THE SUN SLOWLY ROSE OVER SEATTLE. THERE WERE SHOALS of pink clouds in the sky and all that pink was stamped in the glass of the skyscrapers. In an upper floor of the government building, Philip Wilson stood at a large table with his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, leaning on his fingertips, poring over a few dozen eight-by-eleven black and whites scattered over the polished metal. His black tie was in a loose Windsor and the tips were tucked in between the buttons of his shirt. The cup of coffee from the night before sat untouched.
The photographs were morbid. Scenes of violence. Expired lives. Figures of grim fate. Poses supplicant to madness and lunacy. All of the bodies were naked and all of them female. Some appeared merely sleeping, almost peaceful. Some crumbling with decay. Wilson had studied these photographs so many times that when he closed his eyes he saw the gray limbs, the silent lips, the dead hands and feet as clearly as if he were standing over the bodies.
He had categorized them based on motives and timelines and had them numbered in different folders with the victim’s name below. The manila folder he examined now had the number three written on it. In capital letters: BARNHARDT. The door to the office opened and then closed but Wilson did not look up.
Sleep at your desk again? the voice said.
Hmm? Wilson said, his eyes focused on the photographs.
You look like shit.
Wilson saw the captain standing there with a cup of coffee in each hand. The captain handed one to Wilson but Wilson motioned with his chin to the cup already on the table.
Suit yourself, the captain said.
Wilson was thirty years old and tenacious. Even at that hour, despite what the captain said, all he would have to do was tighten his tie and he’d be ready for dinner. He didn’t drink and he didn’t smoke. Wasn’t married and didn’t date. He was eager to make a name for himself and volunteered for the most violent crimes as if to prove he could handle it. Stomach it: that’s what the other agents would say. But not Wilson. He didn’t like to dilute language.
The captain reached out and turned the folder on the table and read the name.
Barnhardt, he said. That the girl found up in Whatcom County?
Yes sir.
How long you been looking at these pictures?
I don’t know, sir.
Go home.
I’m fine, sir.
I’m not suggesting, Agent Wilson. Go home. That’s an order.
Outside the building the clouds had moved in and the sky was gray. The tops of the buildings were lost in the mist and the wind was coming in off the sound. An hour later he was sitting in his bare studio apartment in his one chair staring at the wall. The room had nothing in it and every wall save one was empty. The wall Wilson was staring at, however, was covered in clippings and photographs. There were articles and testimonials and pictures of the victims before their demise and pictures of the victims’ friends. There were names and places written on a chalkboard. There were pictures of suspects thumbtacked into the drywall and a little note by each detailing their background and their crimes.
He sat for a long time with his hands in his lap. Just looking at the wall. There was an answer in there but it wasn’t giving itself up. His fingers drummed against his forearm. His lips muttered mutely over and over: Barnhardt, Barnhardt, Barnhardt.
When his watch read 12:09 a.m., he went to the kitchen and put a TV dinner in the microwave and watched it cook under the yellow light. When it beeped he took it out and ripped away the plastic wrap and took up a fork and standing in the kitchen he ate whatever mash it was. It was too hot but he didn’t seem to notice. His eyes never left the wall of evidence. When he was done he drank a glass of water and threw the plastic tray in the trash and washed the fork and water glass and stood them on a hand towel near the sink. He went into the bathroom and brushed his teeth. While he was brushing he leaned out to look at the wall as if to make sure it was still there. When he was done he rinsed and spit and then pissed and then turned off the bathroom light and looked at the wall a final time. He turned off the light in the living room and got undressed and lay down in his bed and pulled the blanket over his chest and looked up at the ceiling and listened to the rain falling against the window until he fell asleep.