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The Hunt for the Rochester Hills Ripper

The Lawler sisters were on a stakeout.

Dana’s primary contribution was devouring extra toasty Cheez-Its by the handful. An earlier disagreement over playlist selection led to the silence now emanating from my speakers. It made every subsequent chew sound like nails on a chalkboard.

She asked my auditory canal a question. “Why couldn’t Billy be your backup, again?”

Some particulate matter entered my ear hole. It caused my cochlea to quiver.

I lowered the night vision binoculars and rotated my entire body. “Billy doesn’t answer the door for delivery drivers during daylight hours, dummy. He’s afraid of his own shadow. I have to make dinner plans with him through Discord.”

My sister continued munching without breaking eye contact. She pointed at Clark Nathan’s house from the passenger seat. “Are you screwing a married guy or something? I don’t need his wife chasing us down Rochester Road with a rolling pin or whatever. Head full of hair curlers. I can spot the indignity coming a mile away. It’s one of the special skills I acquired living with Quinn Lawler.”

The look on my face suggested I was deciphering the square root of something. “Clark Nathan is a balding divorcee with a pot belly. He’s a spokesman for McDonald’s. Guy’s a regular McMuffin mouthpiece. His dating profile would be dead on arrival. I told you the idiot reared me and ran off.”

“Typical beta male behavior.”

“That’s very funny.” I didn’t remotely laugh. Truthfully, I did the damage to the back bumper with a dumbbell. I needed a viable excuse to get my postpartum partner in crime out of the house. The fabricated fib was the only way I could make a convincing case to my clairvoyant sister. “It was a hit and run without any witnesses. The scofflaw brought this on himself. I’m sorry, but mere restitution is no longer sufficient. I’ve been personally appointed to serve as his judge, jury, and executioner.”

Dana didn’t realize I was being literal.

My sister sighed. She packed the interior plastic to maintain cracker crispness before positioning the box between her ankles. “Quinn, this is my first pseudo social engagement in months and you’re making me want to go right back on maternity leave. What’s this really all about? If it isn’t sex related or some kind of insurance scam, I’m officially unsuspecting. I just need to be clear about that in case the authorities get involved somewhere down the line. You sure as shit aren’t engaging in this level of subterfuge over a five-hundred-dollar auto repair.”

Her assessment was insulting.

“Excuse me. This is a Range Rover. What’s with the sudden change of heart, anyway? You said you believed me back at the house.”

“Oh, honey—I was humoring you,” she replied. “You’re more transparent than cellophane, sis. First off, there’s an indented 45 in your fender. Free weight, I presume?”

“Fuck.” I couldn’t even frame a person properly.

“Mmm-hmm.” She recoiled into the corner of her seat. “Spill.”

I took a deep breath. “Clark Nathan is the Rochester Hills Ripper.”

My sister’s face puckered upon hearing the pronouncement. “The who?”

“In this timeline, he’s only killed one woman so far. Monster hasn’t yet earned the moniker. I’ve tried to stop him twice now, but something always gets in the way. T-boned by a U-Haul. Electrocuted by a live wire. It’s like the universe is conspiring to keep the prick alive. There’s no way it’s a coincidence.” My eyes wandered back to the windshield.

Dana’s own sclera grew saucer sized. “Did you do ayahuasca again?”

I shook off the suggestion. “I’m being sucked backward through time, toots. Don’t know what to tell you.”

She thrust her fist behind her back. “Fine. How many fingers am I holding up?”

“I have no idea. We’ve never done this before,” I declared. “Five?”

The same hand was immediately released from bondage. Dana was disgusted. “Doesn’t prove anything. You’re going to be disbarred, dummy. Where’s your evidence?”

“I watched him throw a thumb into Lake St. Clair.”

The comment demanded a double eyebrow raise.

She kept fishing. “Maybe he’s Yakuza.”

“Dana.”

My sister finally sat up straight. “What do you expect us to do about it? We’re not Cagney and Lacey. Call the police.”

I started scanning the touchscreen for LCD Soundsystem. “I’ve cased the joint a few times now. Practically memorized the layout at this point. He keeps the place immaculate. Separates work from play. Doesn’t shit where he eats. Smart.”

Dana smacked my elbow. “Are you out of your mind? Have you ever heard of plausible deniability? Or the castle doctrine, for that matter. I’m not looking to be an accessory to this stupidity. You’re lucky he didn’t shoot you. Dude would have been totally justified.”

“He actually nicked me in the thigh a week ago with his Sig Sauer, but I put on the afterburners and bounced. Slapped a tourniquet on it back home. Blood loss wasn’t that bad. Woke up the next morning without a scratch.”

“Oh my God.” Dana exited the vehicle and positioned herself between the headlights. The glare didn’t dissipate when she embedded both hands into my hood. Snow-slicked glass muffled the sight and sound. She looked extra frosty. “Please take me home before you commit another felony or any acts in furtherance. I have a family, man.”

I lowered my window an inch and shouted through the aperture. “Nathan isn’t even home. You have nothing to worry about.”

“How the hell do you know? Are you psychic or something?”

Prescience wasn’t required to identify the pattern.

Clark always went to his cottage after a kill.