My sister sensed exactly what I was about to say and kicked me under the table. “Jack, why don’t you tell Tyler about your book? It’s so fascinating.”
I sipped my tea and listened, still salty about the Gator Heaven spot on the Covington property.
“I’m a criminology professor and writing a book on serial killers. Specifically, how to profile them. It’s a book for investigators, not the public. It’s pretty technical. I get into the weeds about how a detective can pick up on certain details to know if someone’s a killer. A serial killer, that is,” he chuckled.
“Well, that’s something,” Tyler said. “You ever talk with a serial killer yourself?”
“I have, actually. I’ve done some research and interviews in prison with killers. Since most are on death row or are serving a life term, they’re eager to speak with anyone who shows up.”
“That must’ve been creepy,” my sister said. She had a love-hate relationship with anything spooky or suspenseful.
“What’s the difference between, say, a serial killer and a regular killer? For instance”—I tapped my fingernails against the plastic iced-tea glass—“what’s the difference between the person who killed Gator Gene, and say, Ted Bundy?”
Ugh. With that one question, I’d plowed over all of the questions Jack and I had planned. We were supposed to work up to the Gene discussion, not drop it into conversation like a bomb.
“Gosh, that Gator Gene situation is something else, isn’t it?” Tyler’s tone bordered on folksy.
“It sure is. What was up with him, anyway, Tyler? I know what I read in the papers, and from what Maggie and Vera told me.” Jack entered the discussion smoothly, like he was sliding into the warm Gulf of Mexico on a summer day.
Tyler shrugged. “Gene was a piece of work.”
“But who would’ve wanted him dead?” I asked. “And now my sister’s a suspect in his murder.”
Tyler visibly blanched and turned to Vera. “What?”
She shot daggers at me with her eyes while fiddling with her hair. “Oh, it’s nothing, Ty.”
Ty? She was at the nickname stage with him? Barf.
Tyler’s face contorted in shock.
“What I can’t understand,” Jack mused aloud, obviously rolling with what I’d started, “is why someone would want a gator trapper dead. What was he involved with?”
“Could’ve been anything. Gene knew a lot of people.” Tyler had recovered and was back to grinning, yet the tops of his cheekbones were pink.
“How well didyouknow him?” I probed.
Another shrug. “He used to buy me and my friends beer in high school. And, oh, I went gator hunting with him once.”
Aha! My mind flashed back to the photo.
“Catch anything?” Jack asked.
“Yeah, we got a twelve-footer. It was wild, put up quite a fight.”
“Just you and Gene on that trip? Were you with anyone else?” I was probably going a bit too far with this question, but I had to ask.
“Yeah, just the two of us. We went south, near Lakeport.”
“Lots of gators out there?” I asked. Lakeport was three counties away, on the edge of the Everglades.
“Tons. But hey, bro, whatisthe difference between a regular killer and a serial killer?” Tyler deftly steered the conversation away from Gene and back to Jack. I noted that Tyler scooted an inch away from my sister, and wondered why she hadn’t told him about being questioned by the cops.
I’d also caught him in a lie. I gulped my tea, wondering what to say next.
“Mostly time and location. Serial killers don’t usually kill without some premeditation. And they kill numerous people over time. Regular murderers kill only once, and their motives vary, but it’s usually things like lust, revenge, or greed.”
That last word hung in the air, and I noticed Vera was sweating despite the chilly air conditioner.