The clothing he’d worn – as well as the murder weapon – had been discarded in a Dumpster behind a roadside diner thirty or so miles from the scene of the crime, as he’d made his way to catch his flight. He now wore jeans, over a grey button-down shirt and casual jacket. His only baggage was a carry-on holdall, containing an innocent change of clothing, a toiletry kit and a well-thumbed thriller novel he’d skimmed through on the flight home. Since reclaiming his holdall from where he’d hidden it, he had placed his cigarettes, wallet and cellphone in his jacket pockets. But that was all he carried. He was a big man, but there was nothing distinctive about him that would attract attention, or even more than a cursory glance from any airport staff. He walked out through the arrivals exit confident that no one had paid him any attention. He had three choices: he could take the BART into the city, hail a cab or plump for the next bus to come along. He had taken precautions while in South Dakota, ensuring that there was no record of his visit to Whitehead, having hired a car under false credentials and paid his bill in cash.
