leaned in to take a closer look at the body as Fimby snapped on a pair of rubber gloves.
“It’s the Closer, all right,” Dymund sighed. Fimby picked up one of the five cassette tapes lying in a neat stack on the table.
“Four tapes,” said Fimby. “Ninety minutes each. Six hours.”
“Whatever else he is, he’s thorough.”
Another patrolman entered the kitchen. His face was pale, and he carefully avoided looking directly at what was left of Stanley.
“Detective? We’ve found a second body.”
They followed him to a back room where a police photographer was taking a picture of an open freezer. Dymund and Fimby peered inside.
The body was young, nude and female. Her throat had been cut.
“Right hand missing,” Fimby said.
“Doesn’t sound like the Closer’s style, does it? Probably done by the guy in the kitchen—guess we’ll know once we listen to those tapes.”
“Detective?” the patrolman asked. He was young, with acne scars on his cheeks and a bristling blond crew cut. ”Why do you call him the Closer?”
“Don’t you read the tabloids?” Dymund asked.
SERIAL KILLER STALKER STRIKES AGAIN!
WEEKLY WORLD NEWS, June 4, 1999—Seattle, Washington.
The vigilante known as the Closer—so called because he closes unsolved murder cases—struck again this week, ending the murderous rampage of yet another maniac: Stanley Dupreiss, whom the police have confirmed as the killer of at least eight local prostitutes. No details of Dupreiss’s death have been released, but rumor has it he was found in the same mutilated condition as the Closer’s other victims.
This brings to four the number of serial killers the Closer has introduced to his own brand of grim justice, leaving police on both sides of the U.S./Canada border no nearer to his identity—or are they?
Some say the police aren’t trying very hard to find the Closer. “Hell, why should we?” says a police officer who asked not to be identified. “He’s doing our job for us. Why should we waste the public’s money on a task force to stop this guy, when he’s doing what most of us wish we could do? Instead of millions being spent on these creeps to catch, prosecute and incarcerate them, one guy is making sure they get what they deserve.”
The question is, how is he doing it? Are the police, with all the resources at their disposal, so incompetent that a single determined man can outperform them not once, but four times? Or is the truth darker—that the Closer is one of their own, a renegade cop who’s decided to take the law into his own hands?
Some say this explains not only the reluctance of the police to pursue the Closer more actively, but also the vigilante’s uncanny ability to find his victims. If he has access to police files, then he has a shopping list of suspects to pick from.
So far, the only people the Closer has killed have been reprehensible murderers themselves. But even the police make mistakes—what happens if the Closer does?
You can only hope you’re not on his list.
Charlie Holloway leaned back in his chair and yawned; it had been a long day. His eyes fell on his own portrait hanging on the wall across from his desk, and he wondered how long it would be before his real face no longer resembled the one captured in oils. He’d always have the big, potato-sized nose, of course, but his hair, full and black in the painting, was already mostly gone and hardly black. His face had gotten fuller as middle age had added pounds along with the years, and his blue eyes—always his best feature, his mother had told him—were usually hidden behind glasses these days.
Ah, if only I had Dorian Gray as a client, Charlie thought ruefully. Still, that painting’s going to be worth a mint one day—
The phone rang, interrupting his reverie.
“Hello, Charlie Holloway.”
“Charlie.”
“Jack? Hey, I was just thinking about you.” Char- lie’s voice softened from friendly to concerned. “How are
“It’s the Closer, all right,” Dymund sighed. Fimby picked up one of the five cassette tapes lying in a neat stack on the table.
“Four tapes,” said Fimby. “Ninety minutes each. Six hours.”
“Whatever else he is, he’s thorough.”
Another patrolman entered the kitchen. His face was pale, and he carefully avoided looking directly at what was left of Stanley.
“Detective? We’ve found a second body.”
They followed him to a back room where a police photographer was taking a picture of an open freezer. Dymund and Fimby peered inside.
The body was young, nude and female. Her throat had been cut.
“Right hand missing,” Fimby said.
“Doesn’t sound like the Closer’s style, does it? Probably done by the guy in the kitchen—guess we’ll know once we listen to those tapes.”
“Detective?” the patrolman asked. He was young, with acne scars on his cheeks and a bristling blond crew cut. ”Why do you call him the Closer?”
“Don’t you read the tabloids?” Dymund asked.
SERIAL KILLER STALKER STRIKES AGAIN!
WEEKLY WORLD NEWS, June 4, 1999—Seattle, Washington.
The vigilante known as the Closer—so called because he closes unsolved murder cases—struck again this week, ending the murderous rampage of yet another maniac: Stanley Dupreiss, whom the police have confirmed as the killer of at least eight local prostitutes. No details of Dupreiss’s death have been released, but rumor has it he was found in the same mutilated condition as the Closer’s other victims.
This brings to four the number of serial killers the Closer has introduced to his own brand of grim justice, leaving police on both sides of the U.S./Canada border no nearer to his identity—or are they?
Some say the police aren’t trying very hard to find the Closer. “Hell, why should we?” says a police officer who asked not to be identified. “He’s doing our job for us. Why should we waste the public’s money on a task force to stop this guy, when he’s doing what most of us wish we could do? Instead of millions being spent on these creeps to catch, prosecute and incarcerate them, one guy is making sure they get what they deserve.”
The question is, how is he doing it? Are the police, with all the resources at their disposal, so incompetent that a single determined man can outperform them not once, but four times? Or is the truth darker—that the Closer is one of their own, a renegade cop who’s decided to take the law into his own hands?
Some say this explains not only the reluctance of the police to pursue the Closer more actively, but also the vigilante’s uncanny ability to find his victims. If he has access to police files, then he has a shopping list of suspects to pick from.
So far, the only people the Closer has killed have been reprehensible murderers themselves. But even the police make mistakes—what happens if the Closer does?
You can only hope you’re not on his list.
Charlie Holloway leaned back in his chair and yawned; it had been a long day. His eyes fell on his own portrait hanging on the wall across from his desk, and he wondered how long it would be before his real face no longer resembled the one captured in oils. He’d always have the big, potato-sized nose, of course, but his hair, full and black in the painting, was already mostly gone and hardly black. His face had gotten fuller as middle age had added pounds along with the years, and his blue eyes—always his best feature, his mother had told him—were usually hidden behind glasses these days.
Ah, if only I had Dorian Gray as a client, Charlie thought ruefully. Still, that painting’s going to be worth a mint one day—
The phone rang, interrupting his reverie.
“Hello, Charlie Holloway.”
“Charlie.”
“Jack? Hey, I was just thinking about you.” Char- lie’s voice softened from friendly to concerned. “How are
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