I Hunt Killers Read Online Free

penitentiary. He’d had no visitors other than his lawyer in that whole time.
    When the original devil couldn’t do the crime, who did you look at next? His son, of course. If Jazz didn’t know for certain that he wasn’t involved in this murder, he would have pointed the finger ( ha, ha ) at himself. It made complete sense that the son of the local serial killer would kill someone. But just because it made sense didn’t make the thought any easier to bear.
    “Th-that,” he stammered, “is over the line. I learned a lot from Billy, and I can use that to—”
    “You go skulking around a crime scene, spying on me and my people. You march into my office and violate my privacy by reading my personal notes,” G. William said, ticking points off on his fingers as he went. Jazz couldn’t help thinking of the severed finger in its pristine plastic evidence bag, just sitting there like leftovers. “I could probably bring you up on some kind of charge, if I wanted to take five minutes to think about it. Demanding I let you in on a case, which would be highly improper, even if you weren’t a kid, and even if you weren’t Billy Dent’s kid.” He had lost track of the counting—his whole right hand was splayed out. “All those reasons, Jazz, and plenty more. All of them say I won’t let you help out.”
    “Come on! You bring in experts all the—”
    “You’re an expert all of a sudden?”
    Jazz leaned in and they met over the desk, almost bumping into each other. G. William’s mustache and jowls quivered.
    “I know things,” Jazz said in his strongest voice.
    “You know too much and not enough,” the sheriff said, so softly that it caught Jazz off-guard.
    “What are you saying?”
    “I’m saying”—deep breath—“you learned a lot from him, but you want to be careful you don’t act too much like your daddy, now don’t you?”
    Jazz glared at him, then wheeled around and stomped out of the office, slamming the door behind him as he went.
    “Let me do this my way!” G. William called through the closed door. “That’s my job. Your job is to try to be normal!”
    “Um, Jasper,” Lana said nervously as he flew past her desk. “Uh, good-bye?”
    He didn’t even realize he’d ignored her until he was next to the Jeep, seething. He kicked the bumper with the flat of his foot; it complained with a metallic, grinding squeal and threatened to drop off.
    I’ll show you what I learned from my father , he thought.

CHAPTER 3
    Whenever Jazz needed to do something risky or vaguely illegal, he made sure to bring Howie along. This did not endear him to Howie’s parents, but if Jazz wanted to stay as human as possible, it was necessary: Howie kept Jazz close to the line of safety and legality. That’s because Howie was Jazz’s best (and only) friend. And also because Howie was so fragile that Jazz had to hold back in his presence.
    Howie Gersten was a type-A hemophiliac, which meant that he bled if you looked at him too hard. The two had met when they were younger, when Jazz had come across Howie being tormented by a trio of older kids who weren’t quite stupid enough to cause any serious harm, but who reveled in poking at Howie’s exposed arms, then chortling over the bruises that blossomed almost immediately. Howie’s arms had taken on an almost lizardlike appearance, with overlapping bruises of blue and purple that looked like scales.
    Jazz had been smaller than the other kids, younger, and they outnumbered him three to one, but even then—at the age of ten—Jazz had a rudimentary understanding of some of the more important weak spots in the human body. He’d sent the older kids packing with their own fine collection of bruises, including a couple of black eyes and fat lips, as well as one knee sprained just right—it would plague the kid for months. For his troubles, Jazz earned himself a bloody nose and an undying, unstinting friendship.
    And the kind of friend who would come along when you had