We wait.”
    As he spoke, the weak afternoon sun lost its struggle with the advancing darkness and slipped behind a dense cloud cover, leaving the room in the gloom of early-winter twilight.

C HAPTER T HREE
    E dmund gazed lovingly at the girl on the bed. She had stopped struggling now and gazed up at him with terror in her eyes. Small-animal sounds came from her throat, like the whimpering of a rabbit. The black duct tape over her mouth made it impossible for her to make any serious noise. He took in the sight of her, reveling in every detail: the fair skin with its faint dusting of freckles, the nails with their chipped polish, in need of a manicure.
    Too bad, he thought. She had had her last manicure. Lust surged through his body at the thought of the complete power he had over her.
    Most of all he liked to watch their eyes. The moment when their fear turned to pure animal terror was delicious—it never failed to send a shiver of pleasure down his spine. There was an instant when they all realized they were going to die, and watching the hope drain from their faces was thrilling, an intoxicating nectar. And the more he drank, the more he craved.
    He had it all planned out—the who, what, where, and when, right down to the last detail. The key to success was organization.
    He glanced at the wall clock. It was exactly six, the big and little hands forming a perfect 180-degree angle, a straight line . . . the shortest distance between two points. The sight of it sent warm little shivers down his spine. Six o’clock, and all’s well. Time to get to work.

C HAPTER F OUR
    L ee left Butts with instructions to inform him of any updates and headed back to his apartment through the descending December dusk. He decided to walk the mile or so home, turning south on Second Avenue. The storefronts sported festive holiday decorations, the nodding Santas and grinning elves in stark contrast to the grim thoughts running through his head. As he walked, he pondered the nature of the letter writer and didn’t like his conclusions. Intelligent, mature, organized. And cruel. The man’s coldness practically leaped off the page.
    Of course, there was no telling what his crimes were or would be, but this was no ordinary jealous husband or bitter ex-employee about to go on a rampage. This man would be more difficult to catch than the average criminal because, more likely than not, he would not know any of his victims. He was in complete control, and he was enjoying himself.
    In short, Lee concluded, he was very likely a sociopath.
    Similar thoughts crowded his mind as he passed the cozy, misted windows of the Stage Restaurant, a tiny Polish hole-in-the-wall serving fabulous homemade soups, pierogis, and the best turkey burger in the East Village. Next door to the Orpheum Theater, it served a constant stream of actors and audience