Day 35, Chapter 35
The girl in the movie-theater manager’s office was crying into her hands.
I would also like to cry into my hands. Or maybe a bucket. Chapter 35 – at least the majority of its 2 pages – contains some of the most clichéd, pedestrian, craptastic writing I have ever seen. It seems obvious to me that Patterson (or Paetro, I suppose) doesn’t care at all how it reads, just about getting the dull facts on paper and taking up two more sheets of paper, 2 more minutes of the reader’s time, and another hour of my day spent writing this clever shit about it. Here’s the riveting breakdown for pages 113-114:
Detectives Lindsay Boxer and Paul Chi go into the office of the mall movie theater manager to talk to the ticket-taking girl, who’s all a-tremble over the murder scene she just witnessed. She cries, claims she didn’t see anything and Chi, in predictable TV-cop form, offers her “a wad of tissues” and tells her that it’s “all right” and “to take her time.” She cries some more, expresses disbelief, then describes the scene she saw when she opened up her ticket booth. She saw a while male in a hat and a blue baseball jacket holding a gun, then she ducked down behind her counter. She doesn’t think she can describe him, but she’s sure going to try. Lindsay asks her to come down to the station to look at some surveillance tape. Blah blah blah.
The chapter is “saved” by the appearance of Claire, medical examiner and Women’s Murder Club superstar.
…Claire stomped up the escalator with her chief assistant, Bunny Ellis, behind her.
I presume that Patterson has her “stomp” up the stairs because she’s a plus-size lady, but I can’t be sure. I don’t know what to say about her assistant’s name.
“Lookit. Same weird stippling, Lindsay. Same point-blank shooting. Same bastard kid killer. Was anything stolen?”
“Mom’s wallet was full.”
It was Claire who saw the writing on the underside of the stroller. I stared at the letters as cameras flashed in a stroboscopic frenzy. The message was written in lipstick. The signature was the same – but different.
“What the hell?” I said to Claire. “Not WCF? Now it’s FWC?”
“You ask me, Lindsay? This guy isn’t leaving clues. He’s purely fucking with us.”
Booyah. Today’s is an interactive post: what do you think FWC stands for? Fat Wad of Crap? Frickin’-something-something? You tell me.
Go to Day 36.