The call came at midnight. I expected that because it had been the same way for 22 long years. I didn’t expect an unfamiliar voice on the other end of the line.
“Hello? Detective Monson?”, it said as I picked up the phone. The connection was scratchy and the audio over compressed from several layers of rerouting and disguise that I knew was between me and the caller.
“The fuck are you?” I asked.
“Um, he said not to answer that.”
“Who said not to answer?”
“He said that you’d know.”
I took a long breath, and a short drink of the whiskey I allowed myself on the night he called me every year. Waiting by the phone for 12:00 to blink up on the clock, and start the anniversary of my greatest professional failure with an annual reminder from the killer that escaped me.
“OK”, I said. “So what, then?”
“He said to tell you that he knows you are still looking. But that you won’t be able to find him.”
I sighed. A new wrinkle, but the same taunt.
“He said that you won’t find him because he is dead. He gave me this message to read to you when he passed. He said it had to be this day, at this time.”
I laughed sardonically. “Well, that’s very kind of him to let me know.”
The line was silent.
“Anything else?” I asked.
“No. That’s it. Enjoy your retirement, Detective.”
There was a click as the call ended. I looked at the newly opened bottle of Bushmills. I wouldn’t be stopping at one glass tonight.
