Ilse tensed as they pulled out front of the suburban home. Where Mrs. Hubbard's house had been small, but well-maintained and neat, Mr. White's home was larger, but in ill-repair. The facade begged for a new coat of paint, and the yard was two weeks late on a good trim.
Ilse approached the house at Sawyer's side. He muttered, “I'll talk first. If I get a whiff of trouble, you bolt, got it?”
“Yes,” Ilse said, nodding quickly. She could feel her heartbeat quickening as they stepped up onto the patio and approached the front door.
A bright, unnatural yellow light extended beneath the frame of the door, casting their shadows over the steps and down to the sidewalk.
Ilse shifted uncomfortably, glancing towards Sawyer who had placed himself between her and the house. This time, he stood straight postured, his frame blocking her entirely from view of the main window.
A small little security camera with a speaker nestled in front of the door. And as Sawyer lifted a hand to buzz the bell, the speaker crackled. “Who are you?”
Sawyer hesitated, looking up and around, then back down at the speaker. “FBI,” he replied. “And a civilian consultant. Here to speak to Cameron White.”
The speaker crackled again. “Have a warrant?”
“Want me to get one?” Sawyer replied, setting his jaw in that way Ilse had started to recognize when he got annoyed.
“I...” the voice paused. “What's this about?”
“Mr. White, I need to speak with you about your elementary and high school teachers.”
A long pause this time. Then, the sound of footsteps. The front door opened, and a man frowned out at them. “My what?” he said, his natural voice more strained than it had sounded over the speaker. A small red light still blinked next to the camera on the door.
“Can we come in?” Ilse volunteered from behind Sawyer. Even at the words, she could feel her neck prickle. But looking at the place, though it was poorly maintained, nothing screamed serial killer. And now, watching Mr. White, and the way he'd used the camera, also hiding behind the door, this was a man who valued his privacy and comfort.
Intruding on both, if only briefly, might open up more interesting lines of questioning.
Cameron White shifted uncomfortably in the doorway, huffing a little breath. He looked like he'd lost some weight since the driver's license photo was taken. He was wearing a FitBit on his wrist, and past him, in what looked like a living room, she spotted an exercise bike set up facing a television.
“You want to come in?” he said, hesitantly.
Then, from further in the house, a voice called out, “Cam, they feds?”
He sighed but called back. “Yes, dear. They want to talk about school!”
“School? Well don't keep them standing out there with all the neighbors gawking. Come on in!”
Cameron White rubbed a hand over his eyes, but then looked up, glancing from Ilse to Sawyer. “I guess you can come in,” he muttered. He looked down at his FitBit and frowned. “My heart rate is 110,” he said, in an accusing tone. “It's kinda late for a house call, don't you think?”
Sawyer, though, ignored the second part of this sentence, preferring to leap on the initial permission. He sidled past Cameron, stepping into the hall. Ilse noted the way he glanced quickly behind the door, his eyes also skimming Cameron's hands and waistband. Surreptitiously, he looked over the doorway as well, and gave a cursory glance around the living room.
“Any weapons in the house?” Sawyer said.
Cameron blanched, turning. “What? No. I thought you said this was about my old schools.”
Sawyer nodded. “Just asking.” He gestured for Ilse to enter now too.
She paused, hesitant... Front doors didn't always bother her. But sometimes, especially when facing something dangerous... Her mind flashed back to the dilapidated lake house. She pictured the front door, completely missing, the way she'd moved around to the back of the house.
Then, gritting her teeth and balling her fists, she marched right past the homeowner, into the house, following Sawyer towards the sound of the second voice which was calling, “In the living room, please. Shut the door—I can feel a draft!”
“Yes, dear!” Cameron called out.
And then, with a quiet click of the closing door, Cameron sidled past both Ilse and Sawyer and led them down a hall in the direction of the voice.
***
“Murder?” Cameron said, his mouth drooping towards the living room table. Mrs. White sat next to him, massaging her husband's shoulders and shooting angry looks towards Sawyer and Ilse.
Mrs. White looked older than Cameron, with sharp features and an even sharper personality. “Cameron never hurt anyone!” She snapped, glaring across the table.
Ilse winced, adjusting a bit in her seat, and glancing towards Sawyer.
“We're just here to ask some questions,” Sawyer said, quietly. “So you do know Mr. Hubbard and Mr. Capriso?”
“I—I know them, yes!' Cameron protested, still gaping. “But I didn't hurt anyone! Both of them, you're saying? Are you sure?”
Ilse didn't blink, watching closely, studying the defensive way Cameron's arms crossed, his fingers tapping nervously. He was frightened, anxious, but that didn't mean he was guilty.
“Mhmm. When's the last time you saw them?”
“Mr. Hubbard... I mean... I just barely remember the name. He was my tenth-grade science teacher for a couple of months. I remember how much he hated being there. That's about it.” Cameron's fingers clasped over each other, and he shook his head wildly. “Really, that's all. I haven't thought of him in like ten years until you just brought him up.”
“And Mr. Capriso?” Ilse said, softly, her expression open and quizzical.
“I...” Here, Cameron paused, sharing a quick look with his wife.
Mrs. White was scowling now, rubbing her husband's shoulders even faster, and muttering beneath her breath.
“Excuse me?” Isle said, politely, leaning in. “I didn't catch that Mrs. White.”
“I said,” she snapped, “that Frank was a bastard, and everyone knew it.”
“Honey,” Cameron muttered quickly. “Please...” He winced, turning back. “What Bernice means to say is... Well...” he swallowed, glancing down at the two pictures Sawyer had placed of the teachers on the table. Their eyes stared up at him and he swallowed again, looking quickly away.
“I hate looking at him,” Cameron muttered. “I always hated it back in school too. It's been... probably fifteen years since I had Mr. Capriso.” He winced, shaking his head, and checking his FitBit. He paused to take a deep breath through his nose, close his eyes then exhale slowly. Once he had settled, he said, “To be honest... He made my life a living hell.”
Ilse blinked, sharing a quick look with Sawyer.
“How so?” the agent asked.
Cameron frowned now, his normally placid expression twisting into something more pain filled. Unblinking, he murmured, “The other students were bad, but Mr. Capriso was the worst. He would pick on me, tease me because of my weight. Every single day. He always made me play on the skins team for shirts vs. skins, then would grin as I ran around...” Cameron blushed suddenly, staring at his hands, tears appearing in his eyes. “He said it was funny how I jiggled.”
His wife leaned in from behind and kissed her husband's cheek, wrapping her arms around him even more tightly in a protective posture.
“And Mrs. White, did you know Mr. Capriso?” Ilse said, redirecting if only to give Cameron some time to recover. She felt a jolt of sympathy for the man and focused her attention on Bernice for the moment.
Mrs. White snapped, “I was a few grades ahead of Cameron, yes. And Mr. Capriso was a bastard then, too.”
“Well,” Sawyer said, slowly, reaching for his handcuffs and slowly getting to his feet. “We actually might need to ask some more questions, Mr. White, down at—”
But Ilse interrupted, quickly, shooting an apologetic wince towards Sawyer, before looking back at Mrs. White. “I'm sorry, but he picked on you, too?”
Bernice's eyes narrowed. Her hands, which had been rubbing her husband's shoulders up to this point went still. “Mr. Capriso,” she said, biting the words, “was a jerk to everyone. But he was a demon to others. He picked on my husband... But what he did to some of the girls in my class, and in Cameron's, for years as far as I can tell, it doesn't bear repeating.”
Ilse leaned back in her chair, distancing from both the Whites, placing her hands beneath the table and making her figure appear small. In a soft, non-threatening voice, she said, “What sorts of things, Mrs. White?”
“Not to me,” she snapped. “He never got to me. I would've chopped his dick off.”
“Honey,” Cameron said, wiping at his face. “Please, language...”
“Well, it's true,” she said, jutting her chin out. “But... some of the others.” She winced. “One of my best friends, Laura Wastey. He would keep her after class for a few minutes after gym. Played doctor.”
Sawyer slowly settled in his chair again, his hand lifting from his cuffs. “You're saying Mr. Capriso sexually abused his female students?”
“For years,” Cameron said, nodding now, sniffing back the last of his emotion. Now, his face just looked sad. “Everyone knew. Even some of the teachers. But he had the union behind him. There wasn't much anyone could do without direct proof. And the people he abused... well, they didn't want to talk about it. Not that I blame them. What he did to me wasn't anything compared to that, but I hate talking about it too.”
Sawyer began to speak, but Ilse interjected, leaning forward now, extending a hand halfway across the table against the varnished surface. She said, in a firm voice, looking Cameron dead in the eyes, “What he did to you was wrong. He had no right. You deserved better.” She felt a sudden spurt of emotion, and found, to her surprise tears in her own eyes. “I'm very sorry that happened to you. You should have been protected, Cameron.”
He stared at her, and his wife had gone still. For a moment, silence hovered over the table. Ilse realized they'd strayed into uncharted waters. Her last comment had nothing to do with the case, nothing to do with the two victims. It had simply been for Cameron.
He sniffed, though, nodding slowly, tears in his eyes again.
“What nights?” Mrs. White said, suddenly.
“Excuse me?” Sawyer asked.
“You said they were murdered recently. When?”
“Monday and Thursday this week,” Sawyer replied.
“Perfect,” Mrs. White said, suddenly whipping out a phone and turning it on. “That doorbell we have? It records movement. Whenever we leave or come. You'll see on both those nights, we get back from work around six P.M. And we never leave the house until the next day.”
Cameron shrugged, nodding. “Breaking Bad, re-runs,” he muttered in manner of explanation.
Ilse, who had no clue what this phrase meant just glanced towards Sawyer. “I'll need you to send the video log to one of our agents,” he murmured, quietly. “But if you're telling the truth, then I'm sure it'll check out.”
Mrs. White nodded, placing the phone back on the table. “The device records the driveway too. We only have the one car.”
“Right, well. Here's the number. Send the log, label the subject line ‘Rudiger.’ The agent in charge of that will give further instructions.”
“So... So I don't have to go with you?” Cameron said, hopefully.
Sawyer glanced at the phone, then over to Ilse. He shrugged once. “Not yet. For your sake, I hope the log checks out. Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. White.”
Sawyer got brusquely to his feet, scanning the living room one last time, looking in every alcove, behind every crevice. Then, he turned and moved back up the hall, pausing only long enough to keep an eye on Ilse and wait for her to join him.
She hesitated too, though, half out of her chair. “What do you guys do, now?” she asked. “You mentioned you both work?”
“We're teachers,” Mrs. White said. She rubbed her husband's shoulders. “Cameron is great with kids.”
Isle nodded, feeling another lump in her throat which she couldn't quite explain, and then, following after Sawyer, she moved back down the hall, out the front door, and towards their waiting sedan.
Sawyer checked the angle of the camera on the door and glanced towards the driveway. Then, he sighed, taking the steps in one long stride and rejoined her by the sedan.
“Well, that's another dead end,” he said.
“Think their alibi will check out?” Ilse replied.
“What do you think?”
Ilse paused, glancing back towards the house. The curtain shuddered near the front door, and two faces peered out into the drive. She looked away. “I think so...” then, lowering her voice, and reaching for the passenger door, she said, “But I think they've just given us the lead we need. Mr. Capriso was a child predator. Mostly of young women.”
Sawyer blinked. “We've been operating under the assumption the killer is a man. Someone strong enough to subdue the victims.”
“Could be. Could be something we're not seeing.”
“An accomplice?” Sawyer asked. “A woman with a big boyfriend?”
“I don't know yet. But this is important; I'm certain of it.”
The car doors slammed, and buckles whirred as they settled back. Sawyer gave her a look. “How's the jet lag?”
Ilse sagged in her chair, her eyes glued on the window. “I—is it that obvious?” As if prompted by his question, the floodgates to her exhaustion seemed to open, and she stifled a yawn.
Sawyer gave her a once over, but then massaged his nose. “You're not going to be much use like this,” he murmured.
“Gee, thanks.”
“Not trying to be rude. Just practical. Guess might be good to regroup, refresh, restart. Rudiger went to bed already, anyway... Rooms are comped by the way.”
“Oh—the hotel rooms?”
Sawyer nodded once, looking through the windshield at the night sky, and then, slowly, he pulled away from the curb.