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December 2, 2017
Fiona stretched in her bed as a lopsided smile crossed her face. She turned her head toward the clock on the night stand and realized that it was still early. She should sleep more, forget all about the weird dreams that came and went and the avaricious thoughts that kept her up. Yet, she could not shake the feeling that something big was coming with the velocity of a tsunami wave. She knew that her actions were imperative, so she re-examined all possible angles of the case, and she re-interviewed probable sources of information. Nevertheless, every minuscule lead led nowhere, and the attacks had stopped. Not that she wished for more violence, but over time, the attackers usually became egotistical, cocky, and arrogant—she could go on and on with more epithets—and usually they became careless and made mistakes. She hoped that the single piece of evidence that was overlooked by the CSI team and discovered by Sophie was the mistake.
Sophie found a pizza box in the oven of their third victim’s home with the receipt attached to the lid. Why did she look in the oven? What had triggered her curiosity? Fiona was so excited at this find that she didn’t even ask. They called CSI in again to examine the box. They hadn’t retrieved it from the oven to avoid contamination and preserve any proof the box might contain. Indeed, when the chemical solution was sprayed on it, the clarity of the prints came into full view. They wished that some of the prints belonged to the attacker, but they both knew they might be disappointed. Not even a partial fingerprint was discovered in the previous two murders. Could the killer be that careless?
In any case, CSI placed the box in an evidence bag and transported it to the labs where a microscopic analysis revealed they were unidentified prints. They didn’t belong to anyone who had handled the box or anyone in the police database. On the other hand, making a colossal mistake at only the second crime scene was too unfathomable to accept. The scene was so carefully presented, and besides, Fiona talked to the delivery man, who assured her that no one else was home. The door, he said, was left wide open when the victim went inside to retrieve her purse, and even though he could not see the back rooms, he stated they conversed about her order of a large pie. Her petite figure prompted his inquisitiveness, and he ventured to ask his question, to which she replied her son was coming back from Germany. He had missed the famous New York pizza while away, so she wanted to surprise him.
The prints still bugged Fiona to no end, and the fact that they didn’t belong to anyone known within the parameters of the case did not make sense. She knew that carelessness and perfection were not closely associated. The killer had been careful so far, and the prints, without a doubt, had been left there intentionally. Was it a game? she wondered. If it was a game, it had ended as abstractly as it started. Was it a cooling off period, or was it a female perpetrator on a killing spree? If it was a cooling off period, the killer would emerge again when the fantasy of the previous murders wore off and the desires were unleashed again like mutinous forces. If it was a female killing spree, then Fiona was fucked in a melodramatic way because there was no lead and no direction to hunt for the killer. But again, the possibility of a killing spree was minimal since it was characteristic of female assailants who attacked family members such as their own kids or other relatives. Both the crime scenes were premeditated and performed like a Shakespearian play. Maybe it was a sacrifice of some sort? She had forgotten about that option. Why did it surface again? Was it significant? The idea that the killer might be a woman claimed importance as well. She reminded herself that these were assumptions she couldn’t substantiate. She finally got out of her bed without having formulated a plan. Her regular routine was set in motion: she prepared coffee, put the news on, and turned on her tablet. As soon as she was done, she would go to the gym and clear her head.
Her attention was held for a few moments by a CNBC reporter’s announcement. He was broadcasting about a major investment in a company that was mass producing a device that tackled mental illness. The established banking institutions were already part of the project, investing millions in the production, and the company’s ticker was voyaging into new highs pre-market.
“Shit,” she mumbled. “I missed another opportunity.”
Fiona had been playing the market for as long as she could remember, and she was good at it. She had picked some winners over the years, which had afforded her both her apartment and car. She noted the information, and as soon as the coffee was ready, she plummeted into her research. She tapped her tablet and logged into her brokerage account, typing in her user ID and password. The virtual keyboard was still a challenge. She accessed the research page where she displayed the ticker, and the results came back in a fraction of a second. She scanned the articles and interviews until her eyes caught an event where Dr. Taylor had received the Excalibur award for innovation. He was the guy who developed the device—a marvel and a breakthrough the commentary was stating—and they were entering a new era, approaching mental health in a revolutionary way. Fiona became curious, read on, and completely immersed herself in the information.
When her phone rang, she was startled and cursed herself for becoming so involved and shutting out the whole world. She gazed at the screen. It was a text message from Sophie. She smiled. Their relationship had improved by miles. They became good friends with an understanding that their working arrangement was more vital than anything else. Fiona developed an admiration and feelings for Sophie that she couldn’t quite understand. That was a lie. She understood them well ... she was attracted to Sophie and there was chemistry. She felt it and she had caught Sophie looking at her differently. Fiona ignored her feelings for now because she couldn’t handle them. Her inane belief in avoiding engagement with any woman serving on the New York police force was one of the reasons she stayed away. Could she date her sometime in the future? Fiona shook her head for even allowing that inappropriate thought to invade her rational mind, yet a diminutive hope found a place in her heart, hiding and waiting for the most appropriate moment to become a solid entity and assert its presence. She dialed Sophie’s number. Hearing her voice in the morning made her whole day transparent; she could see the center of the earth with clarity. There it was, the thought that could destroy her. She knew that it was more than admiration and attraction that she felt for Sophie. It was something more that was still elusive and distant. Or was it a plain and dangerous fear, and admitting it to herself would make it close and real?
“Hello.”
“Hey, Sophie. Good morning.” She sipped her coffee to clear her head and erase the perilous thoughts.
“Did I wake you with my message?”
“I was up long before. Sophie, what kind of a message was that? Are you giving up or losing hope?”
“It’s not that I’m losing hope, but I’m afraid that we are rapidly approaching the status of a cold case. What do we have so far other than random fingerprints, the ingredients of the cocktail that keeps the victims in a comatose state, and the toxicology report indicating that the two ingredients could be purchased with a doctor’s prescription or illegally on the street? And last, we have learned that the scalpel is impossible to trace since Gregory concluded that its purchase could be completed through the internet. Furthermore, he stole a scalpel from a hospital to show how easy it was to do. Should I go on?” she asked as she finally breathed.
“Okay, slow down. Do you know what I do with my spare time?” It was an out of the blue inquiry.
“No, I do not know, and what does that have to do with our urgent issues?”
“I’ll tell you if you promise to come to dinner at my mother’s ...” she paused to gauge her resistance through her breathing, then continued, “tonight.”
“I don’t think your activities hold any relevance to our case.” Was she afraid to meet her mother?
“Promise, and I’ll tell you,” Fiona irrevocably uttered.
“Okay, okay. What do you do in your spare time?” She surrendered, and that put a grin on Fiona’s face.
“I solve cold cases, and if our current case becomes a cold case I’m intending to solve it, and I don’t care how carefully the perpetrator hides.” Her response came out as casual and matter-of-fact.
Sophie laughed, and although Fiona was hurt, she loved that sound. It wasn’t a high-pitched laugh. Her laugher was mixed with air and produced sounds that were lovable.
“Okay, smarty pants. Are you amused because I’m pathetic or because you don’t believe me? And either way, for that you are going to pay a price. You are going to be my girlfriend for tonight, so my mother can stop bugging me about being single.” Sophie’s laughter caught in her throat. “Oh, come on. You are going to enjoy yourself. I’m coming at eight to pick you up. See you then.” Fiona hung up, taking away Sophie’s opportunity to refuse.