CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

 

 

"Ilse?" Sawyer said. "Doc?"

But she picked up the pace, her own hands trembling in front of her, where she hid them from sight. She didn't want to see Sawyer's expression. Not now. Not after what they'd seen back there. She should've stayed outside. She shouldn't have even come to Oregon. What was the point? She wasn't equipped to deal with this. The wife had survived. But the husband was dead. It all seemed clinical, distant, different on one side of a therapy session. On one side of dark memories from decades ago. Her own siblings had said it best. They all blamed her. She knew they had. They said as much. Heidi said so. Francis did. They blamed her. The Mueller curse. Was there a family so cursed as theirs? It didn't seem so.

She gritted her teeth, stomping away now, moving around the hood of the sedan. She could feel Sawyer's eyes watching her, but she ducked her head, hiding behind the frame of the car. With trembling fingers, before she even knew what she was doing, she began to pull out her dumb phone. She lifted it, staring at the device for a second. The screen blinked, suggesting the cheap device had a problem with the electronics. Still, when she went to the contacts, and clicked the number, it seemed to work.

She lifted her phone with trembling fingers, waiting, hyperventilating. As the phone began to ring, and as she waited, down the street behind the sedan, she refused to look back. Refused to meet Sawyer's gaze. 

The rest of her family, dead, imprisoned, insane, broken beyond repair. And her, in another country, hiding. In the same sort of forest. Near the same sort of lake. With even the same sorts of scents and smells lingering on the misty air.

She knew what she was doing. And yet, there was only one person in all of it, one person that had taken a stab at breaking the Mueller family curse. The same person she was now calling.

Emily Winters hadn't been given a person. Most people weren't given a person.

The line connected and she heard a voice, "Ilse? Are you alright?"

A cheerful, pleasant voice. She pictured her old mentor, Dr. Donovan Mitchell. The way his eyes would glimmer behind his glasses. The way he would push back his bushy, white hair, his beard often pressed against clasped hands as he leaned in thoughtfully. One of his hands would've been plastic, a prosthetic. Would he have been biking? He often biked in the morning.

"It's good to hear from you," he said, still cheerful. "How are you? How's Germany?"

For a moment, just standing there, her shoulders shaking on the other side of the car, she wanted to cry. She didn't want to say anything, to ruin it. But then, she swallowed back as much of her emotion as she could manage, and in a shaky voice, she said, "I'm back already. I got back yesterday."

She thought she'd done a good enough job at disguising her tone. Dr. Mitchell's voice shifted instantly, though. Some of the cheer faded, replaced now by genuine concern. If voices could sound like hugs, Mitchell's did. "What's the matter? Do you need help? I can get my TA to teach the class. Where are you? I'll come to you."

She let out a sound somewhere between a cough and a sob. "I'm in Oregon. No. You don't have to come. Thank you, though."

"Ilse, please. Are you all right? What's happened?"

She forgot how much genuine concern and authentic care could affect someone. Something so simple as their time. Most people wouldn't value others above time. Schedules, hours, minutes. These things haunted Ilse. But others, like Dr. Mitchell, seemed to break free from the burden of such things. He put others first. She knew, in the past, it had cost promotions. Cost him projects and funding. On more than one occasion, she knew it had cost him time in his studies. Even, at times, time for bicycling. She wondered what someone like Emily would have done if someone had time for her like Mitchell seem to have for Ilse.

"I was called to help on a case. Remember that agent from last month?”

"You're working a case? With the FBI?"

She coughed. "Yeah. Maybe it was a bad idea."

"I think that's marvelous. They couldn't have hired anyone better. You sound upset, though."

She paused, inhaling again. This time, she mustered the courage to glance over her shoulder. Sawyer was talking quietly with Mrs. Peltari, his eyes darting occasionally towards Ilse, but then back towards the victim's wife.

Ilse looked away again, across the street. "I don't know if you've been watching the news. But there's been murders here, in Eugene."

"I'm sorry to hear that. I hope you catch the culprit."

"That's just it. I was brought in to help profile. To narrow down the list of suspects. But I haven't helped at all. The killer is cutting them to pieces, Mitchell. Leaving their bodies for people to find. It's grotesque."

"Is he doing anything with these pieces?" Mitchell said. There was a slight shift to his tone. It was still warm, still considerate, but now, also, curious. If there was one person who knew how to piece together human emotion and psychology better than Ilse, it was her mentor. He had taught her everything she knew, after all.

"Yes, in fact. Like I said, it's grotesque. But he's spelling letters."

"Letters?

"Each body. So far, it spells fat."

"I see." The strange pronouncement didn't receive anything more than a quiet, considerate grunt. Then, Mitchell said, "You know, funny this is in Oregon, isn't it?"

"It is? Why?"

Mitchell snorted. "Because of that client of yours from seven years ago. Remember? One of your first cases with a live suspect."

She paused, frowning, but then her eyes widened. "Wait, you're right. I forgot he was from Oregon."

"He was active in Washington but tried in Oregon. I imagine he's incarcerated nearby."

Ilse's mind was whirring now. She did remember that case. She certainly remembered the client. A survivor. A young man. He had led her, and with her help, the police, to a serial killer at large. The young man had escaped from the killer's trunk. Five others hadn't been nearly so lucky.

"The fact you had a case in Oregon isn't the part that's odd to me," Mitchell said, carefully. "It's also because, if you remember, Amos had a penchant for messages too. That's how you caught him. If I remember correctly."

Ilse frowned. But then she snorted. "That's generous of you. If I remember correctly, you're the one who realized he was using lines from Shakespeare."

Dr. Mitchell didn't take the credit, nor did he refuse it. He simply said, "Sometimes, Ilse, it's not easy to think like these people. Not because we're better. At least, we don't start out that way. Our choices, though, over time, shape the path. The further we go, the harder it is to turn back."

"You think this killer from seven years ago, my old client's case—you think he might have insight, don't you?"

Mitchell clicked his tongue on the other end. "I'm not saying that. I'm just saying sometimes even with our profession, we can't get into the minds of people who are further down that path than we've ever been. Sometimes you need a tour guide."

Ilse let out a slow, shaky breath. "I think you're right."

"Are you sure I can't come to you? I've been meaning to go for a drive."

Ilse knew how much Dr. Mitchell hated driving. He biked everywhere. Even to work. "Thank you. No. I'm fine. I appreciate it. A lot. And," she paused, swallowed, and said, quickly, "you mean a lot to me. I hope you know that."

Mitchell gave a delighted little chuckle on the other end. "And you to me, Becks."

She decided not to point out how much she hated the nickname. "See you later. Gotta go. Thanks."

After she hung up, she turned, facing Sawyer once more. He was alone now, standing on the sidewalk, watching her with a frown. Mrs. Peltari was being escorted away by another woman, who Ilse didn't recognize. A civilian as well. A family member, perhaps?

She turned back towards Sawyer, and began to move quickly towards him, her hands now in her sweatpants pockets. Dr. Mitchell was right. Maybe they did need a tour guide.

"Who was that?" Sawyer said.

"An old friend. Look, that's not important, I just remembered something. I used to have a client, not long ago, who survived a serial killer. The thing about this killer," she said, quickly, not pausing to read Sawyer's expression. "He used to leave messages too. Not letters, but crappy poems. I think maybe he might have an idea that could help us."

Sawyer frowned, his eyebrows going low. "You want to talk to a serial killer?"

She hesitated, pausing long enough to read his expression. Again, she saw a similar glint of fury in his eyes. But, again, she'd been called in to help on a case. Not to handle a client. His emotional baggage was his. If she wanted to sleep at night, she needed to make sure she did her job. "Yes," she said, quickly. "His name was Amos Crowder. Tried in Oregon. He's probably in prison nearby."

"The Highway Jackal? That Amos Crowder?" Sawyer said, stunned. "That was seven years ago. Were you involved in that case?"

Ilse dipped her head. "You know about it?"

"I was still at my old post back then, but yeah, I heard about it. I didn't realize you're the one that gave us the tip."

"Wasn't me. It was my client. But that's not important. What is important, is I have a connection with him. He knows my name. I testified at his trial."

"You want to go talk to this bastard?"

Ilse paused, swallowed once, and then nodded. "That's exactly what I want to do. We need help. We don't know where this is going."

"It says fat," Sawyer said. "For all we know he's done."

"You really think that?"

Sawyer glanced off, his eyes bloodshot still, his shoulders sagging, even his voice laden from his lack of sleep. He seemed even more irritable than usual.

But Ilse wasn't going to be cowed by a bad temper. Three men were dead. Another would fall. The killer was escalating. Emily was in the clear with an alibi for the second murder. They both knew the real killer wasn't done. For all she knew, he was only getting started. There was no guarantee he was going to spell one word and leave it, either. Once people like this got a taste for blood, especially this violently, with mutilation, they were so far down the road, it was nearly impossible to come back. Not impossible, but nearly.

"I don't wanna waste my time," he said. "I'll stay here. Continue the investigation. If you want, I can set you up with a ride. We do have a travel budget."

Ilse was already nodding. "I'm going to need you to pull some strings to get me that visit," she said.

"Yeah, that's fine. If you think it’s best,” he still sounded doubtful. “It's not like we have anything else."

She knew he hadn't meant it as an accusation, but still, the jolt of guilt in her stomach suggested otherwise. "That's fine. Another thing, he's imprisoned close enough I can get there and get back no problem."

“Amos Crowder was a sick twist, Ilse. I hope you know what you're doing."

"I don't. That's why I need to talk with him."

Sawyer just sighed and waved his fingers in the air in a sort of wiggle that carried the same attitude as bah-humbug. He reached for his pocket, pulling out his phone, and muttering, "I'll get Rudiger to set up the meet. He'll text you the location. Good luck. I'm not gonna be there this time."

Ilse felt her cheeks prickle but nodded once. "He's in prison. I hear there are bars and everything,” she said, trying for humor. But Sawyer didn't even blink. She winced and shrugged. “There'll be guards, too. I mean, how bad could it be?"