35

Piper rushed to the station. She went to the Dungeon and then the detective’s bureau but couldn’t find Lazarus.

The space was buzzing with activity. Small groups of officers mulled around and whispered about who the media had already dubbed the Creeper, because of his living in the homes of the victims before attacking them.

Lazarus entered the detective bureau, where a few detectives approached to offer their congratulations. He exchanged handshakes with a couple of them, looking massively uncomfortable, before making his way through the crowd. Eventually, he spotted Piper and headed over to her.

“What are you doing here?”

“You kidding me?” she said. “It’s all over the news. They’re calling him the Creeper.”

A detective came by and said a quick comment about the good work Lazarus had done, and they shook hands.

“Let’s get outta here,” Lazarus said. “I’ve had enough glad-handing.”

They went down to the Dungeon. The lights were off, and Lazarus turned only half of them on. He sat down at his desk. Piper noticed more photos and bits of evidence taped to the board. Red, blue, and green marker-scribbled notes took up the white spaces in between.

Piper sat down.

“How’d the media find out already?” she said.

“They pay for tips. And I have a feeling I know which detectives tipped ’em.”

She crossed her arms as she watched him. “Did you interview him?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“Not much.”

“How are you sure he stayed in the victims’ homes?” Piper asked.

“The second CSI sweep turned up signs of someone staying in the crawl space, attic, even inside the walls. I bet we’d have found the same at the Mitchells’ cabin, if we’d looked closer initially.”

“Did he say why he did it?”

“No.”

Piper took a moment, absorbing the information. “So, he was living in their homes ... watching them?”

He nodded. “Seems like an extreme form of voyeurism.”

“What kind of person does that?”

“I’ll show you.”

Piper followed Lazarus up to the holding tank on the first floor. They had to go through metal detectors, and Lazarus stopped to chat with a watch commander.

The holding tanks were a series of cells to temporarily hold defendants who were traveling from the jail or prison to the courthouse or station. The cells were small but clean, with steel sinks and toilets. A cot that always had to be made if the prisoner wasn’t sleeping. No decorations were allowed.

In the last cell, Owen Whittaker sat on the edge of the bunk and stared at the empty wall.

She had to swallow because her throat felt dry.

He was shorter and thinner than her, but something about him made him loom larger than he was. The revulsion she felt tasted like rancid milk in her mouth.

Owen slowly turned his head and saw her.

He slid his tongue out of his mouth and onto his cracked and bleeding lips.

Lazarus said, “He’ll have a lawyer soon, so if you wanna talk to him, now’s the time.”

Piper watched him a moment.

“I have nothing to say to him,” she spit before heading back to the elevators.