Chapter Three Written In Red
The agents were at the Zwingli house with a CSI tech named Jett Edgecombe. Jett was yet another blond, who seemed way too into his work for his own good.
"The Russian enters here. Excuse me. He comes around here. He waits for her, expecting her to come in alone. Only thing, her friend Lukasiewicz chose the wrong night to come over for a Richard Gere and ice cream orgy. So the Russian zaps them both with his trusty gun and...excuse me...grabs a five iron from the bag here and BAM! Crushes Lukasiewicz's skull. Then takes his sweet time dealing with Lili how he likes. She's a nice athletic girl, so unless he's pretty strong, I guess he grabbed her by the arms…" Acting out the scene to the best of his ability.
Jones wandered at this point to where Lili was killed. We see the blood stain on the bed and the smiley face on the wall.
Jones is before an audience, who are all quiet and motionless. Cameras are all on him.
"He says that he's sorry for all the pain he caused you and your mother. Deeply sorry. He asks you to forgive him. Can you do that, Katyusha? He needs to hear it."
Katyusha was weeping and nodding.
Katyusha sighed, "I forgive you, Daddy. I forgive you."
"Oh, yes. He's smiling now. here are tears of joy. He says God bless you and keep you. He's gone." Jones came out of his trance and took a seat with Toris and Elizabeta, the talk show hosts, as the audience claps.
Elizabeta smiled laughing, "Amazing. Amazing. Amazing."
Toris laughed, too, "She's amazed. Alfred."
"One second."
"Give him some time, Toris."
"Absolutely. Come on back to us."
Alfred looks somber, "I'm back. Thank you." he smiles lightly.
Elizabeta grins, "He's back." She laughs.
"So, Alfred, I understand that you're also sort of a paranormal detective. Is that right?"
Alfred shrugs, "I try to help the police when I can."
"And you're helping them hunt this scary serial killer what's his name?"
"The Russian." Elizabeta supplies.
"The Russian." Toris amends.
Edgecombe was still about to have an orgasm as he goes over the crime scene, "There she blows. The classic Red John smiley face. Drawn in the victim's blood clockwise with three fingers of his right hand wearing a rubber kitchen glove. I'm stoked to finally see one in the flesh."
"This isn't the Russian." Alfred said bluntly.
Edgecombe rolled his eyes. "Ri-i-ight." he said sarcastically.
Alfred sighed, "The Russian thinks of himself as a showman, an artist. He has a strong sense of theater. In all of the previous killing, he made sure that the first thing that anyone sees is the face on the wall. You see the face first and you know. You know what's happened and you feel dread. Then, and only then, do you see the body of the victim. Always in that order. Here it's the opposite. The first thing you see is the body and you have to look around to see the face on the wall." He explains, "It doesn't play nearly as well, does it?"
Kirkland looks disturbed, "Depends on your taste, I suppose."
"No. Come on." said Alfred, trying to prove his point. "The killer could have painted on the correct wall, here. But he didn't because he didn't know better because he isn't the Russian."
Edgecombe still didn't buy it, "Wow. Interesting."
"You know what your problem is, my friend?" Alfred said, getting in Jett's face, "You enjoy your work a little too much. You're a ghoul. If you don't get horny reading Fangoria, I'm Britney Spears."
Edgecombe became both angry and humiliated, "I resent that!"
Kirkland glared at Arthur, "This is you trying to redeem yourself, it is?"
Alfred bit back a retort, "I'm sorry. He irks me. He's irksome. You don't need me here." Alfred pointed towards Edgecombe as he left.
