This is the room Crowe walked into. Empty desk across from mine, Two weeks of reports in a drawer. I wasn't sure why I'd hung the map Until he came through the door. He looked at me, then at the wall, Then at the file beside my hand. "Sergeant," he said, "I've heard you're good." I said, "That depends who asks." "Sergeant." Not a question. "I'm told I'm assigned to you." He said it like the word was funny. Maybe it was, coming from him. He took the chair without being asked, Set his gloves beside the ink. Then looked once at the murder file And told me what was wrong. The wounds. The spacing. Not random. He said it before he'd sat down. I'd had the file three days And hadn't seen it at all. The wounds. The spacing. A pattern. He said it like he'd seen the room. I looked down at the papers. He was looking through them. She faced the wall, not the door. Wrong, if she'd come here to hide. Crowe crouched beside the marks in stone And ran one finger down the line. "Like a diagram," he said. "Placed," said Godley from the door. "Put," Crowe said. "The marks are a template. She's what the template made." He's quick. Odd quick, sir. Not the ordinary kind. Wouldn't let me near the ledger. Smiled when I said I'd try. "Don't move that book," he said. "Why?" I asked. He smiled. "You'll lose the order." There was no mark upon the page. There was no reason he should know. The wounds. The spacing. Not random. He said it before he'd sat down. I'd had the file three days And hadn't seen it at all. The wounds. The spacing. A pattern. No mark had led him to the page. I watched him read an answer That wasn't written down. His coat smelled wrong for London, Salt and iron, wet wood, tar. He laughed when I asked where he'd been. Wouldn't tell me where. We spoke about the cases Men remember when they're old. For once, I thought I'd found a man Who understood the work. Then his face went still. Not angry. Not afraid. Just listening to something I couldn't hear. He knew the answer walking in. Twenty years taught me what men do. They study. They guess. They make mistakes. He did none of those. He'd already been Where I stood. The wounds. The spacing. Not random. He said it before he'd sat down. The marks were a template. She was what the template made. The wounds. The spacing. A pattern. And I still don't know what he saw. He closed the file slowly — Like he'd found what he came for. He filed it where he filed things He couldn't do anything about. In the morning, Crowe was already at his desk.
