This time, Ilse and Sawyer took the same car from the field office. Ilse's hand shook as Sawyer guided the sedan into the parking spot outside the home. In the fading light of the afternoon, the house looked neat, well-maintained. As they approached the open door, Ilse spotted the many locks and chains, custom built into the metal frame.
Whoever owned the house was safety conscious.
Abigail Rubin. That's what Agent Rawley had said.
Ahead of them, standing on the porch, Ilse spotted a local cop, keeping an eye on the street, and making sure no looky-loos got too close. Inside the house, she also spotted people moving around, carefully navigating the crime scene.
“FBI?” the cop said, glancing shrewdly as they approached. Her eyebrows rose as her gaze settled on Sawyer, something like recognition dawning. The police officer wore a jacket over her uniform and kept her thumbs hitched in her belt as if expecting trouble. She was middle-aged, but had a nervous energy normally found only in rookies.
Ilse allowed Sawyer to take the lead. The lanky FBI agent dipped his head in greeting. “Cat,” he said.
“Tom,” she replied with a nod.
“Vic inside?”
The officer winced, stepping at an angle to glance into the house herself. “Abigail Rubin's residence. Still waiting confirmation on ID, but looks like the victim.”
“Bathroom?”
“Afraid so. Blood everywhere.”
“Wrists cut?” Sawyer asked.
The officer sighed, nodding once before swallowing and pulling her jacket a bit tighter. She glanced towards Ilse, appraising her, then looked back at Sawyer.
“So if FBI is involved...”
“Just checking things out,” Sawyer said. “Dr. Beck here had two clients who died this week. Similar way.”
The cop glanced towards Ilse with a renewed interest. “Clients?”
Ilse flinched. “Yes.”
“And this one?”
Ilse shook her head, her fingers still tremoring where she tried to hide them in her sweater sleeves. “N-no. I never had Abigail. But... But is it true she was a survivor of a serial killer, too?”
“Too?” said the cop.
Sawyer waved away the comment with a flick of the wrist, but still inclined a questioning eyebrow. Ilse was always impressed how her partner managed to have a full conversation with only gesticulations.
The officer sighed, shaking her head, absentmindedly picking at her zipper to her jacket. “Looks like it. Sergeant will be back in an hour—he went to help CSI with something. Right now we have the lab boys in there.” She glanced through the open door again as more figures moved down the hall, stepping from one room to another.
Ilse shivered, swallowing back the prickle along her skin. The little information they'd been provided on Abigail Rubin wasn't encouraging. Also a survivor of a serial killer. The odds of this were so low, Ilse knew it was a connection. It practically confirmed the serial nature of the crimes.
Which meant she was right. Claudia and Lauren had been murdered.
But that was where things got strange.
The Icicle killer had hunted both of Ilse's past patients. But Ms. Rubin had been attacked by another monster. This time, a killer who was now in prison. He'd only killed two people before being caught trying to kidnap Rubin. The press hadn't even given him a name—though the practice was disgusting to Ilse to begin with. Memorializing monsters. She didn't want any part.
Yet still, Ms. Rubin had survived. Her attacker was still in prison. Besides the nature of her trauma, she didn't appear to have any connections with the community center or with the first two victims.
Ilse could feel her frustration mounting at this. What was she supposed to do? How could she solve this if every thread she pulled on only frayed?
She glanced towards the door, hesitant. “It's a serial case, Tom. At least that much is obvious.”
To her surprise, Sawyer didn't reply.
She glanced up, frowning.
He shrugged. “Maybe.”
“What do you mean maybe?”
“Maybe. We don't know.”
“Sawyer—seriously? What are the odds of three survivors being killed, each within two days of each other?”
“Low.”
“Exactly. Low. This is a serial case.”
“Low but not impossible.”
Now, Ilse was scowling at the cap-wearing fed. “You're not serious?”
Sawyer just shook his head, his tone calm as he glanced through the doorway. “Suicide is contagious. Always has been. Maybe she saw the news,” he said. “Might have set her off.”
Ilse snorted. “You don't really believe—you know what, never mind. Let me see.”
She pushed past Tom, past the officer in the door and marched into the house. She avoided a couple of yellow tags marking the ground and headed towards the room where she could hear voices.
She glimpsed tiles, blue walls, a mirror and then... As she came to a stop in front of the room, her eyes landed on the body in the bathtub.
She stared, her throat tightening all of a sudden. Two men were wearing plastic baggies on their shoes, gloves and carefully treading through the bathroom, desperate not to step in the blood.
There was a lot of blood. A naked woman lay in the tub, one arm dangling over the polished floors, rivers of red now rigid and cold where they had streamed down her arm, into the tub, along the edge of the porcelain and spreading across the ground.
Dead.
Abigail Rubin. Dead.
What a serial killer had attempted four years ago had finally been finished.
Ilse shook, her heart pounding so wildly it hurt. One of the men who was examining the sink frowned, glancing in her direction.
“FBI,” she said shakily. “Who are you?”
The man paused, studied her, then replied, “CSI.”
“I see. Cause of death?”
He looked at her as if she were slow, glanced at the body, then back at her.
“Cause?” she repeated.
“We haven’t done an autopsy yet...,” the man said uncertain this were a trick question. “But preliminary findings... Well, I mean... look at her.”
Ilse did, staring. Two clean cuts on the wrists, both visible from here where the arms rested on the sides of the tub. Just like the other victims. Clean cuts. No signs of a struggle. No sign of an attack.
Ilse let out a little puff of breath, shaking her head.
So clean...
She tilted her head, frowning. For a moment, she just stared at the gash mark across the woman's left wrist. She looked away a second later, feeling sick and sympathetic and furious all at once.
But as she closed her eyes, turning away from the bathroom to inhale the odor of the hall instead, the same image of the cut flashed inside her eyelids.
A clean cut.
A very, very clean cut.
No sign of a struggle. None at all.
That didn't make sense. Did it?
“Ilse?” Sawyer said behind her. “Let's let them finish up. We can—”
“It's too smooth, Tom,” Ilse said suddenly, looking up at him.
He stared back. “Pardon?”
“The cuts on the wrists. They're too clean. There's no sign of a struggle.”
“That's what the autopsies for the others said. So?”
“There should be a struggle. If this was suicide or an attack—either way. Cutting your wrist is painful. The first time, you might do it quickly. But while you're bleeding, dying, in pain, the anticipation will affect your next cut, no matter how hard you try.”
“What are you saying?”
In response, Ilse flicked her hand toward Sawyer's eyes.
“What?”
“You blinked.”
Sawyer frowned.
She flicked her hand again. And he blinked once more.
“What's your point?” he said testily.
“Don't blink,” she said. “No matter what. Don't blink.”
He stared. She flicked her hand again. He blinked.
“See,” she said. “You anticipate the contact and so you tense. Same thing. After the first cut, the victims would have tensed.”
“But the cuts are clean...” Sawyer said slowly.
“Exactly...”
“But that means what, exactly? Surely if it was murder there would be an even greater struggle.”
Ilse turned back, staring at the body, eyes narrowed. She paused a moment and then felt a flicker of realization. Raising her voice, she addressed the man by the sink.
“You need to run a toxicology report.”
The CSI agent looked at her, hesitant.
“Do it,” she said firmly. “Stat.”
The man looked ready to protest, frowning, but Sawyer cut in. “Just do it,” he said. “You heard her. Asap.”
***
He called himself John. He hadn't always been known by this name. But for the moment it suited him. The sound of a small, tinkling bell resonated from the direction of the toy poodle at the end of his leash. He strolled along behind the small creature, listening to the sound and watching as the tiny paws moved across the sidewalk. He kept his head down, his eyes only occasionally darting across the street to watch the house now swarming with law enforcement.
Normally, he wouldn't risk coming back to the same scene. But that was before he saw her.
He made a kissing sound, tugging softly at the leash. "Slow down, Cookie," he said. "Wait for Daddy."
He made a big show of dropping to a knee and handing a couple of biscuits to the small animal. The little poodle looked at his fingers, nuzzling against the crevice of his thumb and forefinger. He smiled against the warmth. Smiled as the dog nibbled the treats in his palm.
Then he straightened, waving towards the police officer on the other side of the sidewalk. The cop glanced at the dog, at the man, then waved back. For a moment, standing there, he allowed his gaze to travel. His eyes darted to the house.
And then she emerged.
He stood rooted to the sidewalk, hiding his reaction as best he could.
It was Hilda Mueller. She now went by Ilse Beck. A made-up name. But he knew who she was. He wasn't the only one. He liked to keep track of this sort of thing. The weak, culled creatures who managed to escape the final blow. The residue of evolution. The remnants of cancerous cells, allowed to linger only a moment longer.
And there she stood in a black sweater, next to a man in a baseball cap. They didn't notice him watching. No one looked at a man walking his dog in a safe neighborhood.
At least, safe until a few hours before. Safe until he'd arrived.
Abigail Rubin had thought she was safe, too. People made all sorts of assumptions.
The police officer across the street was beginning to move in his direction. Instead of turning and rushing away, he waited patiently. Cool, collected. He didn't need to bolt. He was an innocent man, just walking by.
He ignored the police officer for a moment, still watching where Hilda stood.
He wanted to check his small leather journal. He could feel it against his hip where he kept it in his pocket. Newspaper clippings, faces, victim reports. He had it all. A list of more than twenty names. Eight of them still lived in Washington. He had his work cut out for him.
But things had started. Had gone so well. Already, he had managed to burn three of the pages. Only five left in Washington. And then... Then he'd move on to greener pastures.
"Good evening," he said cheerfully, nodding in greeting to the approaching officer.
"Sorry, sir, the street is closed."
He nodded, and said, "Apologies. Is everything all right in there?"
He had a charming, polite way about him. He knew he was good-looking. That didn't hurt either as a man of indiscernible age. These were the things, the unspoken truths that opened most doors.
The officer rubbed at the back of his neck, shaking his head. "It's not pretty. You didn't happen to see anything tonight, did you?"
The man shrugged once. "Sorry. I was just walking past. I know Ms. Rubin. She was a sweet lady."
The officer stooped to scratch at the small dog's chin. "Do you live nearby, sir?"
Seamlessly, John nodded. "Two streets over. On Westmont."
The officer straightened. "Well, you better take a different route tonight. We're clearing the sidewalks until we figure out what happened."
"She isn't—dear Lord, she isn't dead, is she?"
The officer gave him a significant look, but said, "I can't comment on an ongoing investigation.”
John held a hand to his lips, his face going pale. He'd always been able to do that. To slip so seamlessly into a role that even his physiology responded.
"What's your name, sir?" the officer asked.
"Damien Abner," he replied without missing a beat. "I should probably get going, sir. I don't mean to keep you from your work."
The officer straightened, rubbing his hand on his thigh, and John turned, clicking his tongue, and murmuring, "Come on, Cookie. Let's go home."
He didn't glance back. He didn't hesitate. He didn't feel a single nerve. He couldn't feel fear. Not the way others did. Some had a fight or flight impulse. But for him there had always been a third. Fun.
All of this was just so much fun.
He resisted the urge to smirk as he sauntered away, Cookie's little bell jingling. Other officers, investigators glanced in his direction. But none of them wouldn't notice anything awry. None of them would remember him. It was amazing how much you could hide in plain sight.
As he came to a stop at the edge of the street, beneath the safety lights, he shot a final glance back towards Ilse. His expression flickered. His hand darted towards the leather-bound journal in his pocket. Hilda Mueller. She was also on his list. Had survived fate once. Survived a culling. But didn't deserve to survive again. And that was his job. He didn't mind sloppy seconds. In fact, part of him enjoyed it. Hunting down the ones that got away.
It had a nice ring to it.
And it was just so much damn fun.