“And there would be reports of bodies disappearing from the labs and mortuaries too,” she conceded. “That wouldn’t go unnoticed.” She picked up her clipboard and studied the orders that had been left. There were eight today. Eight unknowns to clean and clothe. Eight lives to remember.
Malone shrugged off his coat and his hat and rolled his sleeves before donning a covering. He allowed her to tie it closed in the back before doing the same for her.
“Why?” she whispered, her chin to her chest as he tied her strings. “Why does the Butcher do what he does?”
“Just because it doesn’t make sense to you, doesn’t mean it doesn’t make sense,” he retorted.
She tossed a narrow-eyed look over her shoulder and tucked her hair inside a scarf with practiced efficiency. “That is something my mother always said.”
“Yeah. Something she taught you and something you told me when you were ten years old. I’ve never forgotten it.”
“I told you that?”
“Yeah. You did.”
“Smart little thing, wasn’t I?” She grinned at him.
His mouth lifted slightly at the left corner, but that was all. “Yeah. You were a smart little thing. Still are. Too smart for the likes of me.”
She felt the double meaning in his words but ignored it.
“Saying that something doesn’t make sense is lazy talk,” he continued. “It’s the speech of the defeated. Too many cops do that. My job is to find the sense in it. To make sense of the incomprehensible.”
She nodded, agreeing. It wasn’t until they had made their way through half the dead that her thoughts returned to the Butcher.
“Have you made sense of him then, Michael?” she asked. He didn’t seem to need clarification.
His dark eyes were morose when they touched hers. “No. But one thing I’m not doing is ruling anyone out.”
“They call him a monster,” she said.
“Yes.”
“And a madman.”
“Yeah. That’s not all he is, though.”
She waited for him to elaborate.
“They will never find him if they’re looking for a monster. It’s never that obvious.”
When she was silent, he continued. “Have you ever looked at a painting that up close is just a blur of color and smudges? Thousands of strokes and dabs, paint layered on paint . . . and then you step back from it and discover that all those parts create an actual picture?”
“Yes.”
“Well . . . that’s kind of what I mean. And sometimes we look at the pieces with a picture already in mind. We think we know what we’re looking for.”
“Looking for a monster and missing the man?”
“Exactly.”
“But . . . the problem now, according to the papers, is that there are no suspects. No one has any idea who is doing this.”
“I’m not at all convinced anyone really wants to know,” he muttered. “It’s more exciting that way. The papers are full of assumptions. Assumptions are bad information. Bad information is worse than no information. Bad information makes you blind to the truth when it comes along.”
“What about feelings. Are feelings bad information?” she asked.
“Sometimes feelings are the worst information. Because we are attached to them. If you’re going to do this with me, Dani, you have to turn your feelings off.”
“Is that what you do?” she asked.
“Yeah. That’s what I do.”
“How convenient,” she murmured.
“I think so. It’s kept me from getting killed more times than I can count. It’s kept me alive. And I find that being alive is a great deal more convenient than being six feet under.”
She loosened the ties from her covering and pulled the scarf from her hair, thinking about that statement. Malone removed his own covering and washed up beside her at the sink, as silent as she.
“You said turning off your feelings has kept you alive. I’m not sure that’s true, Michael. Plus . . . a man without feelings might as well be dead,” she said, locking the door behind them.
He sighed. “Your heart is too soft for this, Dani Flanagan.”
“Hmm. Maybe so. But perhaps your heart is too hard.” She smiled a little to take the sting out of her words. “The truth is, the harder we are, the easier we shatter. It takes some softness to absorb life’s blows.”
15
He had two hours between the time they finished at the morgue and his weekly meeting with Eliot. They’d missed the week before due to Eliot’s schedule and had talked only briefly on the telephone the morning Malone had returned. Eliot had been curious about his train-hopping and also about a certain Miss Daniela Kos who had called him in great concern, but neither subject had been delved into. They’d kept it light and nonspecific, as they usually did, but there was much to discuss and Michael kept an eye on the time.