Two women, dressed in ballroom gowns both squawked as Mr. Clement barreled between them, knocking them over, petticoats flying.
Ilse winced and shouted, “Sorry!” as she jumped over one of the sprawling women and hastened up the stairs. Sawyer had stopped to catch the second woman before she fell and hit her head. “You good?” he said. “Good!” He pushed past her, racing up the steps as well.
The faint delay had cost him time, though. Now, Ilse was in the lead, gasping and panting as she raced after Mr. Clement.
“Stop!” she yelled up the stairs. “Stop now! FBI!”
“Leave me alone!” a moaning voice, carried by a panting breath came from above. She watched pale fingers slapping against the banister above as she curled around the stairs as well and followed up the next flight.
The man didn't appear to be armed—didn't appear to be much of a threat at all. As she hastened up the stairs, two at a time, sweating, breathing heavily, taking one flight, two, three, she found their suspect was now leading them higher up the hotel, away from the conference room.
She heard a clatter from above, a yelp. And then spotted red liquid pooling down the steps on the fourth-floor landing.
Her heart pounded as she reached the landing and she spotted a man, wearing an outfit like a pirate leaning against the wall, massaging his head. A tray of drinks had been sent smashing to the floor, red liquid—which smelled like strawberries—glazing the ground.
Ilse hopped the puddle, lunging for a slowly closing door at the top of the staircase.
“He's heading into the hotel!” she shouted over her shoulder. She paused long enough to check the man in the pirate outfit. “Are you alright?”
He massaged his head, wincing, red liquid dripping from his fingertips. “I—I think I'm stabbed... wait—no... No just the drinks. Shit—what was that?” the man turned, shouting through the door Ilse now held open. “You hooligan!”
Sawyer had now caught up with Ilse, and the two of them shoved hastily into the hallway of the fourth floor.
That's when Ilse spotted him. Mr. Clement was standing at the end of a long hall, near two large windows, staring out into the morning with a horrified expression on his face. He shot a frightened look back, then returned his attention to the window.
That's when Ilse realized what he intended.
“Scaffolding,” she said sharply.
“Saw it,” Sawyer replied.
The two agents approached slower now. Red footprints, from the sticky drink, led from the door, down the hall, towards where the would-be author was standing, a dazed look in his eyes.
“I didn't do anything!” he screamed. “Leave me alone!” He reached up then, opening the window and staring towards the painting scaffolding. He took a long puff of air, then stepped up, placing one foot on the windowsill.
He looked back again, eyes wide with panic.
Sawyer made a guttural growl, stomping down the hallway now and approaching the man with his foot on the window sill.
“You won't,” Sawyer snapped. “You want to fall and die? Hmm? Nah—you won't.”
“Stay back!” the man screamed. “Get away from me!”
“You're wanted for questioning,” Sawyer said, his tone as cold as the blood of a rattlesnake. “Get the hell off that sill. Come here. Now.”
The man braced as Sawyer drew nearer still. He looked panicked in Ilse's direction, then back at Sawyer. A small sob escaped his lips and he leaned forward, trying to pull himself onto the window ledge. He gripped at the wooden painting scaffolding beyond.
“Don't do it,” Ilse called in warning. “You'll fall.”
The man was blubbering now, sobbing and shaking his head wildly. He gave a long rasping groan, the fake leaves of his suit crackling like plastic bags.
Sawyer just kept walking forward. Not running, not jogging—a simple, calm walk. He didn't seem at all perturbed by the man's posture. Ilse didn't know what they'd do if he tried to flee via scaffolding. If he fell from the fourth floor, he'd break most of the bones in his body.
The man looked back at Sawyer, who was still strolling forward, a frown affixed to his features. Mr. Clement shook a finger back over his shoulder. “Stay away! I'm warning you—stay back!”
Clearly, he hadn't reached the decision to climb the scaffolding yet, or else he would already have left. But now, facing out the window, staring at the plummet and the rickety, wooden structure, he seemed to have lost his nerve.
A nerve, though, that was quickly approaching the closer Sawyer got.
“Sawyer,” Ilse said slowly, a warning note to her tone.
“Stay back!” Clement screamed.
“You won't,” Sawyer muttered. “You just won't.”
Ilse again, “Sawyer—careful. He's going—”
“I said to leave me alone!” Clement screamed. And then he lunged through the window, towards the scaffolding.
Sawyer didn't speak this time, but surged forward all of a sudden, closing the last few steps in leaping bounds.
He snatched a handful of fake green leaves in the makeshift suit, yanking hard. Mr. Clement shouted, Ilse braced herself, the window clattered. Something from the wooden painter's scaffolding cracked.
And then, Sawyer yanked the man bodily back through the window, flinging him towards the carpeted hotel hallway.
The man struck the ground with a grunt and a sound like a leaking balloon. He stared dazedly up at the ceiling, wincing and massaging at his ribs.
Sawyer pointed down at the man, growling, “We told you to stop.”
The man tried to respond, but just wheezed again, moaning as he tried to sit up. But Sawyer caught him, spinning him onto his stomach and twisting his arm behind his back.
“Owowowow,” the man protested with a shout.
Ilse had hastened to Sawyer's side now and she stooped quickly, cuffs in hand, grabbing the man's wrist and slipping the handcuff over it with a satisfying click.
“Sir, you're under arrest,” she said firmly. “We need to ask you some questions.”
***
The hotel had provided them with a small meeting room on the second floor. Ilse had agreed that the drive back to the precinct would have cost precious time. The killer had been striking every couple of days, which meant the more time wasted, the more danger someone was in.
But now, Ilse was hopeful, as she settled in the cushioned office chair, that they'd found their culprit.
She studied the man, frowning at him. He hunched in his seat, his cuffed hands resting on the table. He glared between the two of them, looking even more like Humpty-Dumpty than he had at first.
“I want a lawyer,” the bald man demanded, mean-mugging both of them. “Now!”
Sawyer crossed his arms. “So you've said. Your lawyer has been notified. They're on their way.”
“Good. I'm not saying shit.”
Sawyer tapped his fingers against the table. “You like fairy tales, do you?” he paused as the words left his lips, and Ilse watched him swallow and give the faintest, incredulous shakes of his head as if he couldn't quite believe what he was saying.
“What?” the man snorted. “That's not a crime.”
“No, no I suppose not,” said Sawyer, watching the man. “Why'd you run?”
He leaned back in his chair, his face even more pale than the photo online in his author bio. He kept shooting nervous glances between the agents, inter-spliced by obnoxious shakes of his head or long glares.
“We have police heading to your home as we speak,” Sawyer said simply. “If we find the murder weapon, plans, files on your computer—any of it. You're going away for a long time.”
The man's eyes bugged, and he looked horrified. “You can't do that!” he protested loudly.
Sawyer leaned in, a bit more attentive all of a sudden. Sensing the same thing Ilse did.
Fear. This last comment had terrified their suspect.
“You ran and you tried to escape out a window,” Sawyer said simply. “Why? What's got you spooked now? What are we going to find at your house, hmm? A knife? DNA evidence?”
“A—a knife.... what? No! No, you don't have permission to check my computers,” he said, swallowing nervously. “Where's my lawyer?”
“On his way,” Sawyer repeated.
Ilse, though, was staring at the man now, a frown etched across her brow. “Hang on,” she murmured slowly. “What are you hiding on your computers?”
He looked at her now, panicked at every mention of the electronic device. “Nothing,” he said, but his voice squeaked, and he swallowed a lump in his throat. “It's not—it's just... art... It's just art! That's all. I didn't do what you think I did! I don't even own a knife!”
“Everyone owns knives,” Ilse said.
“No! No! You're talking like it's some sort of violent thing. I never hurt a fly. It's all just—just pictures! Shit, where's my lawyer!?” The failed animator was hyperventilating now, shaking his head so wildly sweat droplets scattered across the table.
Ilse studied the flustered man, trying to place the source of his terror. He didn't compute the references to violence, didn't even seem to care about the possibility they had him pegged for murder. Rather, he was terrified about his computer... About what they might find on it. Just pictures, he'd said. But what was he referring to?
“What are they going to find on your hard drive?” Ilse said quietly, staring at the man.
His bug eyes turned from Sawyer to her. “Nothing! Lawyer!”
Ilse leaned back, crossing her arms. “I see,” she said slowly, feeling a sudden sense of frustration. As she stared at the man, she knew the truth.
This wasn't their guy.
Too scared. He ran instead of fought. When he had the chance, he didn't put up much of a struggle. This wasn't a violent man. He was a coward.
The leaf suit, the children's stories, the terror over his hard drive... Ilse closed her eyes and let out a faint sigh. “Ah... I see,” she repeated with a nod.
Sawyer glanced at her when she opened her eyes again and quirked an eyebrow in question.
“He has child pornography on his computer,” she said matter-of-factly. She turned instantly to watch Mr. Clement's expression.
The pallor of his face would have made ghosts look tan by comparison. The sweat had now migrated from his forehead to his upper lip.
“They're just pictures!” he squeaked out.
Sawyer stared from Ilse to the man across the table in cuffs. “Come again?” he said.
“Underage pornography,” Ilse said. “Just a guess, but confirmed by his reaction.” She stood up in disgust, shaking her head. “You're wasting our time,” she said, pointing an unyielding finger towards the man across the table. “And you're wasting your life,” she added.
Sawyer stared at Clement from beneath hooded eyes. Ilse noticed the way his hands had bunched on the table. Her partner had a soft spot where children were concerned. And he had a much, much harder reaction towards those who victimized them, or enjoyed viewing their victimization like some sort of commodity.
“That's what we're gonna find?” Sawyer said, staring at the man.
Mr. Clement seemed to have noticed Sawyer's bunched fist as well now. “Lawyer,” he squeaked again, shaking his head.
Just then, Sawyer's phone began to ring. He cursed, lifting the device and slapping it to his cheek. “What?” he demanded, his eyes blazing as he stared towards Mr. Clement. “Yeah. Yes. Second floor. Well send his ass up then, why don't you?”
He lowered the phone and made a snorting sound before shoving angrily to his feet.
This time, it was Ilse's turn to quirk a brow.
“His lawyer is here,” Sawyer muttered, jutting a finger towards the man across from them. “Asshole's got legal on speed dial, I guess.”
“The lawyer's heading up?”
“Yeah. Locals bringing him.”
Ilse sighed, nodding. She reached out, gently pressing her fingers to Sawyer's wrist above his bunched hand.
The man was still sweating, trembling now, his handcuffs rattling under the close scrutiny.
“Don't like being watched, huh?” Sawyer muttered. “Not when you're vulnerable, I bet. Well get the hell used to it. Lotta people gonna watch you, Mr. Clement. No privacy for a while.”
Ilse sighed, patting Sawyer on the arm, and thankfully he relaxed his fingers. She'd been worried he might punch the guy. She wanted to tell the man off as well, but she said, instead, “Get some help,” in a soft voice. “Before it's too late.” She gave a dejected shake of her head.
“I'll be right out in the hall,” Sawyer added, pointing a finger towards the man behind the table. “I'll get you for this. Get you for the murders too.”
A loud knock suddenly retorted on the wooden door. Sawyer glared beneath the brim of his cap as Ilse reached back, opening the door.
A woman in a business suit stood there, scowling at them. “What is this?” she demanded instantly.
Two cops were flanking her, looking sheepishly at the agents.
“We were holding him until you got here,” Ilse said. “Needed immediate aid in an ongoing investigation.”
“I don't care,” the lawyer retorted. “You have no right to keep my client here. Is he under arrest?”
“Damn right he is,” Sawyer snapped.
The lawyer looked at him, frowning. “What's your name? Badge number?”
Sawyer looked right back at her. “I forget.” Then, he brushed past her, stomping out into the hall and leaving the office space.
Ilse passed a hand through her hair, then sighed, wincing towards the two officers who were watching the exchange. She also stepped into the hall, ignoring the pointed look from the lawyer. The door slowly shut behind her.
“Stay here,” Ilse said, nodding towards the door. She looked from one local to the next. “Once they're done, take him to the station. Also, tell the locals searching his place to bring his hard drives. Got it?”
Both men nodded, and Ilse flashed a quick Okay sign before moving down the carpeted hall towards where Sawyer was stalking away. She had to jog to catch up with him.
As she did, Sawyer looked over at her. “Not our guy, is it?” he said glumly.
Ilse winced, shaking her head. “What clued you in?”
Sawyer lifted his phone, wiggling it. “Traffic report from his internet usage thanks to Rudy,” Sawyer muttered. He glanced back at the device and lowered it again just as quickly. “Not sure I can stomach the site names.”
“But it clears him?” Ilse asked, peering towards the printed screenshot on Sawyer's phone.
“Yeah,” the tall man grunted, slowing his long gait to a slower stroll. He didn't look back down the hall towards the two posted officers either. “He was... busy. Active for hours during the first murder. Couldn't have done it.”
“Right... He's not the type, either,” Ilse said with a shrug. “If it's not him then...”
“So there goes the storybook theory,” Sawyer said, turning now to face her. “Can't say I'm disappointed. Wasn't my favorite theory of yours if I'm honest.”
Ilse though frowned. “The theory is good. The suspect isn't. They're different things.”
Now Sawyer just looked at her incredulously. “You're not serious,” he said.
Ilse returned the tenor of the stare. “As a heart attack. I'd stake anything that our killer is recreating fairy tales. We just need to try another angle.”
Sawyer turned, snorting again and picking up the pace once more to stride down the hall.
“Don't you harrumph at me!” Ilse called after him. “I'm right about this.”
“We caught a pervert not a killer, doc. We need a new option.”
“No, we just need a different suspect, Tom.”
“Whatever.”
“Maybe,” Ilse added, no longer walking after her partner but planting her feet firmly in the middle of the hall, “you'd see it too if you weren't so distracted.”
“I'm not distracted!” he retorted, rounding on her with a glare. “I'm doing my job—you should try the same, doc.” The moment he said it, he bit his lip, his jaw tensing. Both of them went still in the hall, fifteen or so paces separating the two of them.
Ilse frowned towards Sawyer, and he let out a faint sigh, jamming his hands into his pockets and looking off to the side like a chastised child.
“I'm also trying to do my job,” Ilse returned, keeping her emotions in check. “And I believe the best way to do that is to stay the course. I don't appreciate your inference, Tom.”
He gave a shrug. “Yeah. Yeah, that's fine. But I'm not distracted. I'm focused as ever, doc.”
“If you say so.” Ilse had long since learned how to control her emotions rather than giving into outbursts. She'd dealt with clients who sometimes went out of their way to get a rise out of her. She'd grown up in a family where fear or anger were choice delicacies. The more she showed them, the more she was provoked.
Now, her expression was impassive.
Sawyer refused to admit his head was in the clouds, or perhaps back home. Wherever it was, it certainly wasn't focused on the job at hand.
She knew it all sounded silly. Knew, also, that to be wrong would be a blight on her record. Not just with Sawyer but with Supervising Agent Rawley and the rest of the FBI. She wasn't thrilled to type up a report suggesting that fairy tales were the motive for murder.
But then again, she was convinced.
She had to stick to her guns.
And so she said, “I think our guy is still out there, and he's going to use a fairy tale as an excuse to strike again, Tom. If we don't stay the course, if we don't find him, then we're going to lose another. I know the theory is silly, but nothing else about this is silly at all. I know that. Can you trust me on that?”
Sawyer rubbed his jaw. “I trust you, doc,” he said. But then he turned and began moving away again. As he left, he muttered beneath his breath, “And that's the problem...” He stalked away, through the door at the end of the hall and disappeared from sight.
Only once he was gone did Ilse stop to wish she'd asked where he was going.
A killer was out there. Sawyer was distracted, and Ilse had found a dead end. She knew fairy tales were the angle. But how could she get ahead of it all? She didn't know all the stories, didn't know their connections. Didn't know what to do next.
She waited a second longer, staring in the direction Sawyer had disappeared, then frowned, looking back towards where the two cops stood sentry.
She wasn't an expert on fairy tales. But behind that door... there was a man who was. Desperate times called for desperate measures. She rolled her shoulders, as if preparing for what came next, and then marched right back in the direction of the sealed office room door, a frown affixed to her features.