Ilse's taxi pulled in front of a small apartment complex only three blocks from the crime scene. She could see the law office on the far end of the sidewalk, the posted police officer and caution tape visible even from here, beneath the bright streetlight. She glanced towards where a tall, lanky form leaned against the apartment building. She double checked the address on her dumb phone, and looked once more towards the five-story, pink building.
"Took you long enough," Agent Sawyer called out, reaching into his pocket, and pulling out a bottle as Ilse approached.
At a tilt of her eyebrow, he said, defensively, "Caffeine pills.”
"For someone who hates coffee, you sure did drink a lot today,” she replied.
He shrugged. "I'd eat my dog if I had to. But barring a starvation scenario, I'd rather scratch my eyeball with a nail. These are more my speed." He popped another caffeine pill.
Ilse clicked her tongue. "Those things aren't good for you."
"Neither is visiting serial killers in prison. How'd it go?"
Equal parts impressed at the deflection, and creeped out by the memory of Amos, she shivered once, shaking her head. "About as good as could be expected, I guess."
Sawyer looked her up and down, and his eyes narrowed. "Are you all right?" A note of concern crept into his tone. In his eyes, she spotted something bordering worry.
This time, she deflected. "Is this the place?"
"I guess the receptionist lives near the crime scene. Her name is Abigail Cartwright."
"Does she know we're on our way?"
"I called ahead. She's waiting for us. I figured I'd wait for you before heading up. This was your idea after all. "
Ilse nodded in gratitude, stepping past Sawyer and taking a moment to pat him affectionately on the arm. "Thank you."
Indeed, it was her idea. At least, partly. Another part, which she hated to confront, also suggested it was Amos's idea. Not what, but who. Who knew the latest victim most? His wife?
Taylor Peltari had been a workaholic. His receptionist would have spent far more time with him than even his wife had. Not much to go on, but a hunch.
She pushed the bell to the third floor and waited. A second later, the intercom buzzed, and a strained voice said, urgently, "Come up. Please."
Once the door clicked open, and the intercom died, Ilse shared a look with Sawyer. Quietly, she murmured, "Does she sound jumpy to you?”
He wiggled his bottle of caffeine pills. "Everything sounds jumpy to me right now."
The two of them took the elevator to the third floor and moved down to the door at the far end, which was already open.
An older woman, with gray hair, and wearing pink curlers stood in the doorway. She wore a fluffy purple bathrobe and bunny slippers. Her appearance might've been comical, except for the tears tracing down her face.
"Mrs. Cartwright?" Ilse said as she approached.
"Are you with the FBI?"
"I'm consulting," said Ilse. "My name is Dr. Beck. This is Agent Sawyer. Do you mind if we come in? This is probably best discussed inside."
Ilse kept her tone gentle, yet insistent. The woman was clearly struggling with the news. Not that Ilse could blame her; the receptionist had spent more time with the lawyer than his wife. And while this might have meant she knew more, it also meant she'd feel the impact of the death more than an average employee.
"I'm very sorry for your loss," Ilse said, softly. She didn't stop there, though. One of the best ways to evoke more tears was empathy, and as much as she wanted to empathize, they also needed to hurry. Time was running out. The killer had escalated. He'd killed the lawyer the previous night, and the body had been found in the morning. If he was still speeding up, it could mean he'd strike within the next few hours. And so, instead of allowing her commiseration to linger, Ilse moved right into the question. "We were wondering if we could talk to you about Mr. Peltari. Again, I'm so sorry. But this is important. Could you look at me?"
A small command: instructions or even throwaway questions engaged a different portion of the brain. Sometimes it could help reduce the client's anger, but other times it could distract them from grief.
"Yes, yes, what do you want to know?" said Mrs. Cartwright, meeting Ilse's gaze. They were now in the apartment, the door shut behind them. She led them over to a small table covered in cat hair. There was no sign of the cats, but a door at the end of the hall, past the kitchen was shut.
"I was curious about Mr. Peltari's schedule," Ilse said, quietly. "We're wondering what sorts of extracurriculars he might have been involved in. According to his wife he didn't have any enemies at work. Is that true?"
Abigail began to sob again, and this time Ilse didn't intervene. Sometimes these things had to be let out. She waited, patiently, allowing the middle-aged woman to gather herself. Once she did, Mrs. Cartwright said, "Everyone loved Taylor.”
“So if not at work, can you think of anyone else who might have wanted to hurt him?
She started to screw up her face again, and the tears began to pour, but Ilse quickly redirected, "Or, perhaps, anything else he was involved in. Outside of work?"
"Involved in? He liked plants. He liked growing them."
"I see. Anything else?"
"I can't think of, well, I mean it's not much. But there was that class." She trailed off, waving a hand, "but that's not what you're asking about."
Sawyer, though, with the caffeine finally kicking in, leaned forward. "Hang on," he said, "what class?"
She looked at him now. "Taylor taught a class at a local community college. He was always very generous with his time. They would meet at night, after work on Wednesdays. I have his whole schedule."
Ilse shared a look with Sawyer. She could feel her heartbeat picking up the pace. A night class. He had been a teacher. The dots were connected once again. She tried to keep her emotions in check, though. And instead, she said, "That's very interesting. Do you know how big the class was?"
"I do. I tracked everything he did. All his clients, everyone he met with, all his meetings, and his students too. He would have me email grades to them."
Ilse felt her heart skip a beat. "Email grades? Does that mean you might have a class roster?"
Mrs. Cartwright hesitated, but then nodded once. "I have names, emails and even phone numbers. Is that important?"
“Do you have rosters for all the years he worked?” Ilse said, wetting her lips.
Mrs. Cartwright folded her hands primly, sounding offended at the question. “Dear, I've been working for Mr. Peltari for nearly ten years without complaint. I don't throw anything away.”
Ilse and Sawyer both bobbed their heads simultaneously. "Do you think we could see those lists?"
***
The trip back to the bottom floor passed slower, preferring the stairs to the elevator this time. Ilse was shaking her head, glancing in disbelief at Sawyer's phone. "It's all there," he said. "She was right. Names... phone numbers."
"How many students?"
"Looks like ninety over the last five years."
Ilse could feel the prickle spreading along her chest. She clenched one fist. "Excellent. So we were right. It involves teachers. We'll have to check that list of students against the other victims. To see if any of them have commonalities."
Sawyer scratched his chin. "We'll have to go talk with Rudiger."
"Right. I was just thinking something else, though. If our newest victim was only forty, he couldn't have been teaching for long after law school. Only these five years it looks like.”
"So?"
"So, it means our killer was a student somewhat recently. Which means there's a good chance they're younger than we thought.”
Sawyer didn't say anything, which was pretty much par for the course, but he did bob his head once, and then grunt softly. Which, in Ilse's opinion, was the same thing as a high-five and a hug from the prickly agent.
The two of them reached the ground floor, picking up their pace as they went. Ilse glanced at her own phone and frowned. "It's getting late," she said, an edge to her voice. "We need to get this back to Rudiger's quick. Can you just text him?"
"The emails are digital, but all the other information is from multiple scanned pictures of class sheets. Photos of hard copies," Sawyer said. "I already tried texting them to him."
"And?"
Sawyer grunted and extended his phone. "He sent me this."
She leaned in, and saw a middle of finger emoji, repeated at least ten times.
"I guess a scanned document is harder to enter?"
Sawyer shrugged. "It's late, and he wants to go home. He won't do it without some help. We need to double check our new list with the other rosters.”
Ilse felt a prickle of frustration. “There were thousands of names on those lists. It could take a while, if we have to manually enter each new name plus their information."
"Well, we better get a move on then. I'm feeling wide awake. You sure you don't want one?" He patted his pocket which gave a soft rattling sound.
"Keep your pills to yourself," she returned.
Darkness stretched through the glass doors. Night was falling fast. And with it, the threats of another body loomed. The killer always struck late, which meant they had a couple of hours, maybe a bit longer, to find his trail. The more they waited, the more likely he killed again.
***
He whistled softly to himself, leaning back on the hard floor of his small cottage in the woods. The windows were all open. He liked the way the breeze floated through his home. Above him, a bear head jutted from the wall.
Around him, there were small fur blankets, and little stuffed, taxidermy animals.
He liked his friends. They all used inside voices. It was very important to use an inside voice. He continued whistling, giggling as he reached out and poked at a frozen raccoon's button nose.
As he did, he glanced past towards the fireplace.
Other animals, not yet stuffed. Probably never. Little paws, bloodied, and left beneath the fire grate. A couple of eyeballs which had popped out with a spoon, left staining the floor. A tail over there, and half of an ear on top of one of the locks.
There was just something soothing about how it looked when he took them apart. Out in his little house in the woods, for years now, he'd had his way with animals. It had always been fun. Private.
Now, though, he was sharing his passion with the world.
It was important to use his words. He wasn't stupid. He wasn't dumb. He wasn't all the things he'd been called. He could speak. Just sometimes it took him a while. It wasn't his fault he stuttered. It wasn't his fault he couldn't think as fast as everyone else.
He could feel the anger coming on him now. Feel the rage bubbling up inside. They didn't give him a driver’s license. They said he was slow. They said he was stupid. His father had. For years.
His head now banged against the floorboards, and he grit his teeth, glaring at the ceiling. And even there, the rest of the bear, in the form of a pelt, had been nailed to the roof with crude, black spikes.
Tonight would be the fourth letter. He always had spoken slow. But he was getting faster. It was important to communicate quickly. With inside voices.
He continued whistling, smiling to himself and reaching past one of the plucked eyeballs on his fireplace edge to pick up the axe leaning against the wall. He cleaned it, but small red flecks were still visible on the handle. His hacksaw was still soaking in the sink.
Trusty, reliable tools.
Perhaps he had never been the greatest with his words. But he'd always been useful with his hands. Hunting, chopping, cutting.
There were all sorts of useful things one could do with their hands.
He'd already chosen his next letter. Yes. Tonight, perhaps, he'd focus on hands.