The Fourth Monkey: A twisted thriller you won’t be able to put down. J.D. Barker

nodded. “Maybe they’re not his. We should dust them for prints.”

      Nash glanced at Eisley, then around the room. “Do you have a … never mind — I got it.” He hurried over to another counter and returned with a fingerprint kit. With expert precision, he powdered the shoes. “Bingo.”

      “Lift them and send them to the lab. Make sure they understand how urgent this is,” Porter said.

      “On it.”

      Porter turned back to Eisley. “Anything else?”

      Eisley frowned. “What? The drug evidence isn’t enough for you?”

      “That’s not —”

      “There is one other thing.”

      He led Porter to the other side of the body and picked up the man’s right hand. Porter tried not to look into the gaping hole in his chest.

      “I found a small tattoo,” Eisley told him. He pointed at a small black spot on the man’s inner wrist. “I think it’s the number eight.”

      Porter leaned in. “Or an infinity symbol.” He pulled out his phone and snapped a picture.

      “It’s fresh. See the redness? He got it less than a week ago.”

      Porter tried to make sense of it all. “Could be some kind of religious thing. He was dying.”

      “I’ll leave the detecting to you detectives,” Eisley said.

      Porter lifted the edge of the white cloth covering the head. The material peeled away with a sound not unlike Velcro.

      “I’m going to try and reconstruct his face.”

      “Yeah? You think you can do that?” Porter asked.

      “Well, not me,” Eisley confessed. “I’ve got a friend who works at the Museum of Science and Industry. She specializes in this sort of thing — old remains and such. She spent the last six years restoring the remains of an Illiniwek tribe discovered downstate near McHenry County. She normally works with skull and bone fragments, nothing this … fresh. But I think she can do it. I put in a call.”

      “She, huh?” Nash chimed in. “Did you make a lady friend?” He finished with the shoes and packed up the fingerprint kit. “I’ve got six partials and at least three full thumbs. Three thumbprints, I should say. I don’t mean to imply our unsub has three thumbs, although that would make him a lot easier to identify. I’m going to walk these down. Do you want to regroup in the war room? Maybe an hour? I’ll check in with the captain too.”

      Porter thought of the diary in his pocket. An hour sounded good.

       16

       Diary

      Mother saw me, but I did not run away. I knew I should go. I knew this was a private moment, something not meant for my eyes, but I kept watching anyway. I don’t think I could have stopped even if I wanted to. I stayed next to that tree until Mother and Mrs. Carter disappeared from view. More accurately, they sank from view, whether to the bed or the floor, I was not sure.

      Beneath me, my bucket wobbled. I wobbled. My legs felt like Jell-O. Wiggle waggle! My heart thudded with a parade cadence. I’ll tell you, it was exhilarating to say the least!

      I found myself so ensconced in this activity, I didn’t hear Mr. Carter’s car drive past our house. It wasn’t until it crunched down the gravel driveway next door that I took notice. Mrs. Carter must have heard the car then too. Like a groundhog on the last day of winter, her head popped up in the window frame, her breasts bouncing, her mouth open in a gasp. She spotted me the same moment I saw her. There was nothing to do, I froze looking back at her. She turned and shouted something, and then my mother appeared. She did not look out at me.

      Both disappeared from the window.

      Mr. Carter’s car door slammed. He was never home at such an hour. Normally he did not return from work until after five, about the same time as my father. He saw me standing next to the tree, perched high on my bucket, and gave me a puzzled glance. I waved. He did not wave back. Instead, he bounded up his front walk and disappeared into his house.

      A moment later Mrs. Carter walked briskly out our front door and crossed the lawn, her hands smoothing her dress as she went. She gave me a quick glance as she passed. I offered her a howdy-do, but she did not reciprocate. When she entered her own house, she did so with caution, closing the front door ever so softly behind her.

      I jumped down off my bucket and followed her.

      I wouldn’t call myself a nosy child. I was curious, that’s all. So I crossed over to the Carters’ lawn without a second thought. I was halfway to their driveway when I heard the slap.

      There was no mistaking that particular sound. My father was a firm believer in discipline, and he had brought his hand to my backside on more than one occasion. Without going into detail, I am willing to admit I deserved a good whack or two on each and every one of those occasions, and I hold no ill will toward him for doing so. That sound was well-known to me, and after being on the receiving end (no pun intended) I also recognized the quick scream that followed such pain.

      When Mrs. Carter cried out immediately following the slap, I realized that Mr. Carter had hit her. Another slap quickly followed, then another sharp yelp.

      I reached Mr. Carter’s car. The engine still made a steady tick, tick, tick. Heat floated above the hood, and exhaust filled the air.

      Mr. Carter crashed through the front door as I stood beside his car. “What the fuck are you doing out here?” he growled, before pushing past me and walking across the lawn toward my house.

      Mrs. Carter appeared in the doorway but stopped at the threshold. She held a damp towel to the side of her face. Her right eye was puffy, pink, and teary. When she noticed me, her lips trembled. “Don’t let him hurt your mother,” she whispered.

      Mr. Carter reached our kitchen door and pounded the frame with his fist. I found it odd that it was closed. Nearly every summer day, the door was opened in the morning and remained that way until late into the night, with only the screen door to keep Mother Nature’s creatures out of the house. Mother must have —

      I spotted Mother standing in a side window. She glared at Mr. Carter on our back stoop.

      “Open the door, you fucking cunt!” he shouted. “Open the goddamn door!”

      Mother watched him but remained still.

      I started back toward the house, and her hand shot up, motioning for me to stay put. I stopped in my tracks, unsure of what I should do. Looking back, I see it was naive of me to believe I could do much of anything. Mr. Carter was a large man, maybe even bigger than Father. If I attempted to stop him in any way, he would swat me as if I were an annoying fly buzzing around his head.

      “You think you can turn my wife into your own personal rug cleaner?” He banged at the door. “I knew it, I fucking knew it, you insatiable little cunt. I knew something was going on. Always over at your house. Smelling of your stink. I tasted you on her, you know that? Believe it. I sure as shit could. Now I think you owe me. A tit for tat. Or how about a tit for a twat — if I dumb it down, does it make more sense to you? There’s consequences, you little bitch. There’s payment due. Nothing in this world is free!”

      Mother disappeared from the window.

      Mrs. Carter began to sob behind me.

      Mr. Carter turned and shook an angry finger at her. “Shut the fuck up!” His face burned bright red. Sweat glistened on his brow. “Don’t think I’m done with you. When I finish up over here, you and I are going to have a long, hard talk. Believe