I move on to what I know. “The Poet, an organized killer, a planner. Highly intelligent. Well employed. These types like to appear stable and we’re most likely looking at someone in a circle of family to shelter himself, even convince himself he’s normal. None of this is on paper. And I don’t feel like I have room for error on this one.”

“The Poet?”

“That’s what I’m calling him.” 

“Whatever you call him, do you really think he’s a serial killer?”

“I know he’s a serial killer. We just have to find his victims.”

“I’ll get you your profile for peace of mind.”

“Thank you, Wade,” I say, gratitude in my voice.

“Thank me by being careful. If this asshole came after Roberts, you could be next.”

“If Roberts was his type, I am not.”

“Be careful, Detective Jazz,” he says, and this time he uses his best Special Agent Wade Miller voice, the detective title meant to make the “I’m serious” point. 

“I am. I called you for a reason. I’m going to get him before he ever has the chance to get me.”

We disconnect a few seconds later and I pull up the poem compilation Chuck put together for me on my MacBook. I gravitate toward the poem The Poet left called “Fate, The Jester.” His message could be in those few lines or in another verse inside the full poem. I read it all slowly, all eight paragraphs, dissecting each one, but I return to the three lines he left in Summer’s mouth:

Who laugh in the teeth of disaster,

Yet hope through the darkness to find

A road past the stars to a Master

A master, a statement that seems to reference superiority and drives home my earlier thoughts. The Poet judged Summer beneath him. Perhaps he judges us all beneath him. He believes he’s above the law, and that’s dangerous to those who come into contact with him.

That means I need to become dangerous to him, and quickly. 

 

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