Chapter Eight
Rigger read through the report again, the one Pugsley filched from Sgt. Robolinski’s computer about the murder of Rachel’s parents—the man wearing the rubber mask, dancing around his young woman accomplice as she butchered the victims. And the most chilling of all—the “sharp wire thingie” around the woman’s neck, as the little girl described it to the police.
“A barbed wire choker tattoo,” Rigger whispered. He dropped the page to the table. “The same freaks. The same ones who killed my wife and daughter.”
This was just the sort of coincidence poets love and engineers hate. A poet would see the irony, the hidden messages, and the beauty of it all coming together in some cosmic reality. An engineer, skeptical until each and every factoid had been rolled onto its backside and
