Jeffery Deaver - The Devils Teardrop

Title: The Devil's Teardrop ISBN: 0340712538 Author: Jeffery Deaver Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton Edition: April 30, 2000 Catalog: Fiction

A thorough analysis of an anonymous letter may greatly reduce the number of possible writers and may at once dismiss certain suspected writers. The use of a semicolon or the correct use of an apostrophe may eliminate a whole group of writers.
- OSBORN AND OSBORN, QUESTIONED DOCUMENT PROBLEMS

The Diggers in town. The Digger looks like you, the Digger looks like me. He walks down the wintry streets

the way anybody would, shoulders drawn together against the damp December air. Hes not tall and not short, hes not heavy and not thin. His fingers in dark gloves might be pudgy but they might not. His feet seem large but maybe thats just the size of his shoes.

If you glanced at his eyes you wouldnt notice the shape or the color but only that they dont seem quite human, and if the Digger glanced at you while you were looking at him, his eyes might be the very last thing you ever saw.

He wears a long, black coat, or a dark blue one, and not a soul on the street notices him pass by though there are many witnesses here-the streets of Washington, D.C., are crowded because its morning rush hour. The Diggers in town and its New Years Eve. Carrying a Fresh Fields shopping bag, the Digger dodges around couples and singles and families and keeps on walking. Ahead, he sees the Metro station. He was told to be there at exacdy 9 A.M. and he will be. The Digger is never late.

The bag in his maybe-pudgy hand is heavy. It weighs eleven pounds though by the time the Digger returns to his motel room it will weigh considerably less.

A man bumps into him and smiles and says, Sorry, but the Digger doesnt glance at him. The Digger never looks at anybody and doesnt want anybody to look at him.

Dont let anybody... Click.... let anybody see your face. Look away. Remember? I remember. Click. Look at the lights, he thinks, look at the ... click ... at the New Years Eve decorations.

Fat babies in banners, Old Man Time. Funny decorations. Funny lights. Funny how nice they are. This is Dupont Circle, home of money, home of art, home of the young and the chic. The Digger knows diis but he knows it only because the man who tells him things told him about Dupont Circle. He arrives at the mouth of the subway tunnel. The morning is overcast and, being

winter, there is a dimness over the city. The Digger thinks of his wife on days like this. Pamela didnt like the dark and the cold so she... click... she... What did she do? Thats right. She planted red flowers and yellow flowers.

He looks at the subway and he thinks of a picture he saw once. He and Pamela were at a museum. They saw an old drawing on the wall. And Pamela said, Scary. Lets go. It was a picture of the entrance to hell. The Metro tunnel disappears sixty feet underground, passengers rising, passengers

descending. It looks just like that drawing. The entrance to hell. Here are young women with hair cut short and briefcases. Here are young men with

their sports bags and cell phones. And here is the Digger with his shopping bag. Maybe hes fat, maybe hes thin. Looking like you, looking like me. Nobody ever

notices the Digger and thats one of the reasons hes so very good at what he does. Youre the best, said the man who tells him things last year. Youre the ... click,

click .. . the best. At 8:59 the Digger walks to the top of the down escalator, which is rilled with people

disappearing into the pit. He reaches into the bag and curls his finger around the comfy grip of the gun, which may be an Uzi or a Mac-10 or an Intertech but definitely weighs eleven pounds and is loaded with a hundred-round clip of .22 long-rifle bullets. The Diggers hungry for soup but he ignores the sensation. Because hes the ... click ... the best. He looks toward but not at the crowd, waiting their turn to step onto the down escalator, which will take them to hell. He doesnt look at the couples or the men with telephones or women with hair from Supercuts, which is where Pamela went. He doesnt look at the families. He clutches the shopping bag to his chesf, the way anybody would if it were full of holiday treats. One hand on the grip of whatever kind of gun it is, his other hand curled-outside the bag-around what somebody might think is a loaf of Fresh Fields bread that would go very nicely with soup but is in fact a heavy sound suppressor, packed with mineral cotton and rubber baffles. His watch beeps. Nine A.M. He pulls the trigger. There is a hissing sound as the stream of bullets begins working its way down the passengers on the escalator and they pitch forward under the fire. The hush hush hush of the gun is suddenly obscured by the screams.

Oh God look out Jesus Jesus whats happening Im hurt Im falling. And things like that. Hush hush hush. And all the terrible clangs of the misses-the bullets striking the metal and the tile. That

sound is very loud. The sounds of the hits are much softer. Everyone looks around, not knowing whats going on. The Digger looks around too. Everyone frowns. He frowns. Nobody thinks that they are being shot. They believe that someone has fallen and started a chain reaction of people tumbling down the escalator. Clangs and snaps as phones and briefcases and sports bags fall from the hands of the victims. The hundred rounds are gone in seconds. No one notices the Digger as he looks around, like everyone else. Frowning. Call an ambulance the police the police my God this girl needs help she needs help

somebody hes dead oh Jesus my Lord her leg look at her leg my baby my baby... The Digger lowers the shopping bag, which has one small hole in the bottom where

the bullets left. The bag holds all the hot, brass shells. Shut it off shut off the escalator oh Jesus look somebody stop it stop the escalator

theyre being crushed... Things like that. The Digger looks. Because everybodys looking. But its hard to see into hell. Below is just a mass of bodies piling up, growing higher, writhing... Some are alive, some dead, some struggling to get out from underneath the crush thats piling up at the base of the escalator. The Digger is easing backward into the crowd. And then hes gone. Hes very good at disappearing. When you leave you should act like a chameleon,

said the man who tells him things. Do you know what that is? A lizard. Right. That changes color. I saw it on TV. The Digger is moving along the sidewalks, filled with people. Running this way and

that way. Funny. Funny... Nobody notices the Digger. Who looks like you and looks like me and looks like the woodwork. Whose face is

white as a morning sky. Or dark as the entrance to hell. As he walks-slowly, slowly-he thinks about his motel. Where hell reload his gun and repack his silencer with bristly mineral cotton and sit in his comfy chair with a bottle of water and a bowl of soup beside him. Hell sit and relax until this afternoon and then-5f the man who tells him things doesnt leave a message to tell him not to-hell put on his long black or blue coat once more and go outside. And do this all over again. Its New Years Eve. And the Diggers in town.

While ambulances were speeding to Dupont Circle and rescue workers were digging through the ghastly mine of bodies in the Metro station, Gilbert Havel walked toward City Hall, two miles away.

At the corner of Fourth and D, beside a sleeping maple tree, Havel paused and opened the envelope he carried and read the note one last time. Mayor Kennedy The end is night. The Digger is loose and their is no way to stop him. He will kill again - at four, 8 and Midnight if you dont pay. I am wanting $20 million dollars in cash, which you will put into a bag and leave it two miles south of Rt 66 on the West Side of the Beltway. In the middle of the Field. Pay to me the Money by 1200 hours. Ony I am knowing how to stop The Digger. If you apprehend me, he will keep killing. If you kill me, he will keep on killing.