“Mind if I see your ID once more, ma'am?” the police officer said, frowning as she stepped onto the curb, framed against the silhouette of the taxi outside the law office building.
Ilse reached hastily for her visitor's badge, extending it towards the police officer stationed outside the crime scene.
“I was here earlier,” she said, quickly, “with FBI Agent Sawyer.” She emphasized FBI.
The officer sighed, studying her consultant identification a moment longer, his hand trailing to his walkie-talkie. “Gonna have to call it in,” he said. “I'm under orders to not let anyone inside.”
Ilse bit her lip, picturing the scene with Mrs. Peltari staring at her husband's mutilated corpse. She inhaled once, then, in as serious a voice as she could muster, she said, “I'm afraid this can't wait. I'm in a hurry—FBI business.” Again, she emphasized FBI.
The officer paused, one hand on his walkie-talkie, glancing towards her hand with the ID.
Sensing his resolve crumbling, Ilse quickly added, “I'm just going upstairs to look at some files. In the second cabinet, top drawer behind the heating lamps in Mr. Peltari's office. You're welcome to watch me if you'd like.”
The police officer gave another sigh, but slowly lowered his fingers from his radio, grabbed a Styrofoam coffee cup from the ledge behind him, and, following a long sip and a sigh of contentment, he turned towards the office doors, keys jangling in his hand.
The taxi idled by the curb, the driver watching them both curiously from where Ilse had requested that he wait for her, keeping the meter running.
She picked up her pace, a flash of gratitude propelling her after the officer as he opened the door and began to move, with slow, labored steps up the small marble stairs, past the security desk and towards the stairwell.
“Elevator's closed,” he murmured.
Ilse nodded, wincing as they slipped around the edge of the caution tape. Mercifully, the body had been removed earlier in the day.
As the officer led her up the stairs, Ilse could feel her heart pulsing. Mrs. Cartwright had seemed uncertain if her boss kept any sort of sign-in sheet or roster from his gardening lessons at the community center. Would any of this pay off?
Still, she could feel a prickle along her spine that she couldn't quite shake. She began to move more quickly, trying to prompt the officer to pick up the pace as well.
Together, they emerged on the second floor along a row of glass doors with crisp, golden letters marking business names.
“Over there,” Ilse said, quickly, nodding towards a door marked Peltari and Co.
The guard took another sip from his cup as if he had all the time in the world, the keys at his belt jangling again as he approached with another little sigh.
“Please,” Ilse murmured, “We need to hurry.”
He gave her a look, scratching his chin. “What's all this about, anyway?”
“Just following a lead,” she said, quickly, not wanting to distract him from unlocking the door. She wondered if now was a good time to call Sawyer. But what would she tell the agent? She'd had a hunch? Things hadn't added up?
He didn't seem interested. Perhaps being strangled by a mountain of a man had that effect on someone. Still, she needed to hurry this along. The same instincts she'd felt back at the small townhouse were now even more pressing.
She glanced at her small phone: nearly ten PM. All three of the other murders had also occurred late.
Would the killer be out there? Hunting? Mr. Lobo had been watching TV, cozy in his apartment. Yes, he was connected to the victims. Yes, he'd shot at police. Yes, he was strong enough to kill the victims in a grotesque manner.
But...
It wasn't like she was trying to free the man. She just wanted to double-check.
She watched apprehensively as the officer turned the keys in the lock. She heard the soft click of the door. She winced, watching as the glass frame moved, and the door handle twisted.
“Make it quick,” the cop said. “I'll be just out here.”
Ilse nodded her gratitude, brushing past the officer and feeling a fleck of warm liquid where she accidentally jostled the coffee cup. Wiping at her arm, she moved deeper into the small office space, past a receptionist's desk, towards another glass door at the end of the hall behind an empty, antler coat rack.
Fingers buzzing, she pushed into Mr. Peltari's office.
Unlocked.
She glanced around, wincing at the scene. Papers had been scattered, one of the desks overturned. Clear signs of a struggle and, there in the corner, blood stains against a radiator, against the ground, against the windows.
Her stomach twisted.
Still, she had to hurry. Nearly ten PM. If the killer wasn't in handcuffs, being interrogated right now, then it meant he was still out there. It meant someone else, right now, was probably in danger.
“Heat lamps,” she muttered, reminding herself. “Top drawer.” Her eyes flicked around the room for a moment but then landed on the metal locker by the radiator. A few smashed glass bulbs indicated where the heat lamps had been before they were knocked to the ground. Small, orange ceramic pots, toppled, with dirt spilling to the floor, also lined the small table beneath the lamps. She could detect the odor of earth and the coppery tint of blood.
Wincing, careful to circle the table around the side with the least amount of mess, she reached the file cabinet. With a shaking hand, she pulled at the top drawer, wincing at how loudly it scraped in the office.
“Everything all right?” a voice called from outside.
“Fine, officer. Just coming,” she called back, urgently.
“Hurry up, Dr. Beck,” the cop called back. “I need to return to my post.”
“Just another second,” she returned. Her eyes were already scanning the folders and marking tabs jutting out of the top drawer.
Personal files... That's what Mrs. Cartwright had said. She scanned the tabs: Taxes, Incidentals, Summer Rental... She could feel her frustration mounting, her fingers flicking through the tabs now, parsing out the folders in a desperate search for...
For what?
She frowned, pulling more folders from deeper in the drawer, sliding them forward and again searching them one tab at a time. They didn't seem to be in any sort of order, which only made things worse. She flipped past High School Yearbook, Lodge Contacts, and then... shoved in the very back, she spotted a single manila folder.
It took her a moment, wiggling at where the item was stuck against the top of the cabinet. She grunted, pulling hard. Something ripped, but her hand came away clutching the folder.
Then, carefully, she glanced at the tab.
Nothing. No marking, no label.
She sighed, slowly returning the empty folder back to the drawer. As she did, though, the ripped portion of the file caught on the lip of the drawer. A stack of papers came fluttering loose, scattering. Ilse darted forward, catching them instinctively against her body, pinning them to the metal. Frowning, she noticed the papers were all grid-paper. Carefully, still frowning, she began flipping through them. Watering schedules for plants. Sunlight directions—North, East windows vs. South, West. And...
Her eyes slipped to the final piece of paper in the back stack. Carefully, readjusting the stack and placing it haphazardly back on top of the drawer, her eyes zeroed in on this final parchment.
Ilse stared, frozen for a moment.
The top of the paper simply read Community Center Sign-in Sheet.
Her heart skipped a beat.
Next to the sign-in sheet, she spotted names and also dates. By the looks of things, the gardening program had been ongoing for nearly three months now. They'd only had four classes. Mrs. Cartwright had told the truth; it was barely anything.
But Ilse's gaze scanned the names. Some of them had checkmarks in the boxes labeled “Week 1” “Week 2” all the way up to “Week 5.” Most of the names had attended for four or five weeks. But a few of the names, especially towards the bottom of the list, had only attended a couple of times. And one name, in particular, had only attended once. Week 1 was checked, but the other boxes were empty.
She frowned at the name with only the single checkmark.
Duncan Robinson.
She scanned some of the other names, her pulse quickening. With trembling fingers, she pulled out her phone, took a grainy photo with her flip phone and, as quickly as possible, she sent the photo to Rudiger.
No sooner had she sent the image, then her phone began to ring.
She blinked in surprise at the number.
“That was fast,” she muttered. With prickling fingers, she answered. “Yes?”
“No, no shitting way!” Rudiger was shouting on the other line. She winced, holding her phone away. “Not a chance. I'm going home. Hear me? I'm going home! Well, technically, I am in my home. But I'm going to sleep. I don't care what this is! I don't care.”
Ilse weathered the shouting for a moment, then swallowed. “Rudiger?” she said.
But just this word seemed to set off another tirade. “Do you hear this? Hey, you, Tommy—get away from there. Your little doctor friend is sending me more names. Did you put her up to this, Tommy? Hmm?” The voice was fainter now, suggesting Rudiger had removed the device from his cheek.
Ilse's own heart skipped a beat. “Rudiger?” she said, quickly. “Is Agent Sawyer there with you?”
In the background, she heard a grunt, then a disgruntled voice. “I'm here, doc. Why'd you break my techie?”
“I'm sorry,” she said, quickly. “Really, I am. I'll make it up to you. But I need you to check that list I just sent you. It's only from a few months ago. Only fifteen or so names. It shouldn't take long. Ignore the names with multiple checkmarks. There are only four with two or less. Check those first. Please.”
Rudiger drifted off into a series of cursing, but then, at last, he growled, “Why? What is this?”
“Just do it. Please. Sawyer? Is Sawyer there? Can you put him on?”
“Tommy, it's for you.”
Ilse heard a crackling sound, a soft grunt and then, a bleary voice murmured, “Doc, what's up?”
“I think I found something,” she said.
“Me too. A couch to crash on. Now I'm worried he's going to kick me out. I need my sleep, Ilse.”
“I get it. Really, I do. I'm so sorry, but please, you need to check that list. You need to—”
“Fucking bingo,” a voice suddenly said in the background. “Name two,” Rudiger's voice said, louder now, suggesting he'd come close to the phone again. “Yeah—he's on the other lists,” said Rudiger. “A Duncan Robinson.”
Ilse's skin prickled. The same name she'd spotted with only a week of attendance to Mr. Peltari's gardening class. A class for people with learning disabilities. The sorts of people who might not enjoy school. Add to that teachers like Mr. Hubbard and the predatory Mr. Capriso, and perhaps a horrible school experience would turn downright unbearable.
“Any way to look him up?” Ilse said. “He'd probably be local.”
She heard clacking keys. A sigh. “Three Duncan Robinsons in the county,” Rudiger returned. “One of them sixty, the other in his forties, the other late twenties.”
“The last one,” Ilse replied, hastily. “Does his age match with the timelines for the other school rosters?”
Another sigh, suggesting the gregarious FBI operative had long since lost his good humor. Then, a muttered curse followed by what sounded like a miniature wrestling match for the phone. At last, over the huffing of heavy breathing, Ilse heard Sawyer speak now. “Shit—Ilse, who is this guy?”
“Why? What'd you find?”
“Move,” Sawyer muttered on the other end. “Let me see. Here, hang on.” Then, louder, as if summarizing from a list, he said, “Various mental disabilities. A violent criminal record. And... get this, Ilse, Duncan Robinson was homeschooled until middle school. He had Mr. Capriso for one year. Mr. Hubbard for half a semester.”
“He never finished?” she said, frowning.
“Looks like...” Sawyer trailed off and Ilse heard more clacking keys, a pause long enough for someone to scroll with a mouse, and then, Sawyer cursed. “Shit. Looks like Duncan's dad was the one who homeschooled him. Kept dragging him out of school. Sometimes he was withdrawn, other times he was kicked out for behavioral issues.”
Ilse was nodding now, her pulse at an all-time high.
She heard the police officer in the door shout something from the hall, but she didn't reply, didn't even hear what he was saying. Her own mind was racing.
“And get this,” Sawyer said, sounding stunned now. “His old man, the homeschool teacher? Used to work for the school district until he was fired. Looks like he got in trouble for abusive behavior towards Duncan. Nothing was proven, but there are at least seven criminal complaints against the guy.”
“An abusive father?” Ilse said, stunned. “I was right...” She murmured to herself, her expression fixed in a frown as the wheels churned. Her lips felt numb all of a sudden, and her heart pounded rapidly. An abusive father... It made sense. “It's not FAT,” she blurted out. “It's FATHER. That's what he's spelling.” She trailed off. “Sawyer, I think it's him,” she said, swallowing. “Duncan is the killer. Not Mr. Lobo. What's his address? Quick.”
Another, longer pause, and this time, Ilse heard the impatient footfalls of the policeman by the door as he came in to check on her.
She held up a finger, wincing apologetically. She heard muffled voices, another wrestling match for the phone. Then, Sawyer snapped, “No, hang on, don't!”
“Too late,” Rudiger replied.
Ilse's phone vibrated, and she glanced down at an address in her text messages. “This is where Duncan lives?” she said.
“Yes,” Rudiger called.
“No,” Sawyer tried to interrupt. “Ilse, hang on. Don't do anything rash.”
“I'm not going to,” she returned. “Where is it? Who's closer?”
“You are!” Rudiger called over the phone. “I'm tracking your device now. You're only twenty minutes from his house. He lives deep, on a parcel of land, somewhere in the forest. We're forty minutes away.”
“Shut up,” Sawyer whispered quickly. Then, louder, he said, “Ilse, just stay put. I'm on my way.”
She frowned, though, her fingers shaking. She glanced at the digital clock on her device. Past ten, now. Forty minutes... Forty minutes was way too long.
“You'll never get there in time,” she murmured. “He might be out already, hunting as we speak.”
“Ilse,” Sawyer growled. “I'm warning you, stay put.”
She exhaled heavily, glancing towards where the police officer was standing in the door, frowning at her and gesturing for her to leave.
“Ilse...” Sawyer said, his voice strained, still sleep-deprived but also, now, bordering somewhere near panic. “Ilse, please. Listen to me. Just sit tight. Look—look, hear this?” he jangled what sounded like keys. “I'm already moving. I'm on my way. Just don't—”
“You're going to be too late,” she replied, softly.
“Ilse!” he shouted, louder now.
“Give me back my phone, Tommy!” a voice yelled in the background.
“Way too late,” Ilse whispered, trailing off, her eyes wide, unblinking in the dark office space. She glanced at the blood stains on the radiator, at the shattered plants. Too late. Three weeks too late. Two of her brothers dead. The others blaming her forever.
She was always too late. So bloody damn late.
“Ilse...”
She hung up, moving now, frantically. She couldn't be late this time. Not now.
Duncan Robinson was out there, maybe even hunting his next victim this very moment. She had to hurry. She picked up speed, breaking into a sprint, brushing past the officer and this time sending the coffee cup flying.
“Hey!” he protested.
“Sorry!” she called, but didn't wait to see his response. She shoved her phone in her pocket, sprinting now, bursting back into the hall and racing towards the stairs.
She'd told the taxi to wait. She had the address.
Only twenty minutes away. She couldn't be late this time.
A house in the forest. Deep in the forest. That's what Rudiger had said.
Another house, another forest, another chance.
She couldn't be late this time.