Sawyer’s bottle of caffeine pills rattled. And Ilse watched where he tossed a tennis ball against the window in his small, closet office space. In one hand, he gripped a sheet of paper, waving it in her direction. The other caught the tennis ball, launched it again, and the window rattled as it ricocheted.
"So what does it say?" she insisted, staring at the piece of paper that had appeared on the fax machine.
He tossed the ball again. Thought. Caught it. He looked up at her, glancing towards the paper then back at her. It was late. Very late. The lab had rushed the toxicology report at Sawyer's insistence. Ilse was beginning to resent that they wouldn't take her say so. Then again, she was only a first-year agent. A rookie. Her years as a therapist didn't matter here. "Obscure toxin," Sawyer said.
She stared back at him "So there was something in their systems?"
Another toss of the tennis ball. Another thump on the rattling window. And this time Tom missed the catch. The tennis ball dribbled across the ground and rolled beneath his desk.
Ilse stood leaning against the wall in the cramped space, her back to the open door. "So that confirms it," she said. “Toxins in their system. It was murder."
Sawyer lowered the paper, turning it so she could see it. He let out another long sigh and shook his head. "He must've injected the substance in their wrists. And then cut them, hiding it."
A shiver trembled up Ilse's spine, and she glanced over her shoulder. The hallway was empty. Above, a small vent sent dust particles across the air. She felt like she was being watched. An odd, itching sensation poked along her spine. But the only other person in the room was Sawyer.
"Did Agent Rawley say anything?" Ilse asked.
Sawyer shook his head. "The boss isn't good at changing course."
She stared at him. "So I was right. It is murder."
"Yup."
Ilse felt a sudden jolt of vindication but tried to hide it. Sawyer had been reluctant, but helpful. And though Rawley hadn't contacted her yet, she knew soon, at least by morning, he too would have the toxicology report in his possession. They had a serial case. The realization came with a grim satisfaction, but also grief. No one deserved to go through that once. But her clients had gone through it twice.
"It's all so terrible," she murmured.
Sawyer sighed, shaking his head. "It was a rare toxin. Didn't show up on the normal tests. The killer knows what he's doing."
Ilse just nodded, numb. She wasn't sure what the next move should be. As she waited, thinking, she glanced up towards Sawyer once more. "You once punched Rawley. That's the rumor, right?"
He blinked, glancing at her. "Oh?"
"Yes. Why did you punch him?"
"Doesn't matter now."
"Is that why he put you back here? In the closet?"
"What do you think?"
"I don't mean to pry. Just, a few times on this case, it almost seemed like all of this," she trailed off, cleared her throat and then pressed, "was personal. Somehow."
Sawyer leaned back in his chair and his hand twitched as if he regretted dropping his tennis ball. "I like catching bad guys. That's it."
"Fine. Keep your secrets. I'm just trying to help."
Sawyer studied her. For a moment, it seemed like his more recalcitrant nature would take over. But then he said, "I should have believed you about the victims. I was just trying to do my job."
"You were making sure. I don't blame you. You still helped."
Sawyer nodded slowly. "Rawley is a prick. An asshole. But he's good at his job. Once he gets the toxicology report confirmed, you'll have whatever resources you need at your disposal. He's fair. A prick. But fair."
Ilse nodded, wondering what Sawyer had done that he still thought of Rawley as fair by being cooped in the closet sized office.
"Well," Ilse said, glancing towards the computer on Tom's desk. "We still need to find a connection. Obviously, they all survived attacks. But specifically what sort of attacks?"
"Hmm?"
"The first two victims escaped the Icicle killer. But Abigail didn't have anything to do with him. Her name didn't even show up in a newspaper article. It wasn't followed by the media. So how did he know? And is that the connection? If so, why? I think we need to do some more research."
Sawyer grunted, leaning forward now and staring at her over the report. "Too late. Get some sleep."
"We need to do this. Tom, this killer keeps attacking every couple of days. We don't have time."
"If you're tired, you'll miss things. And then you'll have even less time. Better to take a rest, get some sleep. We can reconvene tomorrow."
"No. We need to keep going."
Sawyer glanced at his computer and shrugged. "It's nearly midnight, Ilse. Go home; besides, I'm not gonna let you use my computer."
She stared at him, frustrated.
"Look," Sawyer said, "the next move is going to be to talk to the victim's family. Right?"
"I guess."
"Well, you need to be rested for that. Refreshed. We'll start tomorrow. Besides, no one's gonna want to talk to you this late. The nicer you are, the more convenient for them, the better information. Simple. Investigating 101."
Ilse looked ready to protest but caught herself and shook her head. "You're just saying that."
"Because it's true."
She felt a sinking sensation in her stomach. It was as if someone had set a timer on a bomb, and it was at that very moment ticking down. It didn't seem right to take a break. But then again, maybe Sawyer was right. Maybe, in order to catch the killer, she needed to get her rest. He wasn't wrong, either. The family wouldn't want to talk this late.
She sighed, rubbing her hands together and feeling a thin prickle along her skin.
"Fine," she said. "But bright and early tomorrow. We can't let this get away from us. The killer is on the move. The sooner he feels us closing in, the more desperate he's going to get."
"We don't know anything about him yet," Sawyer pointed out. "Plus, poison is usually a woman's weapon."
"You think the killer is a woman?"
Sawyer shrugged. "Just keeping every angle open. We don't know anything yet. Now go home. Sleep. I'll see you again tomorrow."
***
The small toy poodle nibbled at his finger, licking the peanut butter free and then circling the velvet on the poker table twice before settling in a comfortable position by one of the corners.
For his part, he leaned back, wearing his smoker's jacket, sitting in a rocking chair. His feet were crossed on the ottoman, his red, silk slippers left by the door.
“Good Cookie,” he murmured, wiping the residue of the peanut butter off on the dog's ears. He scratched the creature, listening to the quiet tinkle of a bell as he did.
Then, he returned his attention to the two items held in the same hand.
His cigar was pressed between two knuckles. The small, leather journal though, with the press-clippings, the faces... This he kept cupped in his palm, one leather corner resting against his curled fingers.
He let out a little sigh of satisfaction, puffing on the cigar and retrieving his journal where it flopped against his chest.
He blew a ring of smoke, watching it curl towards the ceiling. He'd always liked smoke, liked fire... Even more than he'd like women in his youth. Women had liked him too... up until a point. Up until they found out what he'd wanted from them.
He smiled, taking another long puff of smoke and blowing it towards the ceiling again.
Granted, his tastes had changed in recent years. Now, he glanced back towards his notebook, flipping through a few pages. Names and pictures and articles skipped by under his fingers. He frowned at each one, feeling a curling resentment form in his gut.
Residue. Dross. Waste.
All of them.
They'd cheated death. Cheated their betters.
They were scum. The reason the world collapsed. The reason humans were so weak. They were an insult to everyone he'd ever respected. Everyone that had ever mattered. Those daring souls so brave enough to face the moors of a moral society and flout their decrees in their face. To move past the genetic lies and shackles attached by bleeding hearts and preachers.
The true form of humankind was the way it had always been. The way that life was.
DNA didn't dance—it screamed.
Life didn't persist, it dominated.
There was only room enough for one species on this planet, and so humans had conquered, controlled. Even in botany, trees, plants, shrubs would overgrow, conquering ground. And that was how it was meant to be.
He puffed his cigar and blew a ring towards the ceiling. He reached out, scratching with the cigar-holding hand behind his dog's ears, using his lower fingers. Some ash trickled onto the poker table, but the poodle didn't seem to mind.
He smirked at the creature. His hand caressing its neck.
He liked dogs. Liked how compliant they were. He like them small, of course—he wouldn't risk the chance of ever allowing something that might fight back—perish the thought. The toy poodle ate as best it could without most of its teeth... but eventually... eventually even Cookie was going to perish.
Survival of the fittest.
And these names, these people in his book were not that.
He glared as he arrived at one of the pictures pasted to a page.
Abigail Rubin.
She'd survived a true alpha only a few years ago. An alpha who had ended up in prison. He glared at the picture of his latest prey.
Then, he extended his cigar, pressing it to the page, watching a ring of angry red and ash spread. He ripped the page then, holding it up above the table, watching flakes of ash begin to fall like snow. Cookie sneezed, wiping at his nose, huffing and sniffing as he did.
The page with Abigail Rubin's face continued to burn... burn... burn...
He smiled, staring as it vanished like vapor before taking another long puff of his cigar and blowing the smoke towards the ceiling with a long, contended sigh.
Who would be next? What was the next target on his list? Of course... he knew who it had to be. She'd also survived a like-minded alpha. She'd survived DNA's dance.
It wasn't right—wasn't fun. And he was nothing if not committed to fun. What else was there after all?
He pushed to his feet suddenly, dousing his cigar in the dish at his side. The mood was striking him. He needed to move all of a sudden. Needed to act.