“Damn good to see you,” he said to Slipper, a short, pudgy man who always reeked of cologne and had a taste for slick designer suits that he got dirt cheap at a local men’s discount shop.
“Shit,” Slipper said as he probed the trash bag and blank envelope with a Kel light. “This is really weird.”
“You got any gloves handy?” Andy asked.
“Sure.” Slipper pulled a pair of surgical gloves out of a pocket.
Andy put them on and tugged the envelope off the door. It was sealed, and he slit it open with a pocket knife. Inside was a Polaroid photograph, and Andy and Slipper were stunned as the flashlight revealed a shocking image of Trish Thrash’s nude, bloody body at Belle Island. Slipper nudged the trash bag with his foot.
“Shit,” he said. “Feels like clothes in there.”
He opened the bag and carefully pulled out a black leather biker’s jacket, jeans, panties, a bra, and a T-shirt with the logo of what appeared to be a Richmond women’s softball team. The clothing appeared to have been cut with a razor blade and was stiff with dried blood.
“Christ,” Andy said as he broke out in a cold sweat and thought of what had been carved on the murdered woman’s body. “I got no idea what’s going on here, Joe.”
Slipper quietly and somberly returned to his car and got out evidence bags and tape. He sealed everything inside paper bags and suggested he and Andy talk, neither of them having any idea that Unique was hiding in the shadows across the street, watching the entire drama.
“How about we sit in your car?” Andy suggested because he didn’t want Slipper inside his cluttered dining-room office with its research materials on Jamestown, Isle of Dogs, pirates, mummies, photographs of Popeye, and all the rest.
“Sure.” Slipper shrugged, slightly puzzled. “What? You hiding a woman in there?”
“I wish,” Andy replied. “Nope. It’s just the place is a friggin’ mess and I’d rather not be distracted at the moment. If you feel better coming inside, that’s fine, of course. You can even search the place if you want.”
“Hell, no, Andy,” Slipper said. “Shit. I got no probable cause to search your house, even if you give me permission. Come on. Let’s go sit in that piece of shit the city gives me to drive.”
“I don’t know what the hell is going on, Joe,” Andy kept saying.
“Well, I do,” Slipper answered as they climbed inside his old unmarked Ford LTD and shut the doors. “It certainly looks like our killer left this shit and is jerking us around. You know, I worked that fucking scene, and it’s obvious to me the photo was taken before we got there. Not to mention, when we responded, there was no sign of her clothes, and we searched the entire island.”
Andy was in turmoil. Did the killer somehow know that he was Trooper Truth? Is that why Trooper Truth was carved on the body and now evidence was left at
Andy’s house? But how could anyone except Hammer possibly know the real identity of Trooper Truth? It made no sense, and Andy feared that if he openly discussed the situation with Slipper, the detective would tell other cops and Andy’s literary career would be over and Hammer would be fired by the governor. Worst of all, Andy might become the prime suspect.
“Jesus Christ,” he said with a frustrated sigh. “Joe, let me tell you right off, I had nothing to do with this case. 1 never heard of the victim until you called Hammer earlier today. I’d never seen the victim, and I sure as hell didn’t murder her or anyone, if that’s what you’re even remotely entertaining, and I think we should be really honest with each other, Joe.”
“Damn right we’ll be honest,” Slipper replied, staring out the windshield at the dark, empty street, and Andy could tell by Slipper’s refusal to look him in the eye that the detective didn’t know what to think and was, in fact, suspicious.
“Do you know anything about Trooper Truth?” Slipper asked.
“I know the name was carved on her body, because you told Hammer and she told me,” Andy said. “Certainly, I know about Trooper Truth’s website, just like everybody else does.”