The first thing Ilse noticed was they weren't at a school. This time, Sawyer hadn't made her wait in the car. Perhaps, seeing as they were on their way to see a victim not a suspect, he'd relaxed protective duties. But also, as he strode along next to her, picking up the pace across the asphalt parking lot towards the front doors of the office building, he seemed distracted. She could see his frustration in every askance glance towards the police cruisers lining the sidewalk. She could see it in the way he dipped his head, eyes low, refusing to make eye contact with the two officers standing outside the office doors.
He did spare a thought, however, long enough to glance at her and mutter, "The body is still in there. Sure you wanna come in?"
Ilse had been considering this on the drive over.
So much of the trauma she dealt with, the pain, came in the form of story. A consideration of words. Even her own memories were foggy. While some parts stood out, mostly, everything drifted beneath the surface of still, inky waters.
She didn't like the internet. She didn't like what you could see online. Reading was one thing, but visualizing, looking at it with your eyes, was another thing entirely. And not just photos or videos. The crime scene photos of the first two victims had left her sick. But now...
She stared towards the door lined by caution tape and sentry police officers.
She fidgeted nervously, plucking at her visitor's badge. Then, she let out a soft little breath through her nose. "I'll be fine," she said, softly.
Inwardly, her thoughts screamed. Why did she even want to see? What would it help? She wasn't the investigator, Sawyer was. He had called her to get some help with suspects.
But there was something about the case that now intrigued and bothered even more deeply. The new victim, Taylor Peltari, was a lawyer; he didn't match the other victims. He was in his forties, young, healthy. He wasn't a teacher. And, according to Agent Sawyer, he didn't have kids.
What had she missed? Something had slipped through. Something she should have seen.
Sawyer studied her expression a moment longer, but then nodded once, turning, ducking under the caution tape completely and moving through the open front doors. After another deep breath, she followed behind.
They stepped into the stairwell of the office building, took the three steps onto the main foyer, and went stiff. There the body lay. Mutilated and as horrible as she had imagined. Blood everywhere. Orange cones and caution tape already sealed off multiple exits and entrances, crisscrossing the marble tiled space.
A couple of paramedics, and the coroner's assistant were on one side of the room, muttering darkly to each other and glancing askance towards the body, as if trying to figure how to best tackle this particular puzzle.
The legs had been cut completely off and formed the top of the letter. The arms had been severed, too, raised up. The abdomen and head formed the base of the letter.
"T," Sawyer murmured. "Fat. Father?" His face was pale, the blood having rushed from his cheeks. More blood had flooded the floor, and Sawyer stood far enough back it didn't get on his shoes. For her part, Ilse only managed a glance or two. She couldn't stare at it. It was unrecognizable. Hardly human, now. Little more than butchered chunks of flesh and gristle and bone.
She felt sick to her stomach, but another, far stronger emotion flooded her.
Guilt. Sheer, horrible guilt.
This new victim didn't match; it didn't make sense. He didn't even have children. Father? it couldn't be. That wouldn't make sense. Fat? If that was the case, then perhaps the killer was done. But he was escalating now. A three-day gap during the first two murders. But now, only a single day. He was speeding up. Which meant, if he had more to say, more to tell them, he might kill another person tonight.
She shivered at the thought, wrapping her arms around herself as if to stave off the cold.
Just then, she heard a sudden commotion behind them. "Mrs. Peltari!" a voice was saying, desperately, "Please. Don't go in there. No—"
A loud, desperate voice yelled, "Is my husband in there? Is he in there? Don't you touch me; I'll sue you! Is he there?" The voice echoed through the room, up the three steps to the foyer.
Ilse turned, horrified. Sawyer rounded sharply too, breathing in short, puffing breaths beneath his baseball cap. "Hang on! No civilians back here!" he shouted, firmly.
But just then, a woman's face emerged over the steps. A young woman. Perhaps in her early thirties, not much older than Ilse. She froze on the second step. She had lovely, movie star features. Her hair was neat, dyed, and recently styled. She had a small clutch purse in one hand, and by the sound of her footsteps, she had been moving in high heels. Everything about her screamed class and wealth and the sort of lifestyle that made for the building blocks of the American dream.
But none of it did anything about the look of sheer horror on the woman's face. She stared towards the crime scene, stammering, stuttering. She went as pale as a sheet.
"Dammit," Sawyer cursed, shouting towards the door. "Idiots. Why did you let her back here!"
Ilse hurried over, quickly, trying to move to block the view. "Mrs. Peltari?" she said gently, but firmly, "please. You should step back outside. You don't want to be here."
That same sense of guilt now flooded down Ilse's back. She shivered in horror at the equally awful look on the victim's wife's face. She stood for a moment, pale, dazed, frozen in place. And then, she started hyperventilating and scream sobbing. "Taylor!" she shrieked. "Taylor!"
"Mrs. Peltari," Sawyer tried to interrupt. "Please, I'm begging you."
"Taylor," she screamed, sobbing still, her purse falling from her hand, one of her neatly folded sleeves falling past a manicured thumb and forefinger. She raised this hand, trembling, pointing. "Taylor," she sobbed.
"Out of here," Sawyer was yelling to the police at the door. "Get her out of here. Idiots. Please, Mrs. Peltari, you need to leave."
Ilse hurried over, reaching out, steadying the woman. She looked faint, but to her credit, despite the horrible scene behind them, she managed to remain on her feet. "Dear God," she was sobbing now, her shoulders shaking, tears pouring down her cheeks, "Dear God. What happened? What happened?"
Carefully, with Sawyer's help on the other side of the grieving widow, Ilse began to guide Mrs. Peltari back towards the door, back away from her husband's mutilated corpse, and back onto the street. As they moved, the sense of horrible guilt only increased in Ilse's chest.
***
It took nearly a quarter hour for Mrs. Peltari to stop sobbing. And in Ilse's estimate, this was a feat of courage worthy of a medal. She couldn't imagine how it felt to live the American dream one moment; content, affluent, in love, and then the next to be confronted by something so horrible. It was one of the reasons she had no intention of ever dating. Certainly not getting married. There was too much at stake. She was too messed up anyway. And Mrs. Peltari, against her wishes, now faced a similar seismic shift in her life.
The woman sat in a chair one of the police officers had found behind the security desk. She leaned against the thing, in the shadow of the building, behind two police cars for privacy. Her hands shook and clutched the armrests, and though the tears had stopped, the trembling in her voice remained. "I don't understand," she was saying. "Why would anyone want to do that to Taylor? He was such a good man. He was such a good man."
Ilse shared a look with Sawyer, who was still glaring daggers at the police officers posted at the door who had allowed the widow inside. He fanned his face with his hat, and shot a look towards Ilse, this time, it seemed, intent on letting her take the lead.
Ilse paused, considering it for a moment. It wasn't the same as a client in an enclosed space with only one other person for company. But still, she had to remind herself this was an investigation, not a therapy session. She kept her tone gentle, and reached out, patting Mrs. Peltari on the shoulder. One, for a gesture of comfort, but also, to narrow in the focus. Sometimes, the concrete boundaries of a room could cordon off the thought of anything outside it. In a similar way, physical contact could create an exclusive connection. And now, accompanied with eye contact, Mrs. Peltari stared at Ilse, shaking her head, her eyes ringed red, tears having dried but still staining her neatly applied mascara.
"I'm so sorry for your loss. I wish you hadn't seen that," Ilse said, softly. Commiserating, but honest. No sense pretending the woman hadn't seen what she had. "Your husband, you say he was a good man?"
"Yes," she said in a strained, shaking voice. "I don't understand why anyone would do this. He's never hurt anyone. He liked helping people. It was one of the reasons he started this office." She trembled, swallowing deeply. Her gaze trailed off for a moment, staring at the sidewalk. She seemed loath to look in the direction of the open doorway. The two police officers, still receiving daggers from Agent Sawyer, were also looking in any direction but theirs.
"He didn't have any enemies? As a lawyer?"
"He worked as a defense attorney. Sometimes he would take on special cases, but always to help people. My husband worked late. He didn't come home much. But I would often visit him here. He always made time for me. He wasn't, you know, he wasn't neglectful. I'm not trying to speak ill of the dead." At this last word, her shoulders shook, her head ducked, and she began to shake with tears again.
Ilse waited, patiently, quiet, her own sense of guilt, of frustration still twisting her stomach.
"I'm very sorry, Mrs. Sawyer. Is it true you didn't have children?"
It took a moment for her to answer, and when she did, her voice was still shaking. "We wanted to but couldn't. Besides, I think he liked his job more than the idea of being a father. I didn't blame him, either. We had a really good life." She sobbed again.
Ilse stood on the concrete, one hand still brushing Mrs. Peltari's sleeve. "I'm sorry," she repeated.
She glanced towards Sawyer, shaking her head. It didn't make sense. Sawyer knew it as well as she did. He didn't fit the pattern. He was too young. Not a teacher. He wouldn't have had connections with most of those students on the lists they'd compiled. He wasn't a father. He wasn't overweight. It didn't seem like he was in a position to make too many enemies according to his wife.
She'd missed something. Another body dropped. And she had missed something.
Ilse lifted her hand from the woman's shoulder, and said, "Maybe you should speak with Agent Sawyer for a moment. He might have some questions too."
Sawyer frowned in surprise at this comment. Ilse, though, was already moving, heading around the building, back towards the car.