Dull knives, sharp knives. Neither one had shorn John Richard’s hair. But who had, and why?
The juicy, ripe tomatoes fell into neat halves as I sliced. I didn’t know who or why, but I could guess as to when. Whoever had stolen the thirty-eight from my van had also nabbed the kitchen shears. Within the next couple of hours, the thief had shot John Richard in the heart and the groin and used my scissors to lop off a chunk of his blond hair. And of course, I’d seen something out of place on John Richard’s scalp, I just had not registered it. Something had been strange about his dead body, and the butchered hair was it.
Cherry tomato, slice in half. Tomato, slice. Tomato, slice.
Okay, why? Why would a killer keep a chunk of hair as a souvenir? Had the FBI profiled hair-collecting killers? I
