The Informant Read Free Page A

of carnage left behind at crime scenes, absence of actual sexual penetration continue to suggest disorganized qualities. Level of staging and increasing manipulation of evidence, however, indicates a keen presence of mind and well-conceived plan to taunt police and/or thwart the investigation, consistent with an intelligent and organized serial killer.”
    She paused and took a deep breath, as if suddenly comprehending the size of their problem. She switched the Dictaphone back on. “In short,” she said solemnly,
    “subject can be classified neither as organized nor disorganized. It appears as though we’re dealing with a unique sociopathic hybrid. One killer, with attributes of both.”
    Church let out at noon on that clear but cold Sunday. A call came in to the Candler County sheriff’s office in Metter around twelve-forty-five. The clerical staff didn’t work weekends, but it was time to order new supplies for the detention center on the other side of the sally port, so Barbara Easton was working overtime. The Bible had taught her never to work on Sunday, but she was a nineteen-year-old single mother
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    James Grippando
    who needed food on the table. “Sheriff’s office,” she answered in a polite southern drawl.
    “Good afternoon.” The man’s voice was completely calm, lacking any sense of urgency. His speech, however, was thick and gravelly, seemingly disguised. “I want to report a homicide.”
    “A homicide ? You mean someone was murdered?”
    “That’s the only kind of homicide I know of.”
    “Where! I’ll call for an ambulance.”
    “Too late. I told you: She’s dead.”
    “Okay, uhm. Just calm down, all right?” She was fidget-ing with her hair, speaking more to herself than the caller.
    “Are you sure she’s dead?”
    “Dead sure. I’m the one who killed her.”
    Her mouth opened but words didn’t follow. “You—”
    her voice cracked, “you’re calling to report your own murder?”
    “It’s not my murder, missy. I’m not dead. I’m the murderer.”
    The patronizing tone gave his words even more impact.
    Her hands started to shake, and her mind went blank.
    “Are you—is this some kind of joke?”
    “Let me put it to you as plain as I can, lady. The last person I talked to is now a bloody mess on her bedroom floor.”
    A lump came to her throat. She’d been a secretary only a month. Her training hadn’t covered this, but her instincts told her to get him to talk to a cop. “Sir, would you like to speak to the sheriff?”
    “I’d like to speak to somebody who knows what the hell they’re doing. Make it fast.”
    “Just one sec.” Her shaky finger hit the HOLD button, 15
    THE INFORMANT
    then she dropped the receiver and peeled down the hall.
    “Sheriff!” she shouted. “Come quick!”
    Sheriff John Dutton was in the back, chatting with his deputy by the Mr. Coffee machine. He was fifty-two years old, fair-skinned and freckled with wavy red hair that was turning precipitously gray. Twenty-eight years of cruising in patrol cars and pigging out at the local Egg ’N You Diner had put an extra thirty pounds around his waist.
    Barbara was panting and wide-eyed with panic when she reached him.
    “Man’s on the line,” she blurted. Her chest was heaving as she tried to catch her breath. “Says he killed someone.”
    He blinked in disbelief, but her eyes told him she was deadly serious. He dropped his chocolate doughnut on the counter and sprinted to the phone. A ringful of keys jingled on his belt loop, and his heavy thighs rubbed together to the tune of tight polyester slacks. He jumped in the chair and caught his breath. “Did he say anything else?” he asked quickly, before getting on the line.
    “Nuh-uh. Just that he killed someone. His voice sounds kind of funny, though. Like maybe he’s disguising it.”
    He grabbed the receiver, then paused and grimaced.
    For years he’d been pushing for an upgraded phone system, but the county budget didn’t even allow