Page 39 of Midnight Creed

“I also found an excellent thumbprint on the interior of the right glove cuff. He probably left it there when he was pulling on the gloves.”

Kuszak lifted her hands to demonstrate, letting the cuffs of her lab coat sag to her elbow. The sleeves of her lab coat were too long and rolled up. That’s when Maggie noticed that the shoulders hit off the mark, too. The coat was a size too big, but it didn’t seem to bother Kuszak. Nor did it deter her confidence.

“When you pull on the first glove,” she demonstrated the process, “your other is still barehanded. Most people don’t think about that. Even if they’re being careful. You leave fingerprints on the glove. On the outside, they’re usually smeared. Mostly useless. But on the inside, the thumbprint was well preserved. I haven’t had time to enter what I’ve processed into AFIS.”

The Automated Fingerprint Identification System would only be helpful if the prints belonged to someone already in the system. Maggie had tracked other serial killers who had started their criminal careers committing other crimes like burglary and arson before accelerating to rape or murder. So, it was possible he was already in the system.

“Were any prints recovered at the other crime scene?” Tully asked.

Racine shook her head. She didn’t even check her file.

Maggie looked over at Tully and Gwen. Tully scribbled notes on the back of what looked like a greasy takeout receipt. Gwen caught her eyes and subtly raised one eyebrow, then flashed her eyes to Kuszak.

Gwen was impressed. So was Maggie.

27

Washington D.C.

Peter Gregory studied the glossy magazine photo. Ever since he’d discovered the five-page article, he’d spent hours reading over the information and examining all the accompanying photos. Originally, he’d found it on-line then immediately hunted for a physical copy. Not a simple task these days when very few places still sold magazines.

Every time he sat and read and scrutinized, it surprised him how much emotion he did not feel. It was as if he was staring at a stranger, a life and home he couldn’t relate to no matter how much he tried.

To be fair, it had been almost eight years since he had visited. And that was only to stand on a hilltop in the cemetery and watch them put his brother into the ground.

Oh, there had always been invitations after that. Though they came less frequently these days. However, one arrived about a month ago. It came via email to an account he rarely checked. He didn’t need to pull out a copy to remember. He had the words memorized:

The holidays are coming.

It would be nice if you could join us.

The holidays.

Wasn’t that sweet of her? The email came about two weeks before Thanksgiving. How kind and sentimental from a woman who was neither.

Christmas music played overhead in the diner. He’d taken a booth in the back where he could stare at his magazine, eat his sandwich, drink coffee and not be bothered.

Their last Christmas as a family, his father had given him a Jedi lightsaber and a stack of Marvel comic books. He smiled at the thought of his ten-year-old self running around the backyard in the dark waving that lightsaber. He loved his father. Still did.

His mother didn’t approve of the gifts. She told his father he shouldn’t encourage the boy to make up stories and enjoy so much fantasy. It would make him a liar, or worse—a dreamer like his father.

It didn’t matter what she said. His father embraced what he called their creativity and inventiveness.

“You can’t silence a soul.” That was one of his favorite comebacks.

He and his father were the geeks of the family, direct contrasts to his mother and little brother. They’d quote lines of movies or books to each other. His father quoted Emily Dickinson to him when he suspected his son was feeling down about being different:

I’m Nobody! Who are you?

Are you nobody, too?

Then there’s a pair of us—don’t tell!

They’d banish us, you know.

Gregory remembered climbing into the treehouse his dad had built for his sons. Mickey rarely used it, off to football practice or baseball or whatever the season. So Gregory had it all to himself. He’d read for hours. Spiderman dancing under the flashlight beam. Sometimes he pretended he didn’t hear his mother yelling for him to come in.

Holidays after his father passed were just hollow attempts, a sad ritual of going through the motions. To compensate, his mother showered them with gifts. None of them were close to anything he wanted or cared about. They were always something she believed he should want: an expensive leather baseball glove; a chemistry set; or collared, button-up shirts to replace his Star Wars and Marvel T-shirts.