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“Unless it wasn’t for thrills,” Myron said.
“Meaning?”
“Unless they did the framing just to cover their tracks,” Myron said.
“Do you think that’s likely?”
“I don’t, no,” Myron said. “I think the killer enjoys that part too. It’s about power often. A kill is quick and strong, a full-on rush. Incarcerating an innocent is slow. A double whammy. But that’s not my point here.”
“What is your point?” PT asked.
The car sped past the Lautenberg Rail Station in Secaucus. Myron remembered driving this route not long after 9/11. He could still see the Twin Towers in his mind’s eye. For years he would do that—drive by this stretch of the New Jersey Turnpike, look to his right, see exactly where the towers had stood. Then one day, he couldn’t see the towers in his mind’s eye anymore. A month later, when he drove by here again, he couldn’t remember where the towers had even stood. That angered him.
“My point is,” Myron said, “we couldn’t find any connections between the cases.”
“Right.”
“So how did the FBI put together that it was the work of a serial killer?”
“They didn’t,” PT said, “until Greg Downing was caught.”
“Yes, but that would only give you a connection between the Kravat case and the Callister case.”
“Agreed.”
“So?”
“So an anonymous source dropped enough hints.”
Myron thought about that. “Someone leaked it to the FBI?”
“The new director won’t admit that. He claims it’s their clever investigating. But yes.”
“Who would do that?”
“Could be the killer himself bragging. Could be the killer wanting attention. Could be the killer wanting to get caught. Could be a lot of things.”
Myron headed through the E-ZPass lane at the Lincoln Tunnel. The traffic slowed him down. He stared at the tunnel’s opening, a mouth widening to swallow the car whole.
“Sounds like you’re staying on this,” PT said.
“My wife thinks I should stop now. I was in this for Greg, she said. The FBI has the resources. I don’t.”
“She makes a good case,” PT said. “But?”
“But something feels incomplete.”
“To me too,” PT said. “Myron?”
“What?”
“Greg Downing is connected to two of these cases.”
“I know.”
“Then you know that’s not a coincidence.”
When Myron got back to the Lock-Horne Building, he took the elevator to the fourth floor—his old one, which now houses the law firm of Fisher, Friedman and Diaz. Taft Buckingham the Whatever greeted him with a blue blazer, khaki pants, pink tie, boat loafers. Myron half expected him to don a white captain’s cap and deejay a yacht rock set.
