Meeks and I spend hours going though the victims’ photographs, their routines, the autopsy reports. We hear other detectives mock us as they walk past the door.
“Show me the Russian girl again,” I say hunched over the photos. Our only lead is a junkie who saw a suspicious man near her workplace the day before she went missing. Oh, that’s right, while he was stoned out of his mind.
“Look man, I’m going home,” Meeks says hours later. “I’m barely functional as it is. We’ll get the fucker, but we need to get some sleep.” He heads to the door, repeatedly flicks the light switch on and off to tease me, then leaves. I stay behind.
Six bodies. And all we’ve got is the word of a hobo who saw a man in a bow tie. I mean, that sounds like a joke.
A freaking red bow tie.