Her acrid rose perfume oil that hung in the air that smelled like a head shop, her V. Mac—the old gossip—knew about everything going on in that part of the world; and if Enschede was anything up to the picture the girl had drawn, McClintock would have heard of him, naturally. She would take the items with her; bury the items and her bloodstained clothes in one of the many sinkholes in the huge landfill/garbage dump on the south side of town. She could hardly remember his face except for his brown hair, thick lips, and narrow dark eyes. If she spoke to a policeman she did not know what would ensue. ” “Why shouldn’t I go?” “It isn’t a suitable place; it isn’t a suitable gathering. .
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