<meta content="urn:uuid:6ab7c8ca-fa8a-4e41-ba4a-5a4beed4fa51" name="Adept.expected.resource"/> </head> <body> <p class="p1"> </p> <p class="p1"> </p> <p class="p1"> </p> <h1 class="h10"><a id="ncx432"/><a id="a37"/>CHAPTER FIVE</h1> <p class="p1"> </p> <p class="p1"> </p> <p class="p1">They arrived at the crime scene and Ilse spotted two police cars sitting in the parking lot outside a large, warehouse-shaped studio. Two trailers sat on the lot, in the shade, beneath a green and white striped awning. A concessions table, laden with fruit, bottled water, sparkling drinks, and various snacks was visible just within the doors of the large set. A couple of figures were standing outside one of the trailers, next to the crisscrossing caution tape over the door.</p> <p class="p1">The figures looked bored, and both of them wore the blues and blacks of Seattle's finest.</p> <p class="p1">No one else was visible on the set, as if the studio had been, overnight, turned into a ghost town.</p> <p class="p1">Sawyer pulled beneath a raised, parking lot bar, past a meter. A spot reserved for the handicapped sat off to the side, but Sawyer ignored this, trundling past and preferring to park in a spot further down the lot, even though no one else was on the scene. Sawyer was strange like this. Sometimes, he didn't seem to care about the rules at all, but when children or the injured or elderly were involved, he would follow the rules to the letter of the law.</p> <p class="p1">She'd never seen him speed in a school zone, but she'd never seen him follow the limit on the highway. She'd never seen him be rough with a woman or an older witness, but she'd never seen him take it easy on a scumbag.</p> <p class="p1">Now, as they came to a full stop in a parking space across from the handicapped spot, Sawyer put them in park, pulled the keys and flung open his door. “Ready, doc?” he called back.</p> <p class="p1">She flashed a thumbs up.</p> <p class="p1">The two of them moved around the hood of the car, heading towards the guarded trailer.</p> <p class="p1">“Thing is five times bigger than my office,” Sawyer muttered beneath his breath as the two of them moved across the asphalt. Stray pieces of gravel scattered beneath their feet. Ilse shifted, tugging uncomfortably at the sleeves of her sweater and pulling the hem down, even past her palms. <span class="t13">Turtling </span>some shrinks called it. A protective measure. Putting up walls, or physically manifesting a defensive posture. There were all sorts of terms and jargon to explain the same phenomenon. When Ilse stepped foot near danger or devilry, she often felt the return of childhood instincts.</p> <p class="p1">She brushed her hair uncomfortably past her ear, feeling the eyes of the two police officers on her as they neared the trailer.</p> <p class="p1">Sawyer, on the other hand, didn't seem at all perturbed by the audience. “Hey boys,” he said with a wave. “FBI.”</p> <p class="p1">The two cops looked hesitantly at the agents. Ilse didn't blame them. This had been a problem for the two of them in the past as well.</p> <p class="p1">Sawyer, lanky, wearing a baseball cap, dusty jeans from his woodworking, and a flannel shirt, looked more like a skinny farmer than an agent. And Ilse in her sweater, slacks and make-up free features looked like a stay-at-home mother rather than an investigator.</p> <p class="p1">Sawyer often didn't go for his ID, preferring that cops just take his word for it. Ilse, more accustomed to the way people interpreted unspoken signals already had her ID in hand, holding it up.</p> <p class="p1">The two cops blinked in surprise and shared a look. One of the men, in a neat, silver chinstrap and prematurely wrinkled eyes, glanced between them both. “Need anything from us, or we good to take a cigarette break?”</p> <p class="p1">“Take it,” Sawyer said. “Grab some snacks while you're at it.” He waved into the studio. “Don't look like anyone else is gonna anytime soon.”</p> <p class="p1">The cops both looked grateful all of a sudden and nodded in appreciation as they stepped away from their posts and began moving towards the open, studio door. The older man's hand slipped into his pocket and pulled out a pack, his other hand reaching for a metal lighter dangling at his belt.</p> <p class="p1">Sawyer pushed open the door to the trailer, and immediately Ilse detected a sudden, pungent odor of cleaning liquids.</p> <p class="p1">Sawyer began to step into the trailer, but then suddenly stiffened. Ilse froze, heart leaping.</p> <p class="p1">Sawyer paused a moment, but seamlessly took what he saw in stride. “Who are you?” he said, his tone calm. </p> <p class="p1">Ilse stared, wide-eyed, as a young woman in a white lab coat raised her hands skyward, her own eyes the size of saucers as she stared at the two agents in the door.</p> <p class="p1">“I—I—who—forensics!” she stammered hastily, shaking her head hurriedly. “Sorry, sorry—didn't mean... didn't know... just—just was told to finish up!” The young woman was somewhat round with a pretty face. She glanced past Sawyer and Ilse, suddenly frowning towards the two cops who were both snickering as they moved towards the concessions table. “They didn't tell you I was in here?” she said, breathing heavily, and glancing warily at Sawyer's hand.</p> <p class="p1">The lanky agent removed his fingers from his holster, grunting. “Nah. Didn't. Forensics who?”</p> <p class="p1">“Umm, just—I work for Doctor Avery. Look, I'm just finishing up.”</p> <p class="p1">“What's your name?” Ilse asked, her rapidly pounding heart returning to a more appropriate rhythm.</p> <p class="p1">“Oh, yeah, umm, Sonya,” she said, quickly. The young woman shifted again, and Ilse spotted her gloved hands and a stack of plastic bags clutched in her other hand. There was a container that looked like a translucent toolbox at her foot, just within the door, as well as a row of swabs and miniature glass tubes resting on top of the box.</p> <p class="p1">“Need us to come back later, Sonya?” Ilse asked.</p> <p class="p1">The woman sighed, glancing back, but shaking her head. “Umm—no, no, that's fine. I can grab the last of what we need after. Most of it is already done. Blood is already cleaned,” she added with a brightening tone as if hopeful this might please the two agents outside.</p> <p class="p1">Sawyer just sighed, but to his credit kept his temper in check. Ilse nodded politely, waiting patiently for the younger woman to catch the non-verbal cues. When she didn't, Sawyer and Ilse both spoke simultaneously.</p> <p class="p1">“Get out,” Sawyer said.</p> <p class="p1">“Could you please step out for a moment,” Ilse said.</p> <p class="p1">The woman's mouth widened. “Oh—oh, yes, sorry, so sorry. Just—yes. Here, look, let me put these here. All yours—it's all yours.”</p> <p class="p1">She placed the baggies on top of the translucent box, then stepped down to the pavement and slipped past Sawyer. The woman was quite short and couldn't have been a hair over five foot.</p> <p class="p1">“Hang on,” Sawyer said suddenly. “You got ID?”</p> <p class="p1">The woman's eyebrows went up. But her hand darted into her white coat and hastily pulled out a lanyard which she presented to Tom. After a quick examination of the badge, Sawyer looked her in the eyes, which forced him to tilt his gaze down, and he said, “What are you still looking for?”</p> <p class="p1">“Oh, the usual,” the young woman said quickly. “Blood. Semen. Prints. All of it.”</p> <p class="p1">“Find any?”</p> <p class="p1">“Lots of blood, but from the victim.”</p> <p class="p1">“Any semen?” Sawyer said not batting an eyelid.</p> <p class="p1">“N—no. Not yet. I'm hopeful though,” she said, brightening. “I'm good at this, actually. Very good. Dr. Avery doesn't normally hire people without much field experience. But... well, you know, not to brag, but I tend to find things others don't.” She beamed at this, nodding. “I was the one who found the chipped tooth of the ice-truck killer.”</p> <p class="p1">Sawyer suddenly looked impressed. “Really? That was you?”</p> <p class="p1">She grinned now, a cheeky, mischievous smile. “Yup, yup.”</p> <p class="p1">Sawyer scratched his chin. “It true you found the fragment in the victim's own mouth?”</p> <p class="p1">“Yeah! I wouldn't have looked either, but there was something about the way the lips were that didn't match with rigor mortis post coitus... anyway...,” the woman shrugged.</p> <p class="p1">“How old are you?” Ilse said, frowning.</p> <p class="p1">Sonya blinked. “Oh. Umm. Twenty,” she said. “Well, I will be next month.”</p> <p class="p1">“You're nineteen?” Ilse asked, gaping.</p> <p class="p1">Sonya flashed an uncertain smile. “Finished school in two years when I was sixteen. Still in grad-school. But Dr. Avery doesn't mind.”</p> <p class="p1"> Ilse stared in wonder. Sawyer looked less impressed and was glancing into the trailer now. “What can you tell me that I don't already know?” he asked, waving a hand into the crime scene.</p> <p class="p1">The young woman suddenly straightened. Some of her nervous energy depleting to be replaced by an eager tone. “The victim,” she said without missing a beat, “was nude when attacked. Not after. No sign of discarded or missing clothing. I already checked with wardrobe on set. She was stabbed in the lung first. And from there was tortured.” Sonya's expression didn't change at all as if she were reciting a school paper rather than speaking of horrific things. “Superficial cuts mostly, to the face. Those <span class="t13">weren't </span>what killed her.”</p> <p class="p1">Ilse blinked. “That's not what the report says.”</p> <p class="p1">Sonya winced. “I'm sure Dr. Avery will alter it once he gets a chance for a thorough examination.”</p> <p class="p1">“You disagree with the coroner?” Sawyer countered.</p> <p class="p1">Sonya hesitated, shifting nervously on one foot. “Ummm... No. Just... It was the cut across the throat that did it. She was still bleeding; you can see by the spray pattern that blood vessels were still pumping. I found blood on the clothing rack—which would've been above the victim. Now, perhaps it was possible the killer kept waving around his weapon, but it doesn't seem so because the superficial cuts on her face were connected, meaning it required precision. The stab wounds <span class="t13">afterwards </span>were done once she'd already died.”</p> <p class="p1">“Let me get this straight,” Sawyer said frowning. “You say the killer stabbed her lung to incapacitate, tortured her, killed her, then stabbed her again to mutilate?”</p> <p class="p1">“Yes,” Sonya replied without missing a beat.</p> <p class="p1">She was still holding her lanyard in one hand as if uncertain what to do with it now. Ilse glanced at the ID again and noticed the last name. <span class="t13">Sonya Avery. </span>A relation to Dr. Avery, the coroner, perhaps?</p> <p class="p1"> Sawyer glanced into the trailer, and Ilse followed his gaze. A clothing rack set next to an open window and a floor-to ceiling mirror. Small little lightbulbs framed the mirror, but they were dead.</p> <p class="p1">Sawyer nodded towards Sonya Avery, then slipped past her, stepping into the trailer. Ilse followed, murmuring, “Thank you,” as she passed. The young woman, the teenager, just nodded quickly, taking an exaggerated step back as if to prove she didn't want to be underfoot at all.</p> <p class="p1">Ilse smiled in what she hoped was a reassuring way. She paused on the steps of the trailer, studied the younger woman, then murmured. “Don't let them get to you,” she said, glancing past Sonya towards the two cops by the concessions table. “You're doing good work.”</p> <p class="p1">The young woman beamed, her cheeks reddening. Then, Ilse nodded once more as if to seal her words and stepped into the trailer as well.</p> <p class="p1">Sawyer frowned as he scanned the space. Most of the blood had already been cleaned, and the strong scent of cleaning fluids filled the air.</p> <p class="p1">Sawyer glanced towards the window, which was ajar, then back at the mirror. “He came through there,” Sawyer said, pointing.</p> <p class="p1">Ilse approached the window, glancing out of it. The second trailer created a small alley against the studio's street-facing wall.</p> <p class="p1">“Anyone might have seen him,” Ilse said. “He just climbed through a window?”</p> <p class="p1">“No one saw him,” Sawyer replied. “Cops on duty questioned everyone on set. No one saw anything.”</p> <p class="p1">“They must have <span class="t13">heard</span> something,” Ilse countered.</p> <p class="p1">Sawyer just shook his head, staring through the ajar window, then glancing back towards the mirror.</p> <p class="p1">“She would've,” he replied with a grunt. “She definitely would've.”</p> <p class="p1">Ilse shifted uncomfortably at the thought. “He wanted her to see him coming,” she said. “That would fit with a sadist. They feed on fear.”</p> <p class="p1">“The torture does too,” Sawyer replied. “That marathon runner—his legs were stabbed.”</p> <p class="p1">Ilse glanced towards the mirror now as well, studying her own reflection. “Think that's relevant?” she murmured.</p> <p class="p1">“Yup. Think so. Figure why?”</p> <p class="p1">Ilse hesitated, but then winced. “A runner—so he stabs the legs. A model, so he cuts the face. He's taking what is valuable to them. He's making a statement.”</p> <p class="p1">“Pride,” Sawyer said simply. “Grisly pride.”</p> <p class="p1">Ilse looked back towards the thin man. “Why do you say pride?”</p> <p class="p1">“He thinks he's smarter than us,” Sawyer said with a shrug. “Broad daylight—hunts 'em, kills 'em, gets away with it. Did it again. This is hubris.”</p> <p class="p1">Ilse bit her lip. “If it's pride, something must have triggered recently, yes? Prideful people don't normally torture strangers to death.”</p> <p class="p1">“We don't know they were strangers.”</p> <p class="p1">“Perhaps not.”</p> <p class="p1">“Maybe that's how he got them alone,” Sawyer returned. “Maybe they knew him.”</p> <p class="p1">Ilse paused, considering this. “I—I don't know. Why climb through a window, then? Besides, knowing his victims—I don't think it would've mattered to a sadist with anger issues motivated by a sense of superiority.”</p> <p class="p1">Sawyer snorted. “You saying Rawley did it?”</p> <p class="p1">Ilse rolled her eyes. “Be serious.”</p> <p class="p1">“I am,” Sawyer muttered, his eyes twinkling. “But we should figure out if our killer knew the victims.”</p> <p class="p1">Ilse hesitated, but then nodded. “Adelaide Stevens was local,” she said. “Her driver's license record has always been in Washington. Her family might know something.”</p> <p class="p1">Sawyer tucked his tongue inside his cheek and closed his eyes for a moment as if bracing against a sudden chill.</p> <p class="p1">“What is it?” she asked.</p> <p class="p1">“Nothing,” he muttered. “Just don't like talking to grieving parents.”</p> <p class="p1">Ilse winced. “Do you have a better idea?”</p> <p class="p1">Sawyer released his pent-up breath. “Nah. You're right. Let's go.”</p> <p class="p1">Ilse exited the trailer first, glancing towards where the cops and the young forensics assistant were standing near the concessions table. She remembered what it was like to be young, working on her degree, working with Dr. Mitchell, her mentor.</p> <p class="p1">She'd come so far, it felt like.</p> <p class="p1">Then other days, like when she received those postcards, it was as if she hadn't changed at all.</p> <p class="p1">What a troubling thought.</p> <p class="p1">She frowned to herself, moving back in the direction of their idle vehicle. Sawyer was right, of course. Speaking with grieving parents was hardly an enjoyable prospect.</p> <p class="p1">But they had to start somewhere.</p> <p class="p1">And sometimes, the only path to true answers was <span class="t13">through </span>the painful experiences, rather than around them.</p> <p class="p1"> </p> </body> </html>