“Go on.”
He did.
“It starts with me seeing her, having some sort of contact with her somewhere. Maybe I’m coming to her house, selling something or delivering flowers, and when she comes to the door, that little voice in my head says, ’This is the one.’ Maybe I’m doing construction in the neighborhood and see her coming and going alone. I fix on her. I might follow her for as long as a week, learning as much about her, about her habits, as possible. Like what lights left on means she’s up, what lights off means she’s asleep, what her car looks like.”
“Why her?” I asked. “Of all the women in the world, why this one?”
He briefly considered this. “She sets something off in me.”
“Because of the way she looks?”
He was still thinking. “Maybe. But maybe it’s her attitude. She’s a working woman. Got a pretty nice crib, meaning she’s smart enough to earn a decent living. Sometimes career women are snooty. Maybe I didn’t like the way she treated me. Maybe she assaulted my masculinity, like I’m not good enough for her or something.”
“All of the victims are career women,” I said, adding, “but then, most women who live alone work.”
“That’s right. And I’m going to know she lives alone, going to make sure of it, going to think I’m sure of it, anyway. I’m going to fix her, show her who’s got the power. The weekend comes and I’m feeling like doing it. So I get in the car late, after midnight. I’ve already cased the area, have the whole scenario planned. Yeah. I might leave my car in the Safeway parking lot, but the problem is it’s after hours. The lot’s going to be empty, meaning my ride’s going to stick out like a sore thumb. Now, it just so happens there’s an Exxon station on the same corner as the grocery store. Me, I’d probably leave my car there. Why? Because the service station closes at ten and you expect to see cars waiting for repairs left in service station lots after hours. No one’s going to think twice about it, not even the cops, and that’s who I’m most worried about. Some cop on patrol seeing my car in an empty parking lot and maybe checking it out or calling in a ten-twenty-eight to find out who owns it.”
He described in chilling detail every move. Dressed in dark clothing, he stayed in the shadows as he walked through the neighborhood. When he got to this address his adrenaline began to pump as he realized the woman, whose name he probably did not know, was home. Her car was in the drive. All the lights, except the porch light, were out. She was asleep.
Taking his time, he stayed out of sight as he assessed the situation. He looked around, making sure no one spotted him, then went around to the back of the house where he began to feel a surge of confidence. He was invisible from the street, and the houses one row over are an acre away, the lights out, not a sign of anybody stirring. It was pitch dark in back.
Quietly, he approached the windows and immediately noted the one open. It was simply a matter of running a knife through the screen and releasing the latches inside. Within seconds, the screen was off and on the grass. He slid the window open, pulled himself up and found himself staring at the shadowy shapes of kitchen appliances.
“Once inside,” Marino was saying, “I stand still for a minute, listening. Once satisfied I don’t hear nothing, I find the hallway and start looking for the room where she’s at. A crib small as this,” a shrug, “and there aren’t too many possibilities. I find the bedroom right off and can hear her sleeping inside. By now I got something over my head, a ski mask, for example . . .”
“Why bother?” I asked. “She isn’t going to live to identify you.”
“Hairs. Hey, I ain’t stupid. I probably pick forensic science books for bedtime reading, probably have memorized all the cops’ ten codes. No chance anybody’s going to be finding my hairs on her or anywhere else.”
“If you’re so smart”—now I was the one baiting him—“why aren’t you worried about DNA? Don’t you read the newspapers?”
“Well, I’m not going to wear no damn rubber. And you aren’t ever going to develop me as a suspect because I’m too damn slick. No suspect, no comparison, and your DNA hocus-pocus isn’t worth a dime. Hairs are a little more personal. You know, maybe I don’t want you to know if I’m black or white, a blond or a redhead.”
“What about fingerprints?”
He smiled. “Gloves, babe. The same as you wear when you’re examining my victims.”
“Matt Petersen wasn’t wearing gloves. If he had been, he wouldn’t have left his prints on his wife’s body.”