Bull's Eye: Confessions of a Fake Psychic Detective #3

Chapter 36

"Strange for him to write that. I mean, sure, I only knew him for a little bit before I killed him, but I never took him to be a weirdo," the man with the scars on his face says.

He's bored with his job in the same way workers at slaughterhouses become desensitized. Lonely, too. Isolated. Gene pays him well, but there's no way to spend it because of the secrecy. He can't quit, either. He knows too much.

"Really? Nothing about that hermit seemed odd to you?" Zandra says. It's easier to talk about Herman if she doesn't say his name.

The man with the scars on his face shrugs and says, "To be honest, he was in a great mood, even as I was doing the deed."

Thank you, Herman, for denying this prick any satisfaction.

"He was delirious," Zandra says, although she supposes that Herman's Six Reasons has more to do with it.

Maybe Herman knew of a seventh that he didn't tell me about.

"No, he was with it. Completely coherent," the man with the scars on his face says. "Matter of fact, he helped me place the knife before I stuffed his face into the water at Soma Falls."

Only Herman.

"And that doesn't count as strange to you?" Zandra says, squinting her eyes to hide the tears welling up. Even her steel bends at some point.

The man with the scars on his face sighs. He says, "I don't know. Should it?"

I guess when your only interaction with people is when you kill them, you don't get a sense for how they normally act.

"Yes, it's strange, and so is not realizing that that's strange," Zandra says.

"Sorry to cut this short, but I've had to hit the can since we got here. Stay put. I'm going to pee with the door open," the man says.

He walks backward to a nearby bathroom so that Zandra is never out of his sight. He's careful not to knock over the marble pedestals flanking each side of the bathroom door, a design feature apparently not tacky enough for the upstairs of the house. Like all doors in Gene's house, it opens to the inside and outside, for reasons known only to Gene and his interior designer.

Upon entering, Glenn draws the pistol with his left hand and his other pistol with his right. The latter is out of Zandra's sight, but the sound it makes as it unloads into the toilet isn't out of earshot.

I won't move an inch. I'll build trust instead. Show I'm not a threat.

The man zips up and re-holsters, but he neglects to wash his hands. Zandra wonders whether that's out of duty to keeping her put or habit.

Gross.

"Anyway, what were we talking about? Oh, yeah, I was going to say that I'm glad Gene told me to not kill you. You take the time to explain things," the man says as he returns.

Pulling the strings on this one is going to be a lot easier than I expected. Damaged goods don't need any softening up. Lick their wounds and they'll do anything for you.

"I've got all the time in the world to listen, child," Zandra says.

"Appreciate that. Why were you so mean to me back in the park? When you spit on my shoe?" says the man responsible for the deaths of dozens of people.

He's like a lost kid. I love it.

"It's trust, child. I couldn't trust you. I feel like I can now, though," Zandra says. She rubs her palms together. The heat from the friction feels good. "Why don't we start with you telling me your real name?"