Birdeater

Chapter 3

She was dressed for business in a crowded diner. The booth was sticky, and she had wiped it down three times before taking a seat. She ordered black coffee and a waffle with egg. Whole wheat, please. And only the whites.

The waitress had rolled her eyes multiples times and slapped the yellow copy of the order down before walking away.

The killer kept his hands wrapped around a chipped tan mug and watched her. She was close to perfect. She had almost everything he needed. Creamy skin. Dark brown eyes. Long brown hair that was almost the same shade.

He liked her severe cheekbones. Her aquiline nose. Because of his mother, he appreciated a woman with Roman bone structure. Her satin blouse and flattering blazer were strictly professional. He preferred when they wore dresses, but it didn't always matter.

He just preferred when his victim had some self-respect. He despised women who dressed like complete garbage.

The voice was a little off. She sounded a little too high-strung. She did not have that nice, smooth contralto he tended to like.

He would just have to make sure she stayed quiet.

The waitress brought around his near-perfect woman's food and set it down on the table. Plates clattered. Silverware was pushed around. The near-perfect woman asked for more coffee. The waitress looked like she would rather spit in her cup.

The killer reached into his pocket and pulled out his worn leather wallet. He opened it up and pulled out a few bills, enough to pay for coffee and leave a generous tip. The diner was crowded enough that he would not risk approaching her here. But he wanted to be ready when she finished. And it looked like she was in a hurry.

The waitress, at least, would be glad to get rid of her.

:::

Blair rubbed his chin, scratching at the few springy black hairs that refused to give up on forming a beard. It would never happen. Still, they reminded him that he needed to shave. He needed to shower. He couldn't remember the last time he had.

The Birdeater profile was a mess. There were too many scribbles in the margins. He could barely read his own handwriting and his eyes were starting to ache. There was no way of telling which blots of information were the latest. He only used black pen, and it smeared something awful with his fingerprints.

Maybe if he typed it this time, the Sheriff Department would take it more seriously. Of course, there would never be a more relevant time to deliver it straight to their hands. He was practically spoon-feeding them the answers. They should take it seriously.

He didn't have a printer. He would have to go to the library. But he could type it up, in the meantime. The thought of dragging out his computer and putting the effort into something like that caused him to deflate immediately. All of his motivation went out the window.

It was just so much to sort through.

But he had to do it, if he ever wanted to work for the Bureau.

Idly, he wondered what Florence was doing.

It was 5:00PM. The odds of Florence being home were high. Blair had not heard his car leave the driveway. But he had also been pretty absorbed in his writing.

There was only way to find out. He knew that. Blair took a deep breath and stood up. His lower back ached and so did his knees.

Blair shuffled out onto his patio. The tattered bottoms of his pajama pants dragged across the stones. His bare feet were so pale with cold that they were almost blue. The rest of him wasn't cold. He wasn't wearing a shirt, but he was wearing a loose cable-knit cardigan.