In Ilse's opinion, Agent Sawyer was a boundary-tester, speed-limits notwithstanding. Her hand pressed to the leather interior of the loaner, gripping the arm rest beneath the window as they wove through traffic in their tinted sedan. Sawyer maneuvered along the highway outside Eugene, Oregon, heading parallel to the Umpqua National Forest.
The contrast of Sawyer's nerve-testing driving accompanied by the placid greens of the forest preserve left Ilse with emotional whiplash. The passing trees, normally calm and serene, whirred by in a flurry of greens and browns, pattered with the deep grays of service trails.
As they moved off the highway, parallel with the forest, Ilse was reminded of Germany once again. Reminded of a small, dilapidated home against a lake beneath shadowed skies. She swallowed, her hand tensing against the armrest.
Sawyer, who seemed to have a sixth sense where she was concerned, glanced over. “You alright?” He often spoke as little as possible, it seemed, as he had no words to spare. He smelled of sawdust and a mild sandalwood aftershave. In his mid-thirties, Sawyer was only a few years older than Ilse, but his demeanor towards other people reminded her of a seventy-year-old retiree. This was a man who'd seen the world—not just the facade or the presented veneer. But what lurked beneath. This was also a man who'd not only seen the world but refused to run and hide from it.
“I'm fine,” she replied, quietly, her fingers pressed in the indented handle of the armrest. “Just thinking about the case is all.” She turned away from the forest, though the reflection of the green leaves and long branches flickered across the windshield. Some things were nearly impossible to ignore, no matter how hard she tried.
“Same,” he replied. “Odd case.” Sawyer huffed a little breath, reaching up with one hand and adjusting his hat. Now, moving closer to suburban streets he seemed to be slowing a bit.
It took Ilse a moment, but she spotted a sign that read “Watch for Children.” Speed limits and common sense on the highway hadn't deterred Sawyer's urgency. But this sign, oddly, caused him to slow, only going within a mile of the limit now.
She didn't want to psycho-analyze him, but some instincts were hard to avoid. Did he have a soft spot for kids? Or did he just drive slowly in the suburbs out of principle?
She considered the man next to her. Considered what it meant that he'd called her to help on a case. She hadn't realized she'd made any sort of impression the last time they'd interacted.
Memories of Heidi flitted to the forefront of her thoughts. She buried these with a cough and a question. “Those letters. Spelling something with the bodies... It's unusual. Denis Rader enjoyed communicating with law enforcement, but he would send entire letters.”
“That's the Son of Sam?”
“No, BTK killer,” she replied.
“Gotcha. Well, I've run a half-dozen serial cases before, and never seen someone speak with their victims' bodies before. Whatever he's telling us, we gotta figure it out quick.”
They both went quiet as Sawyer pulled the sedan down a cul-de-sac set against a small hillside near the forest. The trees, over the hill, were still visible, the expansive preserve stretching wide. The homes on the cul-de-sac were small, but quaint. As they pulled in front of 12W Pine St., Ilse glanced towards the single-story white home, complete with a picket fence.
“Looks nice,” she murmured.
Sawyer didn't reply, parking the vehicle and sliding out of the front seat. Ilse joined him, hastening after the gangling stride of the agent as they approached the front door of the single-story home.
According to the file Sawyer had allowed her to read, Arthur Hubbard had two children, both living out of state. A single, silver SUV parked sideways in the driveway, as if to block anyone from using the drive to turn around.
Sawyer approached the stairs, hands bunched at his sides. Ilse's gaze flicked to a faint movement near a curtain on the main floor. She took a couple of skipping steps forward and pressed a hand against Sawyer's forearm. “Think maybe we should be careful here,” she said. “I—I'm not the expert with this sort of stuff. But if you want Arthur's widow to open up to us, we're going to have to be gentle. She'll be fragile.”
Sawyer looked at her. “I can do fragile,” he said. “Just let me talk first.”
She bit her lip, considered her words for a moment, but then said, “Can I knock on the door?”
He frowned. “What's wrong with my knocking?”
“No, just.... Here, stand sideways please.” It had taken a moment for her to decide to say anything, but if he wanted her help, then she would do what she could. Her area of expertise wasn't firearms or case files or tracking down video surveillance or following gut instincts. She exclusively knew human behavior and all things involved with mental reactions. If Sawyer wanted her help, then she'd provide it in the ways she knew how, unconventional or otherwise. Thankfully, Sawyer allowed her to maneuver him. She gently guided the agent to the bottom of the steps, causing him to turn and face the woods, his profile to the front door.
Then, she quickly took the steps, reached out, knocked three times, rang the bell and retreated back down the steps to stand next to Sawyer, also reclining against the rail and looking off to the side, presenting her profile.
A small, nearly insignificant trick, but one she knew worked. Salespeople often employed the tactic in door-to-door calls. By standing at the bottom of the steps, facing the woods, they would present as small a profile as possible. Subconsciously, indicating they weren't threats. By allowing Ilse, the smaller woman, to knock on the door, it would communicate something similar in case anyone had been watching.
Sawyer glanced at her, frowning now and half began to turn to take the stairs when, a second later, the front door opened.
“Hello?” a voice called out.
Only then, did Ilse turn, making sure to smile in as disarming a way as she could manage. Sawyer, on the other hand, was still frowning, and already taking two steps towards the top of the porch. Ilse winced but didn't protest.
Mrs. Hubbard looked to be in her early fifties, with strands of silver visible through an ample amount of product and hair dye. She wore an apron which read Home-Cook'd! on the front, and her hands were covered in a dusting of flour. At least, one hand was, and the other was covered in an oven mitt.
Ilse kept her smile affixed but didn't speak first. Sometimes, the best communicating happened without words. Agent Tom Sawyer was a walking billboard to this fact.
Now, though, the lanky FBI operative took the final step until he was standing on the porch, facing Mrs. Hubbard. The woman flinched a bit, and stepped nearly imperceptibly back, allowing the door to swing shut a fraction. Defensive, frightened. Sawyer didn't look like an FBI agent in his field hand ensemble. She wondered if he often had this effect.
“Agent Sawyer, FBI,” he said, simply, pulling out a badge and flashing it.
The door remained where it was, but Mrs. Hubbard, at least for the moment, didn't retreat further.
“Oh... oh well... I'm sorry, I have something in the oven. Do you—do you mind if...” She paused, flustered, brushing fingers through her curly hair and leaving a trail of flour. “Do you like oatmeal raisin cookies?”
Ilse just smiled and allowed Sawyer to answer for them. “No,” he said, simply. “Look, we need to chat.”
“Mind if I check my cookies?”
Sawyer shrugged. “I guess.”
Mrs. Hubbard paused, trying to read Sawyer's mood, but then just held up a hand. “Actually, never mind. I'm sure they'll be fine. How can I help you, Agent... What did you say your name was?”
“Call me Tom.”
“Alright, Tom.”
Mrs. Hubbard glanced past him towards where Ilse was still standing, still smiling, and she seemed to breathe a bit easier, brushing her hand over her apron and dusting off some of the flour which fell in a soft flurry towards a welcome mat which simply read “Mud Here.”
“We're here about your husband,” Sawyer said, briskly.
Mrs. Hubbard's expression went stiff. She sniffed slightly, the wrinkles around her eyes tightening for a moment. “I thought you might be,” she said. “Did you find... find who...” She broke off in a sob, glancing towards the trees through the glass frame of the open front door.
“Not yet,” Sawyer said, his tone turning gentle. “I'm sorry, ma'am.” Then, still gentle, but trying to redirect, he added, “We're trying to find who killed him.”
A flicker of a frown crossed Ilse's features, and she took the stairs now, standing on the porch. She cleared her throat softly and said, “What Agent Sawyer means to say,” she said, “is he is doing everything in his power to find the man responsible. We're both deeply sorry for your loss, Mrs. Hubbard.” Ilse shook her head, wincing in commiserating sort of way. “I can't even imagine...”
Every word, every gesture was intended to calm, to empathize. It didn't mean the gestures and the words were inauthentic, and Ilse went out of her way to make sure she never fell into outright manipulation. But for someone in her profession, over the course of years, it was nearly impossible to turn off the self-awareness that came with education in human behavior. Every smile, every blink, every glance—all of it spoke a language of impulse and subliminal thought. The self-awareness often made it uncomfortable to interact with others if Ilse wasn't paying close attention to her own behavior.
But she always paid close attention. Not for her own sake, but for the people she spoke with. Many of her clients felt comforted when she mirrored back their emotions. Felt understood when she would use phrases plucked from sentences that they'd spoken the previous session and then rephrased them as questions. Some might use these observances of behavior for personal gain. Salesmen, and the like often did. But in Ilse's case, even though she was aware of them, she hoped, and at least endeavored, to use all of her training for the sake of the individual in front of her.
Mrs. Hubbard was scared, sad, angry...
And so Ilse presented calm, commiserating and comforting. Not to manipulate, but to empathize.
As she spoke, as she winced, as her tone smoothed out some of the rough edges in Sawyer's own speech, Mrs. Hubbard seemed to breathe a bit easier. The door opened a bit further, and she leaned against the frame as if afraid she might fall under the weight of it all.
“It was all so horrible,” Mrs. Hubbard said, sobbing once. “I—I can't believe he's gone. It just seems yesterday...” She reached up, rubbing at an eye. “Sorry. I'm sorry. Look at me, gushing on. Arthur hated oatmeal raisin cookies,” she said with a little choked laugh. “This is the first time I've made them in years... I'd like to think he'd find it funny. Looking down as I know he is.” She smiled faintly, staring off between the Sawyer and Ilse. “He always had a bit of a teasing sense of humor.”
Ilse nodded encouragingly, glancing towards Sawyer. He returned her look with a mild nod of approval. Then, to Ilse's surprise, matching Ilse's tone as best he could, in the same gentle voice, Sawyer said, “Your husband taught at the high school long?”
Here, Mrs. Hubbard snorted. She looked up, shaking her head and causing her curls to spring back and forth. “Fat chance of that,” she said, “Given how often they fired him. Arthur was many things, but a passionate teacher he was not,” she said, waving a hand towards the garage. “He always wanted to work with his hands. But he could never figure out how to make that a career. Arthur had a biting sense of humor, and sometimes, especially with his students...” She trailed off.
“He was an ass?” Sawyer asked.
Ilse coughed delicately. “We mean to say, he was somewhat callous?” She glanced pointedly at Sawyer whose eyes narrowed.
Mrs. Hubbard though just snorted with laughter. “Callous—that's a good way to put it, yes. Ass, too.” She chuckled beneath her breath, glancing once more off into the distance. “It got him fired more than once on previous jobs.” She shrugged, glancing over her shoulder. “I—I think I hear the timer. Are you sure you wouldn't like any cookies?”
Sawyer raised his hand. “No. Thank you,” he added quickly, at a look from Ilse. “But last question. Your husband have anyone who disliked him? Might've wanted to hurt him?”
Mrs. Hubbard snorted. “Not that I can think of. But like I said, not all of his students enjoyed his teaching style.”
Sawyer rubbed his chin. “He usually work that late?”
“Some nights—after midterms or tests, yes.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
This time, Mrs. Hubbard's eyes narrowed, and she paused for a moment.
“Just covering the bases,” Sawyer said.
She sighed, massaging the bridge of her nose before murmuring, “We spoke that morning before he left... My husband could be acerbic at times. Like I mentioned, the students weren't always on the same wavelength. But still,” her eyes narrowed now, flashing with anger. Her lips pressed in a tight, thin line. “He didn't deserve to go like he did,” she said, firmly. “He didn't. No one does, but especially not my Arthur!” She pointed her oven mitt directly at Sawyer's face. “You need to find who did this. That's your job. You need to find him.”
Sawyer bobbed his head. In simple words, he just said, “I will. Good day, Mrs. Hubbard.”
Those two words I will seemed to comfort the grieving widow more than anything Ilse had managed to communicate up to this point. Sawyer, without a farewell, was already turning, stalking back down the steps towards the idling sedan.
Ilse gave a small little wave and a quick nod, which Mrs. Hubbard returned before slowly closing her front door and hurrying off in the direction of a faint beeping sound.
Only once the door shut, did Ilse turn and begin to follow after Sawyer. The combination of his blunt, flat confidence in his own abilities combined with whatever amount of bedside manner Ilse had managed to pick up over the years seemed to have worked. This fact wasn't lost on Ilse as she approached the sedan and slid into the passenger seat.
As Sawyer began to pull away from the curb, frowning out the window, it was the lanky agent who broke the silence first. “That went well.”
“You think so?”
“Mhmm.”
Ilse buckled slowly, staring out the windshield as they backed out into the street once more. “I... I think it's important his students didn't like him,” she said, softly.
“Yeah?”
“The killer is violent and displays psychopathic tendencies. The best way to arouse someone like that to rage is to wound their pride. A biting sense of humor, or a sarcastic attitude can prick pride more than anything. If Mr. Hubbard was known for that, if he was fired even from other jobs for that, it could be important.”
“You think it's important the guy was a teacher, too?”
“Maybe. Yes, actually. It might speak to why both victims were in their fifties.” Ilse frowned now, glancing towards Sawyer. “In fact, the first victim, Frank—it only listed him as retired. Is there any way for us to find out what he used to do?”
Sawyer glanced at her, then nodded. A ghost of a smile teased the man's lips as he pulled back onto the main highway and instantly began to pick up speed. “Now you're thinking like a fed,” he said. “Yeah, hang on, let me call my tech guy.” He hesitated, though, and added, “Fair warning; he's a bit much.” While still weaving through traffic, which saw Ilse's hand grip the armrest again, Sawyer reached to the HandsFree console and tapped a couple of buttons. Ilse, whose dumb phone didn't have Bluetooth, watched in mild interest.
A second later, a ringing sound filled the sedan. Then, a voice answered, “Tom? Suck a big one man. I'm sleeping!”
Tom Sawyer cleared his throat, wincing but not looking in Ilse's direction. “Rudiger, I'm not alone.”
The voice on the other end coughed. “Oh, uh. I mean, hello, Agent Sawyer. Pleasure to hear from you, sir.”
“Rudiger, shut up. Need you to check something for me.”
The voice on the other end paused. Ilse heard what sounded like a quiet glugging of someone drinking something, and then a tap of glass being set back on a counter. “Shoot,” said the voice.
“Occupation. Victim one. Frank Capriso.”
“Occupation?” Ilse heard some clacking keys. “Retired.”
“Prior to retirement.”
The voice on the other end stretched into a sigh. “Give me something hard once in a while, Tommy. Well—not too hard. Wouldn't want to make your ex jealous.”
“Rudiger,” Tom growled.
“Just joking. Let's see—ah, here we go. Yeah, Frank Capriso? He was a math teacher for the last twenty years. Also... he had a medicinal marijuana card. Math and pot. I like this guy.”
“Thanks, Rudiger. Also, I need you to look up student lists, for both the victims, got it?”
A sigh. “Fine, fine. Anything else? Or did you just miss hearing my voi—”
Tom hung up. He glanced over, winced, and shrugged sheepishly towards Ilse. “He's good at his job. Just annoying.”
Ilse didn't say anything, already frowning. “So our first victim was also a teacher,” she said.
“Looks like it.”
“That has to mean something, doesn't it? It has to matter. We should check their student lists...” She trailed off, wincing. “Or is that a bad idea?”
Sawyer clicked his tongue, his fingers rolling on the steering wheel. “Not bad at all. We can head back to the precinct. I already got a visitor's badge set out for you. Maybe our two victims had some psycho student in common.” Tom shrugged. “Worth a shot.”
He floored the pedal, causing Ilse to jolt back in her seat as he picked up the speed, heading breakneck along the highway, with the vast expanse of the Umpqua National Forest zipping by at their side.
Ilse gripped her arm rest, her knuckles turning white. But despite the distraction of Sawyer's speedy driving, she was grateful it prevented her mind from wandering too far. Thoughts of Germany, thoughts of her sisters, her brother—thoughts of her father in prison... all of it faded for the moment at the prospect of searching through those student lists.
Would the victims have a student in common? If so, was a high schooler capable of chopping two men to pieces? What did the letters mean?
She supposed answers would be found in the precinct. More question meant more distractions, which suited her just fine. Ilse looked away from the trees, her eyes stuck on the road ahead.