Free Tunnel Vision by Aric Davis Page A

should just count himself lucky that I have no intent on taking anything—assuming he’s actually gone—unless it could be used as evidence. I still have my doubts, of course, but the man had proximity to the victim, and history proves there are plenty of killers that don’t need anything else.
    The house looks normal from a distance. No surprise there, they almost always do, but looks can be very deceiving. I glass the house from down the block, making sure no one is around to wonder what I’m up to, and then I stow the spyglasses and wrap my bike chain around my wheels and a stop sign. I don’t use a lock—never have—but my reasoning is pretty sound. It’s a big-ass chain and looks like it’s locked, and if I need to get away, really need to leave in a hurry, I won’t have to spend time messing around with undoing the lock. Bikes can be replaced. Still, it pains me a bit to walk away from it. For the first time in years, I don’t have the money to replace it if it does get ganked.
    The lots are big here, the houses small—a sure sign of a real estate development that didn’t pan out quite as intended. Stopping in front of his house, I give a quick look to his windows and his neighbors’, don’t see anyone, and then snap a couple quick pictures.
    As far as his house is concerned, Jack Derricks lives a pretty normal life. It’s time to find out if the inside tells the same story.
    I walk to the door like I have every right to and ring the bell. I can hear it in the house, but what I don’t hear is a dog or footsteps, a very good sign. I stand there waiting and ring the bell again, though I know no one’s going to answer it. It’s dead in there. It’s hard not to turn around to make sure that my six is clear. Easy fix for that: I take a burner out, cut to the crappy camera, and shoot a few pictures over my shoulder. To anyone else it looks like I’m texting, but even my throwaway phone can give me a pretty clean view of what’s at my back.
    The pictures let me know that everything is good behind me, and out from the backpack comes the lockpick kit. I’ve been messing with this thing for a few years now, and the truth of it is, most locks are easy to pick. It makes sense when you think about it. Most people just buy one from a hardware store or use the bolt that came with the house or apartment. What that means for a guy like me is that if I can pick one, I can pretty much pick them all. Some have more tumblers and take a little longer, but if I have time, I will get in. Jack’s house proved to be no different. A few clicks and wiggles, and I was inside.
    There was a house I was in a few years back that was hiding a little girl in its belly. I came in through the back and it was like I was walking into hell, but there was the strangest thing out front: no mess at all. The criminals in that place knew they were hiding in plain sight and needed to keep up appearances.
    It only took a few seconds in Jack Derricks’s home to realize he wasn’t too worried about keeping the inside ready for a guest.
    The house wasn’t trashed, but it did look as though it had been paused midparty. There were beer cans and bottles piled on the coffee table, an ashtray overflowing with both cigarette butts and roaches, and a baggie holding a pretty familiar shade of green. I gave the room a quick once-over and decided even the most brazen psycho killer wouldn’t hide an old souvenir in a room that obviously saw so much entertaining. Despite what the television might make you think, criminals aren’t all stupid. In fact, some of them are incredibly intelligent.
    Moving out of the front living area, I pass through a small kitchenette and down a short hall. There are a pair of bedrooms at the rear of the house, one neat enough and probably rarely used—at least judging by the dust on the light fixtures—and one that looks like a bar and a Laundromat had a filth contest and everybody won the grand prize. The smell hits me