Page 5 of Signed, I'm Yours!
His shoulders rise and fall rapidly in sync with his breathing.
“Yes?”
I expect a punch, a shove, or maybe even a slap. But none of those happen. No. He rasps and spins around, speed-walking like a bull in a china shop.
“That wasn’t a denial,” I mumble behind him.
Poor Martha. She’s been married to him for over forty years. Maybe I should rethink my retirement gift to him. I’ll return the golf clubs and buy him a biology book or something. There’s got to be something out there that can break it down for him. Hell, I’ll show it to him if I must. It’s not fucking hard.
Bob kicks the door open, ducks under the yellow tape, and makes a beeline for the car.
“We’ll find him, Bob.” I rush to catch up with him, and he looks up at me.
“Oh, now who’s being sexist? You said him.” He points at me as if I’ve committed murder, and I think I may have upset him a little too much with my comments.
“Slip of the tongue. We’ll find them. I believe it.” This is, like, our twentieth victim.
Bob pulls at his thinning hair—I have a theory I’m the cause—and cries out. “How? He’s our twentieth victim.”
A couple of police officers turn to stare at the CREEP making a scene, and Bob hides inside his car.
I raise my hand at them by way of apology and get into the passenger seat, turning to my partner, smiling.
“What?”
“You said it,” I say. “He’s our twentieth victim, which means…”
He groans before I even finish my sentence.
“We’re getting even more evidence. So we’re one step closer.”
“Oh great. So we should let them murder more people until we can put more puzzle pieces together, right?”
“That’s not what I s?—”
“Enough, Jack! Your positivity annoys the hell out of me sometimes.”
“You know I can’t help it.”
“Yeah, yeah, but it irritates the heck out of me. Anyway, let’s get back to the office and hope these idiots have found something we can use to find this guy. Or girl. Or person.”
“You know you can just say person, right?”
“Fuck off!” He barks inches from my face before turning the engine on and setting off.
When we’re back at the office, we comb through all the evidence from all the past crime scenes, fingerprints, DNA, MO.
We end up nowhere.
“But hey, we still haven’t got the forensics for number twenty.”
Bob practically growls as he puts his coat on.
“You always say that.”
“Yeah, but I feel differently this time. This time, I think we’re going to find them. Number twenty will lead us to our suspect.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” he says and walks out on me.
