LITMIR.BIZ

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SK hadn’t killed every year, but in the years he did kill, his rampages always began on March 20th.

      Early on, the press had coined him, “The Spring Equinox Killer.” The equinox falls on the 20th for three consecutive years then on the 21st after a leap year. He didn’t kill the first year it fell on the 21st, but the next time it rolled around, he did. The equinox theory was blown, but by then the press, with their dedication to expeditious tag lines, had already shortened his title, first to, “The Spring Killer,” then finally, “The SK.”

      In my mind, SK stood for “serial killer,” and for me there was only one: The SK.

      For all his kills, there had never been a human eyewitness, never a survivor. The SK seemed to choose his victims with complete randomness. For all I knew, he threw a dart at a map, but there had to be something — there always was.

      I returned to my files again and again looking for patterns. I had thought I’d found a sequence of Fibonacci numbers running through his kills, but that pattern broke the same year the equinox theory was disproved. I’d looked for shapes within the pushpins that marked each of his kills on my map. I cross referenced those with thousands of symbols, but found nothing cohesive. Only the start date and the three round burst had stayed consistent, and I could do no more than speculate at the meaning behind the trinity theme.

      In his early years he’d killed in daylight in the more remote areas, but he’d evolved into a predominately night hunter. The distances he shot from ranged between seventy-five to two hundred and ten yards. He’d killed in urban, rural, and deep wilderness environments. During the years he did kill, he’d strike then disappear for weeks or months before killing again in some distant location.

      Except once.

      The SK had gone dormant for two full years then came out with a vengeance for his tenth and final year of killing. That last year became the bloodiest on record with a total of fifteen victims.

      It had begun on March 20th in the Gila National Forest in New Mexico. He didn’t disappear that time. He’d shown up two days later, mere miles from his Gila victim, in the outskirts of a little town called Pinos Altos, and there he killed a man who thought he was safe inside his home.

      I opened my sketchbook. It was filled with rudimentary sketches of the visions I’d collected from the animals over the years, and notes to indicate the crime scenes they were related to. Until today, the SK hadn’t been much more than a stationary shadow, a silhouette, a Hitchcock cameo.

      I got a charcoal pencil and began to sketch the bearded jaw line that Fox had shown me. I sketched the shape of his arm, his boot print, and his outline when he’d peeked out from behind the tree. I made a note beside the latter, “Egress — checking truck.” He’d been making his getaway after the murder, but he’d had the presence of mind to stop and verify that the security of his ride hadn’t been compromised in his absence.

      My eyes returned to the sketch of the bearded jaw. All I needed was for one animal to see him, a clear facial view, and I’d have him.Well, I’d still have to find him, and find him with enough evidence to convict, but I’d at least have a face to put to the demon mask that haunted my dreams.

      Too antsy to sit still, I set the sketchbook aside, and went out on the back deck. I breathed the soothing indigo twilight into my soul.

      I couldn’t wait to get back out there tonight. This was the freshest crime scene I’d ever worked with, and I had so many questions. Did the SK choose his victims beforehand and know where to find them, or did he wait like a spider for his prey to stumble into his web?

      To the best of my knowledge he never approached the body after a kill, to verify death or gloat or whatever it is that a psycho killer might do, and everything I saw today supported that theory, but how did he spend his time before the kill?

      Sundara chased the horses across the lower pasture, downstream to my right. Tiara tossed her head and whinnied. The herd turned as one and chased Sundara. Their game of tag was a ritual enjoyed by all.

      I never restrained my animal friends. Even the horses could leave the property if they chose to. They chose to stay. I shared with my friends a healthy relationship, built on a strong foundation of trust and affection.

      The victim had shared a similar trust with her dog. She’d allowed him to run free and well out of her sight during much of their last outing together.

      I couldn’t confirm how late in the day they’d been up on top of Schnebly Hill, only that they’d been the last off the Munds trail, and that meant late afternoon or early evening after the day hikers and bikers cleared out.

      Chipmunk had shown me that it had been daylight when the SK arrived up by I-17. The shadows from the trees and the circling turkey vulture said late afternoon. Hawk reported that it had been full dark before the SK climbed up to his hide. So what about the time in between?

      The SK’s prints couldn’t show me how long he’d taken to get down in the vicinity of the lookout point, but my calculations indicated that he’d been there twenty to twenty-four hours before Sundara and me. That meant he’d lingered somewhere along the way.

      It was conceivable that both the victim and the SK had been atop Schnebly at the same time; the girl walking up the road while her killer was coming down, every step narrowing the distance between them.

      Sundara had followed the SK’s scent in and out of the tree line. That weaving pattern was something I’d expect him to do if he were hiding from a possible human witness, and, from all I’d learned of the SK, I had the sense that he wouldn’t have let her see him — that he wouldn’t have let any human see him.

      But who could anticipate the need to hide from the eyes of a dog?

      And what dog, running free on a big wilderness adventure, could resist checking out any life form they smelled nearby?

      I whistled for Sundara.

      6:20 p.m.

      I parked my old black Blazer in front of Pema Norbu’s home clinic, walked through the Zen garden, and knocked on the periwinkle door.

      I’d met Pema years ago, long before she’d shaved her head and taken the vows of a Buddhist nun. Back then she’d been called Emma Swanson. She’d worn her thick hair in a stylish layered cut, and she often revealed the tattoo of a butterfly on her back. She’d become the best veterinarian I’d ever known, mixing Eastern and Western medicine with uncanny intuition.

      She answered the door, dressed in her burgundy garb. Bright green slippers with floppy frog faces peeked out from under the hem. “Abra, I’m glad you came.”

      Pema understood how to communicate with animals via mental pictures, and she and Sundara exchanged a silent greeting.

      Pema led us past the surgery room and into her office. Shelves stocked with Chinese herbs lined an entire wall. A fountain bubbled in one corner and flickering candles surrounded a statue of Buddha in the other.

      The dog rested upon the cushy massage table, cuddled on a fleecy white blanket. His fur was clean, but angry red wounds stood out within the patchwork of shaved spots around his neck and flank.

      Sundara padded to him and sniffed at the stitches. When the dog lifted his heavy eyelids, she licked his muzzle then stretched out under the table.

      “He put up quite a fight,” Pema said, “but we got him put back together. No broken bones, mostly tears and bites. He should heal up fast.”

      I sat down on the table and gently stroked the parts of the little dog’s body that didn’t hurt. He pushed his face against my leg and closed his eyes again.

      “He’s still sleeping off the anesthesia,” Pema said. “He’ll be able to go home in the morning.”

      “What time do you want me to get him?”

      “No need,” she said. “I talked to his family. They’re going to pick him up.”

      “You talked to them already?”

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