Part 45 (1/2)
She feels no pain.
She dies.
Epilogue.
(I).
The next morning, Kohls identified the killer's second to last victim as an electroph.o.r.esis technician named Wallace, who worked at the hospital's phlebotomy unit. In the bas.e.m.e.nt he found dozens of body parts. More body parts were detected via gasprobes in the back yard. In the killer's room, atop the dresser, was a small wooden cabinet. Tacked to the cabinet's interior door were newsclippings from several years ago, detailing the arraignment, trial, and conviction of Samuel Curtis Shade. Also detailed was the testimony of Kathleen Shade.
At the bottom of the box, congealed by karyolysis into a single ma.s.s, Kohls found close to a dozen severed male genitalia.
(II).
Spence didn't die. The .455 slug had broken his ribs and collapsed his right lung but a welltrained EMT crew managed to reinflate the lung and cessate the bleeding before the ambulance had even arrived at the hospital. Spence was promoted to the rank of captain, which didn't sit well with him because it would restrict his opportunity to work in the field. Kohls, however, who visited Spence on occasion, made an observation one evening.
”Hey, wouldn't you rather be a captain pus.h.i.+ng f.u.c.king paperwork than a lieutenant pus.h.i.+ng up f.u.c.kin' daisies?”
”Well, yeah,” Spence reflected.
(III).
”How are you feeling?” Kathleen Shade asked.
Spence sat inclined in the hospital bed, holding the phone to his ear. ”How do I feel? Like someone lowered a drawbridge on my chest. And that bullet I took? Ruined over $800 worth of clothes.”
”Buy cheaper clothes.”
Spence was aghast. ”Me? No way.”
In the background he thought he heard a television; it sounded like a baseball game. A disgruntled male voice yelled several times, ”G.o.dd.a.m.n Yankees! You call that a pitch?”
”I read in the papers that you got promoted,” Kathleen said.
”Yeah, but I might resign. I don't know if I want to be a cop anymore.”
”I can't imagine you being anything else.”
Spence thought about that. He wasn't sure what he wanted. He wasn't sure if he'd ever know. ”How is Platt?” he asked.
”Oh, he's fine, but I think his team is losing. We're thinking about getting married.”
”Good. I'm happy for you.” Spence genuinely was. ”Can I come to the wedding?”
”Sure, but you have to promise not to make a spectacle of yourself.”
”You have my word. Just make sure no one parks in the church firelane, 'cos I'll have 'em towed.”
”Somehow, I believe that.”
Spence fidgeted. His chest itched. ”Are you still going to write the book?”
”A militantfeminist opportunist like me? Of course.”
”I never meant any of that stuff, you know.”
”Don't tell me that, Spence. You'll ruin my conception of you.”