Ilse and Sawyer led the professor out of his quasi-mansion, towards where a police cruiser was pulling up next to the curb, lights flashing. Ilse heard Sawyer whistle, and he waved over one of the cops who hurried out of the vehicle and jogged over, panting as he arrived.
“Take him to the drunk tank,” Sawyer said, giving the inebriated professor a little push on the shoulder. The cop nodded, grabbed the man and began leading him back towards the car. As he did, Sawyer turned, rubbing at the back of his head and staring towards the house.
Ilse watched him out of the corner of her eye. Once he'd calmed a bit, and the back of the police car slammed shut again, she murmured, beneath her breath, “That was an overreaction.”
Sawyer looked at her, then looked away. The two of them stood on the path leading up to the front door of the house. The red and blue lights from the police car behind them reflected off the windows. Ilse knew it wasn't on her to psychoanalyze coworkers, but on the other hand, Sawyer was clearly hurting. He'd restrained himself in handling the inebriated suspect, but she'd rarely seen him so angry. In addition, things could easily get out of hand if she didn't say something. He'd shattered a window. He'd been on the verge of striking a drunk suspect.
Ilse kept her tone calm but continued pressing. “You know it was.”
“He tried to strike you with a weapon,” Sawyer countered. “I did what I had to.”
Ilse shook her head. “No. If you really thought that, you'd be angrier. You'd wonder why I was telling you off for coming to my defense. But since you're not, it means you know it was an overreaction. Sawyer, please, I'm not trying to frustrate you, but I need to know what's going on. Are you okay?”
He turned to look at her now, standing on the driveway. The sound of the police radio chatter could be heard on the air from the open front door of the cruiser. The two cops were checking their suspect in the back seat. One of the cops called, “He okay, or does he need medical?”
Sawyer retorted, “He's fine! Take him to a holding cell. We'll be there when he sobers up.”
A new voice snorted at this comment, and a figure sitting on the porch next door made a tisking sound with their tongue. “Good luck on that,” the neighbor called.
Ilse and Sawyer turned, looking towards this new figure who was leaning on the railing and watching them both. The man was young and had a glass of wine in one hand and a quizzical expression on his face. He looked like a banker, or a lawyer perhaps, with good looks and intelligence behind those eyes.
He waved towards the two agents. Ilse, bemused, waved back.
Sawyer looked off in disgust.
“You live there?” Ilse called, pointing towards the second house.
“Last I checked,” he said. “Mr. Seatman there isn't sobering any time soon.”
“So you said. Why's that?”
The man on the porch sniffed and took another faint sip of his wine before placing it back on the rail. “Because he's been in there for nearly a week, playing that horrible music. The only people who come or leave are the grocery delivery drivers who drop off his thinly disguised bottles. They've been coming in and out for days now.” The man on the porch shrugged then glanced back towards the police car.
“Is everything alright? He didn't do anything stupid, did he?”
Ilse rubbed at her chin, but then just shook her head. “We don't know yet.” She nodded again in gratitude towards the neighbor but turned promptly away, presenting him with her back and facing Sawyer again. In a quieter tone, she said, “What do you think, Tom?”
He looked at her. “This was your angle, Beck. I just followed the call.”
“You bludgeoned the call. But point taken.” Ilse crossed her arms, looking towards the miserable form of the professor in the back seat of the police cruiser.
Her mind was racing now—she could deal with Sawyer's attitude issues later. For now, she had a murderer to catch. And by the looks of things, corroborated by the testimony of the neighbor, professor Seatman hardly fit the bill.
They couldn't question him now, either, as they would have to wait for him to sober up in a holding cell before interrogation. But if the neighbor was right, and Seatman had been on a week-long bender, shut-in, then he certainly hadn't been out murdering folk. The crimes took a far more alert mind and nimble physicality.
Besides, in his current state, he didn't seem like the sort who had the type of discipline and determination to pull off these murders. This wasn't a bold man striking in broad daylight—this was a wounded child nursing their hurt feelings with bottle after bottle. When he'd tried to strike her, he'd missed completely. Then, when Sawyer had manhandled him, he'd gone down with ease.
Did she really believe this fellow had anything to do with the murders? Unless he was simply faking... But she pictured the house, the smell of the guy, how atrophied he looked... It wasn't an act.
She frowned again towards the back of the police cruiser, feeling a dawning sense of frustration rising within her.
It didn't fit.
It wasn't him, was it?
They could make sure once they questioned him, but even that would have to wait. But waiting was the one thing they couldn't afford to do. They simply didn't have the time.
She bit her lip in frustration, scowling.
“You good?” Sawyer said, watching her, his tone a bit gentler now that the topic of conversation had shifted from him.
She scowled back. “I'm going to have to cancel appointments tomorrow,” she said.
“With your clients? Why?”
“Because if we don't get a handle on this case, we're going to lose others. I... I'm sure I'm right, Tom. The connection is fairy tales.”
“I mean—you hear how it sounds though, right?”
“I hear it,” she retorted. “But I'm convinced.”
“So...,” he trailed off and shrugged. “What do you want to do about it?”
“First,” she said, “I want you to tell me what's wrong. Why are you acting this way?”
“Doc, drop it. Cancel, those appointments if you want, but that doesn't mean you get to do a number on me. I'm fine.”
She hissed in frustration, jamming her hands in her pocket and feeling her own nerves rising. She didn't want to drop it. Normally, she was measured in her approach with clients and colleagues alike. But now, she could feel her temper rising. Perhaps from the lack of sleep the night before, or perhaps simply from Sawyer's stubborn streak which ran as deep as the furrow on his brow when glaring at Mr. Seatman.
“Fine. It's gone,” Ilse said. “Now you let it go too. I need your help, Tom.” Before he could reply, she turned on her heel, marching back towards the house.
Normally, the locals were the ones tasked with searching a suspect's residence, but she needed something to do with her hands. Needed another lead, somewhere to turn.
So she marched straight back to the large home, eyes narrowed. She knew immediately where she would start the search. In the same, odoriferous place they'd found Mr. Seatman's half-conscious form.