The Killing Type Read Online Free Page B

can be wearing. Sincere emotion tends to come
from the deep, quiet centre of a person, and is manifested with a
dignity and integrity which the media “personalities” do not even
approach.
    As I pass by a table of overdone
turquoise jewelry, I hear my name called. I flinch that it might be
the raver, but it turns out to be an attractive, husky-voiced young
woman whom I can’t quite place.
    “Yes, hello.”
    “My name’s Rachel. From the public
library, you know, the main branch. I’ve helped you with some of
your research.”
    “Oh, yes, I recognize you now,” I lie.
“Please forgive me: I guess it must be seeing you out of context.”
I smile at her to indicate something friendly. I do remember now
that she was in fact quite helpful, steering me away from false
leads, and introducing me to sources of information that I hadn’t
been aware of.
    “It’s scary,” she says.
    “Scary?”
    “The murders.”
    “Oh, yes, right. Yes. Though I guess
the police ...” I let the sentence trail off, suddenly realizing
that I am not quite sure what I wanted to say about that. Are the
police on the verge of arresting someone? Are they
incompetent?
    “I don’t think they’ve caught anyone,
right?” she asks, saving me.
    “No, that’s what I hear on the news
anyway.”
    She smiles awkwardly, as if the tidbit
of information, only this side of polite conversation, is somehow
disturbing. A car goes by and it startles her. She squeals in a
very appealing fashion.
    “I’m sorry,” she says. “A little
nervous, I guess. This thing has got me spooked.”
    “It’s understandable,” I say. “People
have been killed.”
    “What do you think it’s all about? I
mean, who’s doing this?” She laughs nervously.
    “Well, if I knew that, my book would
be very short and I would go to the police right away.” She laughs
again, this time more relaxed.
    “I guess maybe I just lack
imagination or something,” she says. “I mean, I work in a library,
and I read a lot of books, mysteries even, but I can’t even begin
to imagine who the killer is, what kind of man—what kind of person , I guess—what kind
of person would do something like this.”
    I finally have a chance to examine her
more closely as she looks around, as if for her next halting
sentence, as if for the murderer, and the thing that strikes me is
that she is a jumble of contrasts. An elegant black jacket, but
shabby shoes; a bad haircut, but makeup applied with subtlety and
meticulousness.
    “Listen,” I say, sounding more
imperious than I intend. “Are you going to be in on Saturday, at
the library?”
    She nods.
    “Perhaps after my research we could go
get a coffee or something and discuss the case. Not that I know
anything in particular, but I think that it might be interesting to
exchange thoughts.”
    “That would be wonderful.”
    I look at my watch, crudely, I am
afraid, and for no particular reason, and she takes the unintended
cue.
    “You’re busy, but it’s been nice
talking to you and I’ll see you on Saturday. I’m there from nine to
four.”
    She walks away resolutely at first,
determined, but after about ten metres she turns to see whether I
am still there, still watching her. Her eyes go down to the ground
then and she turns back around very quickly and makes her way down
the street. I sense an odd—what to call it?—victory, as if I have
won this particular battle.
     

Chapter 4
     
    I take a break from this
necessary but awful research, and walk along that same lake where
Ryan and Jack used to walk in more civilized times. It’s early
evening and the water is an unnatural shade of steel grey, calm and
ominous. Novice jogger with flabby legs and bad technique. A couple
whispering to each other on a rock. A family gathered around a
woman in a wheelchair, some respite from whatever she is being
cared for at the hospital across the street. There’s enough wind
blowing to keep those gaggles of flies from gathering, but not
enough