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Dry cleaner’s receipt
Pocket watch
Seventy-five cents in assorted change
The receipt was generic. Aside from number 54873, it didn’t contain any identifying information, not even the name or address of the cleaners.
“Run everything for prints,” Porter instructed.
Nash frowned. “What for? We have him, and his prints came back negative.”
“Guess I’m hoping for a Hail Mary. Maybe we’ll find a match and it will lead to someone who can identify him. What do you make of the watch?”
Nash held the timepiece up to the light. “I don’t know anyone who carries a pocket watch anymore. Think maybe this guy’s older than you thought?”
“The fedora would suggest that too.”
“Unless he’s just into vintage,” Watson pointed out. “I know a lot of guys like that.”
Nash pushed the crown, and the watch’s face snapped open. “Huh.”
“What?”
“It stopped at fourteen past three. That’s not when this guy got hit.”
“Maybe the impact jarred it?” Porter thought aloud.
“There’s not a scratch on it, though, no sign of damage.”
“Probably something internal, or maybe it wasn’t wound. Can I take a look?”
Nash handed the pocket watch to Porter.
Porter twisted the crown. “It’s loose. The spring’s not grabbing. Amazing craftsmanship though. I think it’s handmade. Collectible for sure.”
“I’ve got an uncle,” Watson announced.
“Well, congrats on that, kid,” Porter replied.
“He owns an antique shop downtown. I bet he could give us some color on this.”
“You’re really trying to earn a gold star today, aren’t you? Okay, you’re on watch duty. Once these things are logged into inventory, take it down there and see what you can find out.”
Watson nodded, his face beaming.
“Anybody notice anything odd about what he’s wearing?”
Nash examined the body once more, then shook his head.
“The shoes are nice,” Eisley said.
Porter smiled. “They are, aren’t they? Those are John Lobbs. They go for about fifteen hundred a pair. The suit is cheap, though, possibly from a box store or the mall. Probably no more than a few hundred at best.”
“So, what are you thinking?” Nash asked. “He works in shoes?”
“Not sure. I don’t want to jump to conclusions. Just seems odd a man would spend so much on shoes without a comparable spend on his suit.”
“Unless he works in shoe sales and got some kind of deal? That does makes sense,” Watson said.
“I’m glad you concur. Silly comments will get your gold star revoked.”
“Sorry.”
“No worries, Doc. I’m just busting your balls. I’d pick on Nash, but he’s too used to my shit at this point. It’s no fun anymore.” Porter’s attention drifted back to the small composition book. “Can you hand me that?”
Watson passed it to him, and he turned to the first page. Porter’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the text.
Hello, my friend.
I am a thief, a murderer, a kidnapper. I’ve killed for fun. I’ve killed out of necessity. I have killed for hate. I have killed simply to satisfy the need that tends to grow in me with the passage of time. A need much like a hunger that can only be quenched by the draw of blood or the song found in a tortured scream.
I tell you this not to frighten you or impress you but simply to state the facts, to put my cards on the table.
My IQ is 156, a genius level by all accounts.
A wise man once said, “To measure your own IQ, to attempt to label your intelligence, is a sign of your own ignorance.” I did not ask to take an IQ test; it was administered upon me — take from that what you will.
None of this defines who I am, only what I am. That is why I’ve chosen to put pen to paper, to share that which I am about to share. Without the sharing of knowledge, there can be no growth. You (as a society) will not learn from your many mistakes. And you have so much to learn.
Who am I?
To share my name would simply take the fun out of this, don’t you think?
You most likely know me as the Four Monkey Killer. Why don’t we leave it at that? Perhaps 4MK, for those of you prone to abbreviate? The simpler of the lot. No need to exclude anyone.
We are going to have such fun, you and I.
“Holy fuck,” Porter muttered.
5 (#uafa3129c-6272-5043-adf5-07e23dbb14dd)
Diary (#uafa3129c-6272-5043-adf5-07e23dbb14dd)
I’d like to set the record straight from the very beginning.
This is not my parents’ fault.
I grew up in a loving home that would have made Norman Rockwell take note.
My mother, God bless her soul, gave up a promising career in publishing to stay home after my birth, and I don’t believe she ever longed to return. She had breakfast on the table every morning for my father and me, and supper was held promptly at six. We cherished such family time, and it was spent in the most jovial of ways.
Mother would recount her exploits of the day with Father and me listening attentively. The sound of her voice was that of angels, and to this day I long for more.
Father worked in finance. I am most certain he was held in high regard by his peers, although he didn’t discuss his work at home. He firmly believed that the day-to-day happenings of one’s employ should remain at the place of business, not brought home and spilled within the sanctuary of the residence as one might dump out a bucket of slop for the pigs to feast on. He left work at work, where it belonged.
He carried a shiny black briefcase, but I never once saw him open it. He set it beside the front door each night, and there it remained until he left for the office on the next business day. He would scoop the briefcase up on his way out, only after a loving kiss for Mother and a pat on the head for me.
“Take care of your mother, my boy!” he would say. “You are the man of the house until I return. Should the bill man come knocking, send him next door to collect. Do not pay him any mind. He is of no consequence in the large scheme of things. Better you learn this now than fret about such things when you have a family of your own.”
Fedora upon his head and briefcase in hand, he would slip out the door with a smile and a wave. I would go to the picture window and watch him as he made his way down the walk (careful of the ice during the cold winters) and climbed into his little black convertible. Father drove a 1969 Porsche. It was a marvelous machine. A work of art with a throaty growl that rumbled forth with the turn of the key and grew louder still as it eased out onto the road and lapped up the pavement with hungry delight.
Oh, how Father loved that car.
Every Sunday we’d take a large blue bucket from the garage along with a handful of rags and wash it from top to bottom. He would spend hours conditioning the soft black top and applying wax to its metal curves, not once but twice. I was tasked with cleaning the spokes on the wheels, a job I took very seriously. When finished, the car shone as if the showroom was a recent memory. Then he would put the top down and take Mother and me on a Sunday drive. Although the Porsche was only a two-seater, I was a tiny lad and fit snugly in the space behind the seats. We would stop at the local Dairy Freeze for ice cream and soda, then head to the park for an afternoon stroll among the large oaks and grassy fields.
I would play with the other children as Mother and Father watched from the shade of an old tree, their hands entwined and love in their eyes. They would joke and laugh, and I could hear them as I ran after a ball or chased a Frisbee. “Watch me! Watch me!” I would shout. And they would. They watched me as parents should. They watched me with pride. Their son, their joy. I’d look back at the myself at that tender age. I’d look back at them under that tree, all in smiles. I’d look back and picture their necks sliced from ear to ear, blood pouring from the wounds and pooling in the grass beneath them. And I would laugh, my heart fluttering, I would laugh so.
Of course, that was years ago, but that is surely when it began.
6 (#uafa3129c-6272-5043-adf5-07e23dbb14dd)
Porter (#uafa3129c-6272-5043-adf5-07e23dbb14dd)
Day 1 • 7:31 a.m. (#uafa3129c-6272-5043-adf5-07e23dbb14dd)
Porter parked his Charger at the curb in front of 1547 Dearborn Parkway and stared up at the large stone mansion. Beside him, Nash ended the call on his phone. “That was the captain. He wants us to come in.”
“We will.”
“He was pretty insistent.”
“4MK was about to mail the box here. The clock is ticking. We don’t have time to run back to headquarters right now,” Porter said. “We won’t be long. It’s important we stay ahead of this.”
“4MK? You’re really going to run with that?”
“4MK, Monkey Man, Four Monkey Killer. I don’t care what we call the crazy fuck.”
Nash was looking out the window. “This is one hell of a house. One family lives here?”
Porter nodded. “Arthur Talbot, his wife, a teenage daughter from his first marriage, probably one or two little yapping dogs, and a housekeeper or five.”
“I checked with Missing Persons, and Talbot hasn’t phoned anyone in,” Nash said. They exited the car and started up the stone steps. “How do you want to play this?”
“Quickly,” said Porter as he pressed the doorbell.
Nash lowered his voice. “Wife or daughter?”
“What?”
“The ear. Do you think it’s the wife or daughter?”
Porter was about to answer when the door inched open, held by a security chain. A Hispanic woman, no taller than five feet, glared at them with cold brown eyes. “Help you?”
“Is Mr. or Mrs. Talbot available?”
Her eyes shifted from Porter to Nash, then back again. “Momento.”
She closed the door.
“My money’s on the daughter,” Nash said.
Porter glanced down at his phone. “Her name is Carnegie.”
“Carnegie? Are you kidding me?”
“I’ll never understand rich people.”
When the door opened again, a blond woman in her early forties was standing at the threshold. She wore a beige sweater and tight black slacks. Her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail. Attractive, Porter thought. “Mrs. Talbot?”
She smiled politely. “Yes. What can I do for you?”
The Hispanic woman appeared behind her, watching from the other side of the foyer.
“I’m Detective Porter and this is Detective Nash. We’re with Chicago Metro. Is there someplace we can talk?”
Her smile disappeared. “What did she do?”
“Excuse me?”
“My husband’s little shit of a daughter. I’d love to get through one week without the drama of her shoplifting or joyriding or drinking in the park with her equally little shit-whore friends. I might as well offer free coffee to any law enforcement officers who want to stop by, since half of you show up on a regular basis anyway.” She stepped back from the door; it swung open behind her, revealing the sparsely furnished entry. “Come on in.”
Porter and Nash followed her inside. The vaulted ceilings loomed above, centered by a chandelier glistening with crystal. He fought the urge to take his shoes off before walking on the white polished marble.
Mrs. Talbot turned to the housekeeper. “Miranda, please be a dear and fetch us some tea and bagels — unless the officers would prefer donuts?” She said the last with the hint of a smile.
Ah, rich-person humor, Porter thought. “We’re fine, ma’am.”
There was nothing rich white women hated more than being called —
“Please, call me Patricia.”
They followed her through the foyer, down the hall, and into a large library. The polished wood floors glistened in the early-morning light, covered in specks of sun cast by the crystal chandelier hanging above a large stone fireplace. She gestured to a couch at the center of the room. Porter and Nash took a seat. She settled into a comfortable-looking overstuffed chair and ottoman across from them and reached for a cup of tea from the small table at her side. The morning Tribune lay untouched. “Just last week she OD’ed on some nonsense, and I had to pick her up downtown at the ER in the middle of the night. Her caring little friends dropped her there when she passed out at some club. Left her on a bench in front of the hospital. Imagine that? Arty was off on business, and I had to get her back here before he got home because nobody wants to ruffle his feathers. Best for Stepmommy to clean it up and make like it didn’t happen.”
The housekeeper returned with a large silver tray. She set it on the table in front of them, poured two cups of tea from a carafe, handed one to Nash and the other to Porter. There were two plates. One contained a toasted plain bagel, the other a chocolate donut.
“I’m not above stereotypes,” Nash said, reaching for the donut.
“This isn’t necessary,” Porter said.
