“That’s ridiculous,” Jones spat.

“I disagree,” Merry returned. “But you want a second opinion, be happy to call Lieutenant Colton and see how he feels about this shit you’re pullin’.”

Jones tried to check it but couldn’t quite hide the fact he’d reared back.

That meant either Colt had already told him to go fuck himself (which was probably not the case, Colt would have warned me) or Colt’s reputation had preceded him, considering the number of people before Jones he’d told to go fuck themselves.

Merry didn’t miss Jones’s reaction.

“I see. You think you’re targeting the weak,” he whispered disturbingly.

“As an officer of the law,” Jones fired back, “you are aware that the study of the criminal mind is essential to understanding it, so that future incidences can either be avoided or the perpetrator can be tracked and caught before he or she causes too much damage.”

“So,” Merry took his hands off his hips and folded his arms on his chest, “you’re writin’ a criminology textbook?”

“No,” Jones bit off. “I have a contract with a traditional publisher.”

“Which means you’re cashin’ in on your FBI trainin’ to make money off of misery,” Merry deduced.

At that, Jones thankfully decided he was done.

I knew this when he stepped away from Merry and muttered, “I see that I’ll need to find alternative avenues to understanding Lowe’s psyche.”

“How’s this? The man was jacked,” Merry told him.

At these words, Jones’s face screwed up in a weird way that didn’t seem right to me.

But Merry wasn’t done talking, and as he kept going, Jones’s face shifted back to annoyance before I could figure it out.

“And that shit was textbook. There wasn’t anything new there, and you’ve got to have studied him so you know that’s the straight up truth. What you intend to do is not a service to the community, man. Be honest with yourself. And you fuck with people’s lives that they pieced together after that maniac ripped them apart, be honest with them that you’re doin’ this for cash in your pocket, book tours, and in hopes of seein’ your name on a film credit.”

That took Jones from annoyed and frustrated to pissed.

“Small-town cop who thinks he knows it all but doesn’t know dick. I’ll confirm you don’t know dick since you sure as fuck do not know me,” he clipped.

That didn’t sound very FBI-like.

Then again, what did I know? I’d only met a couple of them and, thankfully, our associations were brief.

“Small-town cop in the ’burg rocked by Dennis Lowe’s lunacy, and we’ve seen a lot of assholes like you,” Merry returned. “You’re standing outside the home of a woman Lowe fucked with that you underestimated, ’cause I’m tellin’ you now, you’re actually lucky you’re dealin’ with me. If I let her loose on you, she’d grind you to nothing. And that woman is my woman. So do not stand outside my woman’s home and tell me what I don’t know. I know you. I can see right through you. And all I see is ugliness and greed.”