The Seattle field office, under Agent Rawley, occupied a new building. As Ilse entered through the sliding glass doors, the scent of paint in the government building overwhelmed another fragrance of sour cigarette smoke. The security in the lobby wasn't nearly as thorough as it had been back in the prison. And yet Ilse was becoming intimately familiar with metal detectors and conveyor belts with x-rays. As she retrieved her keys and wallet and phone from a gray Tupperware on the other side of the conveyor belt, she nodded to the nearest security officer and then moved towards the stairs. The elevator doors dinged next to her, and she watched as three occupants exited and moved towards the entrance to the building.
Three passengers. An odd number.
Ilse stared at the empty elevator, and then turned towards the stairs instead. Something about the number three. At least for today she didn't like how it sat. Three roommates.
She knew she could get unusual when it came to numbers. But right now, she had bigger things to worry about than eccentricities.
She took the stairs two at a time, grateful for the chance to stretch her legs. Once she reached the third-floor landing, she pushed through a side door that led into a space which resembled an office building. Cubicles and desks spanned the area before her.
The last time she had spoken to Agent Rawley had been in an abandoned warehouse during training exercises. Now, as she moved to the back of the room, head low, trying not to draw attention, she could feel her heart pounding. There were so many people around her. People going about their business. Making calls. Placing information requests or typing on their computers. People who occasionally glanced in her direction.
Moving to Seattle came with perks, but also with drawbacks. She'd never been fond of crowds.
Eyes down, fixated only on the few feet in front of her to avoid collisions, she hastened towards Rawley's office door.
It was propped open, kept ajar with a plastic wedge. A man stood behind a standing desk, peering over the surface in her direction. Agent Rawley was a handsome fellow, middle-aged, with silver hair along his temples. He was trim, and despite his suit, clearly muscular. He had an exercise ball in one corner of the room and one of those wrist work-out items that resembled a can opener. Currently, he was staring right at her, his sea gray eyes fixated.
It was almost as if he'd been expecting her. Standing there, one hand on the mouse, the other on the keyboard, he cut an intimidating silhouette. Ilse spotted a bottle of five-hour energy, empty in the waste bin by the door, as she stepped into the office.
"Dr. Beck," said Rawley, his hands lowering from his keyboard.
"Agent Rawley," she said, quickly. "I hope now is a good time."
Both of them, simultaneously, glanced to the digital clock on the wall: 3:45, exactly.
He said, "Prompt as ever I see.”
Ilse stood in the door, hesitant. She wasn't sure how to broach the subject. Rawley was a fair boss from her encounters. He didn't lose his temper easily, but he was also firm when it came to decisions. When he laid down the law, he expected it to be followed. And while he wouldn't raise his voice, or go into a fit of anger, he would invoke disciplinary action as swiftly as a thought if he deemed it necessary. He'd been the one who'd exiled Agent Sawyer to the two-man field office only a few months ago. Recently, though, because of his help on three important cases, Sawyer had managed to wrangle his way back into the Seattle office.
"Did you check out the house?" said Rawley.
"I think it's a crime scene."
"Do you have evidence of that?" he shot the question back and inclined one silver eyebrow.
"No one saw anything. No one noticed any indications of suicide. She didn't leave a note. She'd just been promoted."
"That doesn't mean it was suicide, Ilse."
"I know. But I'd still like to look into it." She finally looked up, meeting Agent Rawley's gaze and holding it for second. When she wanted to be determined, she could be. And in this case, she wanted to investigate. She was a therapist because she helped people. She joined the agency to continue that very thing.
"Ilse, the coroner's report doesn't indicate any foul play."
Ilse crossed her arms. "How thorough was it?"
"Have you read it?"
"Yes. Have you, sir?"
Rawley turned his computer monitor towards her. It was an electronic version of the printout she had in her car. "No foul play. No sign of a break-in. No sign of a struggle. No defensive wounds of any kind." He rattled off the facts, and it felt like knife wounds, bleeding the certainty from Ilse.
She swallowed once he'd finished and gave a quick shake of her head. "It's still not certain," she said quickly. "The coroner wasn't looking for an attacker. Did they really check everything?"
Rawley watched her now with a blank expression. He didn't frown, didn't smile. His tone didn't increase in volume in any way. He said, "Are you sure this isn't just pride?"
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
"I'm aware she was a client of yours. In your practice."
Ilse hesitated. "How would you know that?"
"An interview with the sister. She mentioned that Claudia had taken counseling from a Doctor Beck nearly a decade ago."
Ilse blinked in surprise. "They interviewed the sister?"
"It's only been a day. The report is still being filed. Yes. We interviewed the sister. We were thorough, Ilse."
Ilse rubbed the back of her neck. "What does that have to do with pride?"
"Maybe you're unwilling to accept a client of yours killed themselves." He didn't mince words. Didn't try to soften the accusation. He also didn't raise his voice, or blink. Matter of fact, straightforward. Just like his personality. Again, she felt unnerved by what felt like an all-seeing gaze. She glanced off to the side, rubbing her elbow with the opposite hand. "I don't think that's what's going on here."
"You're sure?"
"Honestly, no. But I still don't think that's what's going on. Like I said, there was no reason for her to kill herself. She was doing much better."
"So you have a lead on a suspect?"
"No, sir." Ilse shifted, still reeling from the sting of the accusation. Was this about her own pride? Was she using a woman's death to settle her own agenda? Certainly not. At least, she didn't think so. Claudia had been the first client she had. Things had gone so well. The confidence she'd gotten from that experience had been a bedrock upon which she had built so much else. Maybe that was the problem.
Part of her simply had to believe that survival was possible. That people could recover from all the horrors of their past... The horrors that haunted her to this day. If not for Claudia... then what about Ilse? Heidi, her sister, had taken that path. And Ilse refused to wander down the same dead end.
She sighed and looked away.
"Dr. Beck," said Rawley, "I'm not telling you that you can't investigate. You're still on vacation days. You took them. Use them how you want. But I would suggest, before you start stirring up a hornet's nest, you go speak with the coroner yourself. See what he says. That might help give perspective."
Rawley gave her a long look and didn't turn away. But the way he cut off the sentence suggested the conversation was over. He was polite enough to wait for her to turn, before returning his attention to the computer screen.
She hesitated in the doorway, unnerved, awkward. Should she say goodbye? What was the etiquette for leaving a supervisor's office? He didn't seem to expect anything further from her, though, so, still awkward and uncomfortable, she crab-stepped out of the office, shifting nervously as she did.
The coroner would be a good start. But she knew a better one.
She gave a long look back towards Rawley, and he was once again fixated on his computer. No. Not the coroner first. That would be the second stop. First, she would need help.
She'd spent years as a therapist. But only a few weeks working with the FBI. Not nearly enough time to learn all the ropes. She didn't even know how to leave the boss's office without looking awkward. Which meant she needed a seasoned agent.
She glanced across the office space, and then began to stride towards the elevators once more. She knew exactly who to speak with.
***
Agent Tom Sawyer's office was a broom closet. Ilse could tell, because there were actual brooms on a rack on the left side of the cramped space. This, she knew, was just another one of the small paybacks Agent Rawley had exacted on his subordinate. Sawyer, it was rumored, had once punched Rawley over a dispute. Since then, he'd been on the shit list.
Now, as Ilse stood in the doorway of the tiny, cramped area, she watched as Sawyer, his silhouette to the door, crumpled a piece of paper and tossed it across the room. His desk was so tight in the small space, it only gave about a foot between the edge and the wall. There were no decorations on the walls, and a single desk fan was currently turned off. The low glow of blue light from his laptop screen seemed brighter than the dull yellow bulb hanging from the ceiling. Sawyer crumpled another sheet of paper and tossed it towards the waste basket. Another swish. By the looks of things, and a few discarded paper balls surrounding the bin, he'd been at this for a good while.
"Tom," she said hesitantly.
Sawyer missed his next shot and turned lazily, like a tomcat stretching in the sun. He gave her a once over, then grunted a greeting with a slight tip of his head and a mock salute with one finger.
Then he balled up another piece of paper and launched it at the bin.
"You'd mentioned you weren't getting any cases," she said hesitantly, "but I didn't realize it was this bad. You look downright catatonic."
He looked at her and shrugged one shoulder. Agent Tom Sawyer smelled of sandalwood and sawdust. He wore flannel, and jeans. Currently, his baseball cap, which he never seemed to leave the office without, was tilted back, the brim jutting towards the dim light bulb. Sawyer's eyes had a stubborn glint to them, and his thin, wiry frame draped over his desk chair with one arm hanging towards the floor, and one, dusty boot resting on the table itself.
"What's up doc," Sawyer said.
"I was wondering if you would want to help me with something."
"What sort of something?"
"A case?" she said hesitantly.
At this, Sawyer perked up; he rested his next ball of paper on the desk and lowered his foot. For the laconic man this was the equivalent of a shout for joy.
Instead, he simply grunted. But he watched her, attentive, excited, almost like a dog with a treat balanced on its nose. She knew how much he hated not having a case to work on. Once, he'd told her he was married to the job. She knew he'd gotten a divorce, or at least, was in the middle of getting one, due to his prioritization of time. She had known Sawyer would be the person to bring this to.
"I'll be honest; Rawley doesn't think it's anything."
Sawyer's eyes narrowed. "Please," he snorted. He didn't add anything else. The single word carried enough contempt to convey his opinion of the boss's opinion. Sawyer didn't use words as much as others. He was a man who preferred to act more and talk less.
"It's currently ruled a suicide. I was going to talk to the coroner."
"Which one?"
"Which coroner?"
"Yeah. We have an in-house one. Bottom floor. Or there's another one an hour outside the city."
Ilse hesitated, frowned, thinking back to the police report. "A Doctor Smith."
Sawyer nodded. "Downstairs. He's good. Not great."
"So want to come with?"
Sawyer scratched his chin. "What sort of suicide?"
Ilse winced. "A woman. In her thirties. She survived a traumatic attack when she was a child. Then escaped."
"You know a lot about her past."
"She was once my client."
Sawyer rubbed his jaw. "I see. All right. Why not."
He pushed out of his chair with a bit more eagerness than his tone had conveyed; he swung his lanky legs over the edge of the desk, seeing as there wasn't enough space to simply walk around it.
He adjusted his baseball cap, and then followed Ilse out the door. "Anything to go on besides a hunch?" he said as Ilse moved towards the elevators.
"No note. Everyone said she was doing well. She had a vacation planned. A promotion."
"So no. Just a hunch."
Ilse glanced at Tom. He didn't seem perturbed by this news. If anything, he seemed eager to get out of his office space. She was grateful to have him with her, but as they moved towards the elevators, she felt certain Tom would have accepted any case at that point. Still, his help would be useful. The first thing they needed to do, though, was talk to the coroner. She hadn't yet been to the in-house office. The basement. She felt a flicker of unease at the thought of meeting Claudia after all these years in this fashion. She brushed her hair past her ear, and then waited for Sawyer to call the elevator. This time no one was inside.
The two of them entered the compartment, and then Sawyer, with a bit more energy than he'd shown up to this point, slapped the button for the bottom floor.
***
The coroner's office was cold. Despite her sweater, Ilse found herself shivering in front of a slab with a white sheet. A metal cooler was open, like a locker, at the far end of the room, where Dr. Smith had wheeled the victim forward.
"Quite irregular," the doctor was muttering beneath his breath, shaking his head. He had a long goatee, but neat, trimmed fire red hair. The man had a large wart on his cheek, but otherwise pleasant features, which were currently arranged into a frown. Now, Dr. Smith pulled on the edge of the sheet.
Ilse stiffened, as if she'd suddenly had ice poured down her back.
For a moment, she zeroed in. She didn't notice the wall-to-wall refrigeration compartments at the back of the room. Didn't notice the rows of sinks, and small test tubes in a miniature, glass fridge with samples. Didn't notice the tools on the table next to the cadaver. All she saw was her friend.
Claudia Rice. The same blonde hair, more wrinkles than Ilse remembered, but it was Claudia. Ten years later, but still her first ever client.
The doctor conserved Claudia's modesty by leaving the sheet above her chest. But he removed her arms and placed them on the outside of the wrinkled plastic covering. He turned the wrists up, showing them. "Two slash marks," he said simply, pointing towards the skin.
Ilse hadn't needed the directive. She spotted the angry, red cuts, like gouges through pastry. The body was no longer bleeding.
But the angry wounds glared all the same.
Besides the marks on the wrists, the body looked pristine. Though, again, Ilse hated thinking of her old friend as only a body.
She had thought memories might come back. Recollections of their time in sessions, occasionally listening to music, other times going through cognitive behavioral therapy. But instead, she was just drawing a blank. Her memories lay dormant. And now, almost as if she were alone, she faced the corpse of her old client.
"No signs of force or foul play," Dr. Smith was saying, shaking his head. He pointed towards the fingernails, then towards her face. "She died of blood loss. The wounds look self-inflicted. The depth and angle of the cuts consistent with a right-handed person. No reason to think anyone else was involved. As far as I'm aware, the police at the scene echoed my sentiment."
Agent Sawyer cleared his throat. For a moment, he looked like he wanted to say something, but then he deferred, glancing towards Ilse.
She stared at the corpse a second longer, but then ripped her gaze away to study Dr. Smith. "Nothing stands out at all?"
"I'm afraid not."
"You're certain this was a suicide?"
"I'm not certain of anything, agent."
"Beck," Sawyer supplied.
The doctor nodded. "I'm just telling you what I found. And there's no sign of aggression. I'm sorry to disappoint you."
Ilse could feel her frustration mounting. Tom didn't say anything, just watching, listening.
"Are you sure you checked everything?" Ilse said, slowly.
Now, the coroner glared at her. He pulled the sheet back over the body and gave a little snort beneath his breath. "Dear, I've been doing this for twenty years. I did check everything. I'm not sure what you're insinuating."
"Don't mind her, Larry," said Sawyer. "She knew the victim. Doesn't mean to be insulting."
Ilse bit her lip, trying to hold back any other comments that might further alienate the coroner. He studied her, frowning, but seemed to accept Sawyer's apology with a grudging nod, and a long look down his sloped nose towards Ilse.
For a moment, she considered speaking, explaining herself. But she'd meant what she'd said. People needed to do their job. Needed to do it right. He seemed to expect something from her now...
Ilse, though, instead of apologizing, was already turning away, moving back towards the exit with quick steps, her shoes slapping against the cold ground.
She'd seen enough. What was she expecting to find? No one was motivated to solve this. Everyone saw the same thing. A traumatized woman had taken her own life. To them, it was as easy as one plus one equaling two. Trauma and pain meant depression. Meant suicide. It made sense to them. In a way, she knew from experience, people found the notion almost comforting. Because it meant if they didn't experience trauma, then they were safe. They were protected. No horrible thoughts, horrible feelings; those were just meant for the damaged goods of the world. The victims.
She knew this wasn't what anyone one was saying. And yet the words came in the askance glances, the long pauses, the patronizing tones. People communicated far more without their words. But Ilse didn't believe it. Claudia had been doing well. She had recovered. It had to be possible to recover. If not, what was the point of any of this?
She pushed out into the hall, listening faintly as Sawyer apologized again. She stood in the cold hallway of the basement, facing a blank, concrete wall. A gray wall.
A few moments later the door pushed open, and Sawyer joined her in the hall.
He glanced at her and shrugged. "Not surprising," he said.
She braced herself.
Tom continued, "Smith is fine at his work. But he's not the sort to think outside the box. That's our job."
She relaxed, looking up at Tom. He studied her for a moment, adjusted the brim of his cap then shrugged and said, "I've got nothing to do. Where next?"
She stared for a moment, feeling a lump suddenly form in her throat. A wave of fondness flooded through her. She should have known she could count on Tom. She let out a long, shaky sigh, then said, "I can only think of one other person to talk to. Her sister. She was at the wake. She gave a heartfelt speech and seemed closest to Claudia. Maybe she'll have more information."
"Why not. Let's take my car."
Ilse didn't protest. This time, she allowed Sawyer to take the lead, and she followed along in his wake, thinking quietly to herself. People could recover. Survivors could survive. She didn't believe they were doomed because of trauma. She didn't believe in damaged goods. She couldn't.
She picked up her pace, following after Sawyer's lanky gait. The sister would know. She had to have some information that could help.