Page 57 of Girl, Reborn

Inside Ella's skull, synapses crackledlike downed power lines. Neurons fired faster than a junkie with the shakes.And shining bright as a supernova through the mental shitstorm, a single word:

Signature.

Every serial killer had one. An element ofthe crime that didn’t need to be present but was.

And if you figured out the signature, youcould figure out the person behind it.

From deep in the morass of memory, ahundred half-forgotten historical cases bubbled to the surface.

Smearer, '87. Taxidermist who posed vicslike hunting trophies; used his embalming kit for the wet work.

Choker, '92. Garroted streetwalkers withpiano wire kept their vocal cords as sick souvenirs, buried beneath the familySteinway.

Scrapbook, '98. Soccer mom by day,scrapbooking psycho by night; pasted her victim's obituaries into an album,annotated with cutesy stickers and sparkly gel pen.

Every one of those psychopaths had asignature. A calling card. Some crucial piece of themselves they just couldn'thelp weaving into their twisted games.

And here she was, staring this unsub’ssignature right in the face.

The killer was drowning his victims in agiant water clock.

That’s why the perfect timing. That’s whythe strange smell – because this killer is reusing the same water every time.Water that had squeezed the life out of three people, and judging by themidnight hour closing in, soon to be a fourth.

Ella's molars ground together liketectonic plates, the pressure in her skull mounting to migraine levels. Thishunk of junk was the linchpin, the masterstroke in a symphony of murder. Buthow did it help her find her unsub?

She whirled on Clyde, advancing on himlike a thunderhead rolling in. ‘Clyde, you said you knew everything about thisclock.’

‘I do,’ the busker said.’

‘Who made it?’

Clyde's tongue darted out. ‘Uh, well, Idon’t know the person myself, but I know of ‘em.’

‘I don’t care if they’re on your Christmaslist. I need a name.’

‘Lemme see... Sawyer. Yeah, that's it.Riley Sawyer. Local artiste, fancied themselves some kinda deep thinker. Allabout the 'hidden meanings' and such. I don’t really-’

'Riley Sawyer.' Ella interrupted. Sherolled the name around her mouth, tasting its shape. 'This Sawyer character.Are they still breathing? More importantly, they live nearby?'

Clyde scratched at his scraggly beard.‘Yeah, yeah, I reckon so. Got a little place up on Hangman's Hill, last Iheard. One of them commune shacks from the hippie days.’

Hangman'sHill.Sounded about as inviting as a proctology exam with a cactus. But if RileySawyer was there, so was Ella. With bells on and an arrest warrant in hand.

‘Much obliged, Clyde. You might've justhelped catch a killer. Drinks are on me if I make it outta this alive.’

Ella rushed back to her car, pulled outher phone and punched Luca’s number with fingers that itched to be wrappedaround a killer’s throat instead. The line rang once, twice, three times.

‘Come on, rookie,’ she growled, ‘pick upthe damn-‘

‘Hawkins,’ Luca’s voice came through.

‘I got a name. Riley Sawyer. Lives up onHangman's Hill. I need an exact address, and I need it five minutes ago.’

The sound of furious typing filled theline. ‘Hangman’s Hill. Who names these places?’

‘Less commentary, more address-finding.’

‘Got it,’ Luca said. ‘Riley Sawyer, livesat 13 Gallows Road. Ten minutes from the town square if you obey traffic laws.’

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