Ilse was standing outside the hotel now. Sawyer, thankfully, was still there, sitting in an idling car with the windows down and the sunroof open, even though night had fallen. In the darkness, he looked a gloomy silhouette outlined through the faintly tinted windows of the loaner sedan.
She stood on the curb, watching the car but not approaching it as she waited for her phone to connect. She lowered the phone, double-checking the number to make sure she'd recorded it correctly from the website she'd found on the cop's phone, then lifted her device again, waiting.
Her dumb flip phone often had spotty connections, even in the city, but thankfully, after another long ring, there came a silence, then a breath and a voice, “Admissions office—how can I help you?”
“Umm, hello,” Ilse said cautiously. “I'm calling to speak with Professor Seatman. Is he in?”
“I'm sorry,” the voice said. “Who is this?”
“My name is Agent Beck,” Ilse said, flinching at the introduction. Normally, she would let Sawyer bandy about the term “agent.” But now, she knew she needed an inroad. Still, the word didn't quite fit her name or her lips. “I'm with the FBI,” she pressed on. “We need to speak with Mr. Seatman right away.”
Indeed, the reviews on Mr. Clement's books posted by the professor had paled in comparison to some of his blog postings. The call for violence against anyone who might be deemed a villain—even given the 'fairy tale' context—had immediately caught Ilse's attention. She thought of their last victim, Jackson, the farmer. He'd tried to start a new life after an assault in his younger years. Perhaps in Seatman's mind, or one of his blog reader's minds, Mr. Jackson was the sort of villain that didn't deserve a happy ending.
“Umm,” the voice on the other line lost some of its professionalism. “Do you mind telling us what this is about?”
Us. Someone else was in the room. A supervisor? The professor himself?
“I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to divulge that,” Ilse replied. “Can you transfer me to the professor's number, please?”
“I'm afraid I can't do that.”
Ilse frowned. “Why not?”
“It's school policy, but look, that doesn't matter. Professor Seatman isn't here.”
“Oh? You mean he's already left for the night.” Ilse glanced at her phone, lifting it from her face. It was nearly 7:30 PM. Daylight had retreated. Professors were notorious for long hours, and the school admissions' office hours went until eight according to their website.
“No,” the voice returned. “It's just, Mr. Seatman has taken a leave of absence.”
“How long?” she said, feeling a prickle along her back.
“Just these last few days... Umm, let me check... It started...” A pause, the sound of a keyboard, then more confidently, “Last week Tuesday.”
Ilse blinked. “So nearly eight days?” That would have been before the murders started. What were the odds? “Did he give a reason for the leave of absence.”
The voice paused on the other end. Ilse heard a murmured exchange with someone else in the room. “My supervisor says that's confidential,” the voice replied.
Ilse paused for a moment, considering her next move. Mercy was all well and good, but she wasn't a one trick pony either. She considered how Sawyer might approach this particular problem, then settled quickly on a solution. “I see. I suppose we'll just have to send agents to the school then, to go through your files and confiscate computers. We should have the warrant by midnight, maybe early morning. Try not to go to sleep, we don't want to have to wake the president at his home. What's your name again, miss? Just so we can tell him who we were speaking to? Your supervisor's name too, please.”
Another pause, a faint breath, then the sound of fumbling and a new voice replied. “I'm the coordinator of admissions affairs,” the new voice said, sounding flustered. “It's not a big deal, really. There's no need for any of that.”
“We need answers,” Ilse replied sternly.
“We don't know you're FBI,” the voice returned.
“I'm texting you a photo of my ID now,” Ilse said. She already stored a photo on her dumb phone. The camera was quite grainy. But after pressing send, Ilse waited only a moment, before the voice sighed. “Agent Beck?”
“Yes.”
“Right, well, look, it's not a big deal. Professor Seatman had a bit of a... hmm, shall we call it episode in class last week. For his sake he's taking a bit of a break.”
“What sort of episode?” Ilse said, unrelenting like a hound with a bone.
“It was... was mostly nothing,” the voice insisted. “Just—Look, Seatman received comments from some of his students online.”
“On his blog?”
“Y-yes, you know about that? What's this about?”
“Focus, please,” Ilse said. “What sort of comments.”
The faculty member snorted but tried to cover the derisive sound with a cough. “Mr. Seatman received some critiques from anonymous upper classmen about a few of his articles online. He didn't take it particularly well.”
The first voice, the secretary's called out, “He started yelling at us in class. Threatened to fail us all!”
Ilse blinked in surprise. She felt a faint jolt of bleak humor at the irony. Mr. Seatman had left strongly worded, harsh criticism online of any book or fairy tale he didn't like. He never pulled his punches. It seemed fitting that such a judgmental man had a breakdown after receiving some criticism of his own.
So it often was with such people.
“Thank you,” Ilse said. “Can you tell me where I might find Mr. Seatman, please? I need an address.”
***
Ilse noted how quiet Sawyer was on the drive over, not that this was news. He was often quiet. But when Ilse had mentioned the source of the new lead, and the lead itself, he'd only looked beleaguered. Now, he just drove down the quiet suburban streets in the western part of the city.
Ilse didn't try to draw him into conversation now. It wasn't her business to settle whatever demons Sawyer was battling in his own mind. He was a tough man, a willful man, unrelenting. She'd seen him covered in sweat, slicked with mud, marching through rough, forested terrain for hours and hours without lagging. She'd seen him, at the end of such effort, climb into a killer's lair without an ounce of fear. She'd seen this same man, in his free time, patrol misty mountain paths in search for another killer, his eyes fixed on the side of the road, his sheer stubbornness holding exhaustion at bay.
Now, that same stubbornness that conquered physical lack was out to play, and it was directed at Ilse. She still wasn't entirely sure what she'd done to earn his distrust, but this couldn't be solved in the middle of an urgent case.
As they pulled to a slow, grinding halt in the driveway of a large, four thousand square foot plus home, Ilse's attention diverted to the crimson facade. Beyond the house, she spotted a large, complex redwood patio with an intricate set of sloping stairs. The edge of a covered pool was also visible next to a shared tennis court.
“Guess it pays to teach after all,” Ilse murmured beneath her breath. She looked at Sawyer. “Are you coming?”
In response, he turned off the engine, and pushed out of the car onto the drive, stretching his lanky legs.
Grateful for the backup, but not waiting to make a big deal out of it lest she spook Sawyer back into the car, Ilse moved along the drive of the large home. It wasn't quite a mansion, but it aspired to be one.
Under the night, the orange glow from the house looked as if it were preparing for a real estate photograph. Ilse heard faint music coming from within the home, the sound of strings and piano twittering on the air.
The front door, she realized as they drew near, was open.
She frowned, her hand slowly moving to her holster. Sawyer had tensed now too. He nodded down, and Ilse spotted the shoe which lay discarded, and upside down, just within the door.
“Hello there,” she murmured faintly.
She eased the door open and spotted a second shoe—this one also discarded, but somehow had landed on top of an aquarium sitting on a small table by the front door.
The shoes weren't the only haphazardly discarded clothing items. A jacket was sitting in the middle of the carpet, and sweatpants were bunched up next to those, leading a trail of fabric towards an adjoining room.
“Hello!” Ilse called into the house. “FBI! Geoff Seatman, are you in?”
The music from the other room had reached a crescendo of strings and percussive. Ilse waited for the sound to fade before calling again. “Mr. Seatman! Professor? Are you home? This is the FBI!”
She heard, over the swell of music, a groan and faint response from the other room. Her pulse quickened and she took hurried steps down the hall, away from the already open door.
She came to a halt facing a study and frowned.
A man was laying on a leather couch, a scale replica of a battle frigate on the table above him, like some sort of museum ornament. Paintings on the walls displayed scenes from fairy tales. Ilse recognized pixies with wings, big toothy wolves, and an impressionistic portrait with jarring colors of a grizzly bear.
The man on the couch was half naked, wearing only his boxers. He had a glass bottle squeezed against his chest so tight, it pressed into the skin like dough over a bread pan. Other bottles littered the wooden floor around the man.
“Mr. Seatman?” Ilse asked, frowning. “Hello, sir, are you alright?”
The man blinked a few times, propping his head up. He had long, white hair that hadn't been trimmed in years. He wore a wild goatee, also white, but his eyebrows were as black as soot. He had blue eyes like winter seas, but the effect was somewhat ruined by the way they were half hooded, puffy and red, fluttering every couple of seconds.
“Gre—shh—janish? Hi Janish!” he slurred happily. “Welcome to the shloshy fiber.”
Ilse blinked, unable to interpret the drunken spiel.
“Mr. Seatman,” she said slowly, “Are you alright sir?”
He just wagged his white beard at her, and took another sip form the bottle on his chest. A red mark stained his skin where he'd been pressing the bottle.
“Sir,” Sawyer interjected, more sternly, “We need you to get to your feet.”
The distinguished professor raised a hand and flashed the bird, gyrating his hips in a clear gesture intended to offend.
Sawyer frowned, taking a step into the study. “Get up,” Sawyer said.
Ilse, wincing, sidled past her partner, stepping near the man who smelled of beer burps and stale sweat. “Hey, professor,” she said, doing her best to inhale through her mouth, “we need to speak with you about some of the items you've posted online.”
“Who are you?” he asked, blinking and staring at her as if seeing her for the first time.
“My name is Doctor Beck,” Ilse said, only a second later realizing she'd dropped off the word agent. Perhaps a man like this, involved in academics, might respect a shared education pattern.
He burped in her face, sitting up now, and waving his beer bottle around like a king's scepter.
Ilse scowled. “Professor, I need you to sit up now, please.”
The man looked her in the eye, or, at least, tried to, but his gaze kept shifting, his red-ringed pupils widening. He hiccupped and then said. “Hello, darling...”
She reached out to try and guide him to his feet. This man didn't seem like a cold-blooded killer. But as her hand landed on his arm, he scowled at her fingers. Then, he swiped at her with his bottle, trying to dislodge her grip.
It was an easy enough blow to dodge, and she did so, withdrawing her hand, but at the same time, Sawyer moved in with a furious shout. As the beer bottle swished harmlessly past, Sawyer's hand shot out, grabbing the man by the collar and shoving him back onto the couch.
The man yelled but Sawyer placed himself between Ilse and the bottle-throwing fellow, his shoulders trembling with rage.
“It's fine!” Ilse protested. “Sawyer, I'm fine. He didn't hit me.”
Tom glanced at her, his eyes shining with some hidden fury. His teeth were set, and again, Ilse was reminded how Sawyer hadn't been acting like himself recently.
He kicked the glass bottle skittering across the ground and out of reach.
Ilse winced, touching Sawyer's shoulder which was still trembling; he began breathing heavily, holding the man by the collar against the couch, hissing a threatening sound beneath his breath. “Don't throw bottles,” he said, his chill tone and words hardly matching his fiery demeanor.
The professor was groaning now, muttering, “I think I'm going to puke.”
Sawyer, though, clicked his fingers, reaching for Ilse's handcuffs. Reluctantly, with a sigh, she said, “I'm fine, Tom. I'm more than fine.”
He took the handcuffs and began to restrain the guy without so much as a word.