The Art of Violence

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.
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... he said, “Aren't you going to tell me I'm not the serial killer type?”

“I don't know that.”

“I guess in some weird way that's a compliment.”

“It's not. Why did you come here, Sam? Anyone else, I might think he was trying to impress me, but not you.”

“I'm not the type?” A sly smile.

“I hope you didn't come for help leaving town, laying low, something like that. If you killed those women, you know I'm going to have to turn you in.”

“Good luck.”

“I have the guns,” I reminded him.

“You won't need them but they won't help. I already tried it.”

“Tried what?”

“Turning myself in. The detective told me to get lost. She said I wasn't the type.

THE ART OF VIOLENCE

did

By now, it was half past eight. Traffic choked the streets, and pedestrians wove complex patterns on the sidewalks. All traces of last night's mist had burned away under the April sun. The slanting whiteness of the light, the thin freshness of the day, dazzled me.

Lydia's suggested any number of times that I consider changing my ways, getting up earlier, taking this in more often. She thinks it's laziness and old habs that keep me from it. But she's wrong. This unsullied light, this bright vision, they're beautiful, but they're false. They paint over the truth. They promise something they can't deliver. It's not until the day gets older, wearier, that it stops making the effort to lie.

Yet again, the angel on my right shoulder told me to call Grimaldi, and the guy on the other side said I'd get more accomplished on my own. The right-side guy wanted to know if this was about getting things accomplished, or if it was personal. The left-side guy told him to guess.

THE ART OF VIOLENCE

The Art of Violence

* Okay, I pegged the guilty party pretty early on, but not all the whys and hows involved. This is about the journey Bill and Lydia take to get the answers, more than it is the puzzle. Either way, the book scored pretty high on those).