Mr. 8

Chapter 1: The Third Victim

Professor Denton Reed was pleased there wasn't a corpse on the floor. When Bill had told him there had been a murder, he had put on a brave face and braced himself for the worst.

There wasn't even any blood. Perhaps the scene had already been cleaned up. Or maybe the method of death hadn't left any behind. In fact, the only crime that seemed to have taken place here was one of neglect and possibly the minor offense of graffiti. Even in the dim light of the room, it was impossible not to notice the large figure eight scrawled on the wall above the sofa.

"The vic was a white male, early forties, lived alone. High school education. Drove a delivery truck for Baye Feed and Supply. No priors. Neighbors said he was quiet and kept to himself."

Denton found it strange, listening to Bill talk like a cop. They had known each other for almost five years and except for once before, they had pretty much only discussed lawn maintenance, football, and scotch. Being next-door neighbors had never led to anything beyond a casual friendship.

Crime wasn't Denton's specialty. He was an academic. He had made his entire career off of his doctorate titled: Object Transference and Diagnostic Observations. When it was first published by a psychology journal, it got him noticed in his field. When it was picked up by a mainstream publishing house a couple of years later, and reworked by a ghost writer, it made him famous. It was sold under the name: What Your Stuff Says about You, and was put in the selfhelp section of bookstores.

When Denton found out the journal had resold the publication rights, due to an obscure clause in his contract, he was furious and started legal action. He dropped the suit after his first royalty check came in. Apparently, lots of people were curious about what their stuff had to say about them.

He hadn't bothered to conduct a single study or research experiment since then. He had used the success to leverage his tenure and was now happily just a teacher. He was no longer forced to scrabble around publishing new articles, like so many of his colleagues in the faculty.

"Motive?" Denton tried to sound as if he belonged at a crime scene. "That's why I brought you in."

Denton's eyes went back to that black number eight on the nicotine yellow wall. He remembered what he'd overheard on the second floor landing. One patrol officer was telling another, "Looks like Mr. 8 struck again."

Bill had glared at the officer and he had stopped talking. Walking up the final flight of stairs, Denton had wondered what the cryptic statement meant, and why Bill didn't want them gossiping about it. Seeing the number on the wall, things started falling into place.

On the phone, Bill had said there had been three murders in town with similarities. The killer must leave behind the eight as a calling card, Denton thought.

He tried to keep all hints of a tremor out of his voice. "Is this a serial killer, Bill?"

"Just have a look around and tell me what you think."

"If it is, you should be getting the FBI in here, or something. I'm not qualified for this. This is way beyond cows." The last time he had been brought in on a police investigation, it had only involved cattle. Despite the grisly nature of the crime, it had only been considered destruction of property.

Denton looked hard into Detective Bill Stahl's eyes, trying to match the man's air of authority and determination. He combated the steely gaze for a few seconds, but soon he was staring as the grimy window over Bill's shoulder.

"Just take a look," Bill told him.

With a shrug of reluctance, he got to work. He hid from his face, the glow of excitement that was building in him. Could his methods really catch a serial killer?

Denton started with what he had been telling his students for years: analyze the environment.

The place was a dump. Whoever had lived here was not interested in keeping up appearances. He still had an old tube TV set. It rested on a battered dresser. The only place to sit was the sofa—foam spilled out of one of the arms. There was a lamp on a small metal table next to it. The table looked like it belonged on a backyard patio. The lampshade was dried out and cracked. There was also a cheap coffee table. Marks in the worn carpet showed where someone had moved it to the side, so the police could walk through the room more freely. The table was scarred from years of abuse. There were ring marks scattered across the top, stained into the wood. One corner in particular had dozens of these—one over the other.

He would have sat here and put his drink there. Night after night.

It would have been tempting to assume the apartment belonged to a student, who had furnished it with garage sale finds. But even if Bill hadn't told him he was a delivery man, it would be very unlikely for anyone from the college to be living out here on Grimshaw Street. This was townie territory.

Denton walked over and examined the eight. The loops were elongated and it looked a bit like a sideways infinity symbol. He couldn't figure out what it had been drawn with. The substance was black, uneven, and appeared to be flaking. He went to feel the surface of the numeral, but stopped short when Bill spoke.

"That's evidence. Forensics took a sample. It will be a while before we get a lab report, but they believe it to be some sort of carbon."

Denton slipped his hands into his overcoat pockets and moved on to the tiny galley kitchen.

What greeted him seemed to drop his blood temperature by at least five degrees. His hands turned cold. A queasiness sank into the depths of his stomach.

Every cabinet door had two circles neatly marked on it in what looked like dried blood. Hesitantly, he held out his glasses, about an inch from his face, and used them as a magnifying glass. On closer examination, he realized it was only tomato sauce, or possibly ketchup, on the melamine. The uniformity of the rings suggested they must have been made with a glass or a can.

"When was he killed?" Denton asked.

"Last night. Around 2:00 a.m." Bill Stahl stepped into the doorway. "We believe."

Could the sauce have dried out that much in—he glanced at his watch—fourteen hours?

"Did the other victims have eights marked on their walls too?" "Not exactly. But we found the number eight repeatedly in both

of the other residences." Bill sounded evasive. There was something he wasn't telling him.

"And they were all killed in their homes?"

Bill hesitated, his eyes dropping to some spot on the floor. Denton could almost feel him weighing his words. "They were all killed outdoors. In isolated areas."

"So, the murderer captures them in their house, draws eights everywhere, and then takes them somewhere else to kill them?" Denton was trying to figure what was going on, but Bill's vague statements weren't helping.

"You don't understand. I didn't ask you for your opinion because the killer drew these." He pointed at a double ring of magnets that formed a wavering eight on the fridge door. "I asked you here, because the victims did."