The Postcard Killers by James Patterson, Liza Marklund Read Free Book Online Page B

“The killer is right-handed and uses a small, sharp implement.
     He does it from behind, sticking the knife right into the left jugular vein, then cutting deeply through the sinews and windpipe.”
    He mimed the act with his arms as he spoke. He’d obviously done it before.
    Dessie realized that all the colors and sounds were starting to fade away.
    “Pulse and breathing probably stop after a minute or so,” Jacob said.
    “Sorry,” Dessie said, “but I have to get out.”
    She went out onto the gravel drive, raised her face to the sky, and took several long, deep breaths. Her first big case, she
     thought, and probably her last.

Chapter 23
    “THEY’RE CHARMING, PLEASANT PEOPLE, THESE killers,” Jacob said to Dessie, stretching his back in the thin sunlight. “They
     find it easy to make new friends. Are you sure you don’t want a cinnamon bun?”
    Dessie shook her head, letting the American eat the last one.
    They were sitting on the terrace of the Hotel Bellevue on Dalarö, with a coffeepot, cups, and an empty plate in front of them.
     There was a sharp wind from the sea.
    It was really too cold to be sitting outside, but Dessie couldn’t bear Jacob Kanon’s body odor after feeling sick at the murder
     scene.
    “So, you think there’s two of them? A couple—a man and a woman? Why?”
    Jacob nodded, chewing hungrily on the bun. He seemed completely unaffected by the grisly scene they had just witnessed.
    “A couple is less of a threat. They’re probably young,attractive, a pair of carefree travelers meeting others doing the same thing. People who drink champagne, smoke dope, live
     it up a bit…”
    He drank some coffee.
    “And they probably speak English,” he said.
    Dessie raised her eyebrows quizzically.
    “The postcards. They’re written with perfect grammar, and most of the victims have been native English speakers. I’m guessing
     the rest have been fluent.”
    Dessie pulled her long hair up into a bun on her neck and pushed her pen through it to keep it up. Her notepad was already
     full of information about the victims, the murders, and the killers.
    “These postcards,” she said. “Why do they send them?”
    Jacob Kanon looked out over the water. The wind pulled at his messed-up hair.
    “It’s not unusual for pattern killers to communicate with the world around them to get attention,” he said. “There are lots
     of examples of that.”
    “They kill to get in the paper?”
    Jacob Kanon poured himself some more coffee.
    “We had our first Postcard Killer in the U.S. over a hundred years ago, a man named John Frank Hickey. He spent more than
     thirty years killing young boys along the East Coast before he was caught. He sent postcards to his victims’ families, and
     that was what gave him away in the end.”
    He drained his cup again and seemed strangely content.
    Dessie was freezing her ass off in the bitter wind.
    “But why me?”
she asked.

Chapter 24
    JACOB KANON DID UP HIS suede jacket, the first sign that he felt
anything
.
    “You’re talented, ambitious, and your career comes first above almost everything else in your life. You’re well educated—really
     too well for the type of journalism you’re involved in, but that doesn’t seem to bother you.”
    Dessie made an effort to look cool and neutral as she sipped her coffee.
    “Why do you think that?”
    “Am I right?”
    She cleared her throat quietly.
    “Well,” she said. “Maybe a bit. Some of that is true. Continue, please.”
    He gave her an indulgent look.
    “It’s not rocket science,” he said. “I think I’ve worked out what they do when they pick their contacts.”
    Dessie wrapped her arms tightly around herself. Everything about this was so creepy and unreal.
    “What?”
    “They buy the local papers the day they decide to set to work. The paper, and the reporter, with the biggest crime news that
     day is the one they pick as their contact.”
    Dessie blinked several times.
    “Burglar Bengt,”