Then I take one step back and hold up my badge.

“Who is it?” a voice calls through the door. It’s a thick door, or he was sleeping and his voice is weak. Or he’s wary, as he should be when someone knocks on his door at ten o’clock at night, and the fear alters his voice.

“I’m a special investigator with the county attorney’s office, Mr. Drinker. We have a couple more questions to ask you. A couple things you told us on Wednesday.”

“What else do you want to know?”

“Do you want me to shout my questions to you in front of all your neighbors, or do you want to let me in? It’s your choice.”

My heartbeat kicks into full throttle. There could be anything awaiting me behind that door. He could have made my voice. He could be expecting me. He could have that butcher knife or any other kind of a weapon.

Which is why I’m glad I brought my gun.

Two locks unbolt, a total of four clicks. Then the door pops open a couple of inches, straining the rusted chain lock, still attached. I make sure that the first thing he sees is the badge, front and center in his narrow line of vision.

And I make sure that the first thing he feels is a blast against the door, sending him backward as I charge into the room, the chain lock snapping away easily.

Not the most original of moves, but he clearly wasn’t ready for it. He’s in the midst of completing an ungraceful fall backward onto the hardwood floor, his body rocking backward, feet in the air, his shirt rising up to reveal the beer gut, his flaming red hair everywhere on the floor. Hands are free. No weapon that I can see.

“Hi, James,” I say.

Long, kinky red hair, check. Spare tire in the midsection, check. Horn-rimmed glasses, check. Muscular build, not as toned as I would have thought, but I never saw him in a short-sleeved T-shirt.

He checks all the boxes.

But the face is wrong. From a distance, sure, the prominent features all check out. But his nose is bigger. His teeth are straighter. His eyes are smaller, his cheeks rounder.

“James Drinker?” I say.

“Who the hell are you? Don’t . . . What do you want to know? I didn’t do anything. I already told your cops.”

The voice is all wrong, too.

He sits up, his arm over his body. He took a hard fall and he’s scared out of his mind.

“I know you didn’t,” I say. “This is a misunderstanding. I’m sorry.” I fish a bunch of twenties out of my pocket. “That’s for the chain lock. And a few drinks, on me. I’m . . . I’m sorry.”

I turn for the door, my head buzzing. I played this out twenty different ways in my head, good outcomes and bad. I didn’t plan for this.

Whoever this guy is who walked into my law firm, and who has killed five women in this city, he isn’t James Drinker.

Who goes to an attorney’s office to confess his sins wearing a disguise, and with an assumed identity? I never saw that one coming.

Not a fake name, either—a real person, with a real apartment, a real job, a clean criminal record. And with distinctive features like blazing red hair and thick black glasses and a beer belly, all of which he could easily mimic, that he would be remembered for, and that, from a distance, would make the real James Drinker indistinguishable from the fake one. So if I happened to send someone to look in on James, my people would have every reason to think that the person they were tailing was the same person who walked into my law office.

Whoever he is, he’s smart. Smarter than I ever imagined.

I exit the building and start walking east on Townsend toward the big intersection, toward my car parked down the way.

He’s been watching James Drinker, I now realize. When the cops showed up at Higgins Auto Body the other day and put the real James Drinker into the back of a car and drove him down to headquarters for questioning, he was watching. And he knew Drinker had absolutely no connection to the murders of five women. He knew that the only way the cops would have his name is from me.

He’s probably watching me right now.

I stop and spin around on the sidewalk. I look in all directions. There is street noise, partiers on a weekend, cars passing at the busy intersection. He could be anywhere. He’s not going to be dumb enough to reveal himself to me right now.

He’s been playing me all along.

I’m back at square one. I have no idea who he is. I have no idea why he’s butchering young women. And I have no idea why he chose me.

But I have a feeling I’m about to find out.

PEOPLE VS. JASON KOLARICH

TRIAL, DAY 2

Tuesday, December 10

37.

Shauna

“The People call Detective Raymond Cromartie,” says Roger Ogren.

Some people just look like cops. Ray Cromartie is one of them. The confident swagger, thick nose, wary eyes, and crooked smile. He is a bit overweight, with jowls and a ruddy drinker’s complexion, a nick or two on his neck from shaving. His hair is wavy, the color of ash. He’s the kind of man who could be charming at the right moment, comforting to a child, and intimidating as hell with a bad guy. His cologne lingers with me even as he’s reached the witness stand and begun the introductory portion of his testimony.

Cromartie goes back over twenty years on the force, the last nine as a detective. Lightner, who knows all the cops, says he’s “good people,” which I’ve always thought was a stupid saying.

“I arrived about half past one in the morning, July thirty-first,” Cromartie says. “I spoke with Officer Garvin and then took a look at the crime scene myself.”

“And what were your initial impressions?” Ogren asks.

“I saw no indication of forced entry,” he says, right out of a TV show. They teach prosecutors nowadays to be aware of all of the criminal trials people see on TV, to understand what assumptions they’ll bring with them to the courtroom and what language they’re comfortable with. No sign of forced entry, Lieutenant! “I saw very little indication of a physical struggle, as you can see from the photographs. The second floor was relatively intact in terms of the furniture, things on top of the kitchen counters, that kind of thing.”

“What happened next, Detective?”

“I wanted to speak with the defendant. He was seated on the couch in the living room.”

“And did you speak with him?”

“I did. I made him aware of his Miranda rights. He indicated that he’d been given his warnings from Officer Garvin and that he was a defense attorney by trade and knew well his rights. I asked him if he was willing to speak with me. He said he was.”

“Describe the conversation.”

“I asked the defendant if he knew the victim. He said he did. He said her name was Alexa Himmel.”

Jason stirs, ever so slightly, at hearing Alexa’s name.

“Please continue, Detective.”

“I asked him who Alexa Himmel was to him. He said, ‘We’ve been seeing each other for several months.’”

He’s quoting Jason verbatim there, or at least claiming to. He has his reasons.

“I asked him if Ms. Himmel lived with him. He said that she spent a lot of time at his house and spent the night often, but she had her own house in Overton Ridge.”

“Okay. And what happened next?”

“I asked the defendant what happened tonight. He said he came home from work and found Ms. Himmel dead on the living room floor. He said he called 911 upon finding her. He said the Glock handgun belonged to him, but he didn’t kill her.”

“What did you say next, Detective?”