by Elle Gray
“Like I was sayin’, I’m sorry I don’t have more for you.”
It would have been nice if you had anything for me. The words are on the tip of my tongue, but I manage to bite them back—but just barely.
“No, I understand. Like you said, I know how these things go,” I tell him.
“Yeah. I’m awful sorry again.”
“Just keep me informed if anything changes?”
“Absolutely.”
“Thank you, Detective.”
I hang up the phone and sit back in my chair, scrubbing my face with my hands. It just seems so wrong that somebody who gave everything he had to this country would be forced to die an anonymous death like that. Without justice and therefore, to my mind, without genuine peace. It makes me feel awful for him. It makes me wish I could do something about it. But Moore is right—without evidence or a witness, there really is nothing that can be done.
My cellphone rings and I look at the caller ID. A spark of hope surging within me, I snatch up the phone and connect the call.
“Fish,” I say. “Tell me something good.”
“Something good?” he asks. “Well, I won the auction for Jeffrey Dahmer’s refrigerator. I should be getting it delivered next week and I know exactly where I’m going to put it.”
I laugh softly. “I certainly hope you’re not going to be eating out of it.”
“Of course not. I’m talking about my museum. You remember, right? You’re going to be my special guest when I open.”
“How could I forget?” I ask. “Also, I’m going to be bringing my cousin with me. She’s as into this as you are. Fair warning, she’s off-limits. Not just to you, but to anybody. You got me?”
“I will be a perfect gentleman. And I will make sure everybody else is as well.”
A smile creeps across my face. The thing is, I believe him. He’s involved with some shady business, but the one thing I can say about Fish is that he’s never lied to me.
“Great. I’m looking forward to it then,” I say. “So, what’s up?”
“I told you that ketamine was out of fashion, right?”
“Yep. I recall.”
“Well it’s because of that a friend of mine remembers a man trying to buy it from him recently,” he says.
I sit up in my seat, suddenly alert. “Yeah? And did he get a name by chance?”
He chuckles. “You know there are no names in this business.”
“Of course,” I reply. “A girl can dream though.”
“The man you are looking for is large. He’s maybe five-ten, with dark hair that’s graying, and blue eyes. But he is a man who works out. A lot. He’s very strong. Very broad,” Fish says. “He is also very angry. When my friend said he did not have ketamine, this man threatened to beat him to death. He spoke with a slight accent. My friend says it is Czech. He’s very good with accents.”
“Fish, this is amazing. That’s great information, thank you,” I say. “That’s a terrific help.”
“Of course,” he says. “You’ve helped me many times in the past. I am still indebted to you many times over.”
“Thanks, Fish. You’re a good man for a crook.”
He laughs. “An alleged crook.”
“Well, I’ll look forward to the day you’re one hundred percent legit.”
“I may be able to get to ninety-nine percent. One hundred may be a bridge too far.”
“Fair enough,” I say with a laugh. “Thank you, Fish. Seriously.”
“You’re most welcome. Goodnight, Agent Wilder.”
I disconnect the call and set my phone down, absorbing the information. Now we know what our guy looks and sounds like. I’m sure it’s him. I glance at the clock on the wall and decide to make another call. Rather than use my cell this time, I pick up my office phone again and punch in the number I’ve already committed to memory. The phone rings once. Twice. Three and then four times… and then she answers.
“Hello?”
The blood in my veins turns to ice and I feel my stomach fold over on itself. I suddenly realize that I hadn’t actually expected her to pick up the phone. She hasn’t all day; I figured this call would go unanswered like all the others. And now that I have her on the line, my mouth is dry and my throat locked up.
“Hello?” she says again, her voice colored by irritation.
I know if I don’t say something, she’s going to hang up. And if she does, who knows how long it will be before she answers her phone again. I silently will myself to calm down and to speak. This is what I’ve been waiting for, after all.
“M—Ms. Aoki. Hello. Hi,” I start, instantly cringing at how ridiculous I sound.
“Yes? Who is this?”
“My name is Blake Wilder,” I say. “And you knew my parents.”
She goes absolutely silent, and I can feel the nervous energy inside of her ratcheting up through the telephone line. I close my eyes and picture her face. She’s probably white as a sheet, with wide eyes and her mouth hanging open. If she’s standing, she probably sat down, and she probably stared at the phone like it was a grenade in her hand, just waiting to go off.
“Y—you worked with them a long time ago,” I go on.
“What do you want?” she asks, and although she’s trying to make her voice sound authoritative and commanding, I can hear the tremor in it, betraying her fear. “How in the world did you find me?
“Answers. I want answers. And I think you might have some,” I tell her. “And as far as how I found you, I live in Seattle as well and I work for the FBI—and I’m very good at what I do.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t—have answers. I don’t have anything I can give you,” she stammers.
Interesting that she knows what kind of answers I’m looking for before I even give voice to the questions.
“Ms. Aoki, please,” I say. “I need to understand some things. I need to be able to move forward with my life. But I can’t do that with all these questions hanging over my head. I need your help.”
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I don’t know what it is you’re looking for, but I can assure you I don’t have the answers you’re seeking.”
“I disagree. Please,” I implore her. “Meet me for lunch and let me ask you some of the questions I’ve had for the last twenty years.”
“No, I’m sorry. That’s out of the question. I don’t even know you,” she replies.
“Do you know what I looked at last night? A picture of you and my folks, and the entire NSA work group. You were all at a barbecue at somebody’s house,” I tell her. “You all looked so happy. My parents used to refer to you guys as her work family. You were family to them.”
There is a long silence on the other end of the line. I wonder what sort of memories are being conjured in her mind. Are they of the barbecues? Maybe of laughing at somebody’s joke in the office? Perhaps a memory of a singular conversation she’d had with my mother? Or my father? I wonder what the first memory she conjures up when she thinks of my folks is.
“I truly am sorry for your loss, Blake. But that was an awfully long time ago,” she says. “I’ve moved on with my life. I suggest you do the same.”
“I’m so glad you’ve been able to put it all behind you. But how can I move on when I don’t understand why my parents were executed in cold blood,” I hiss. “How can I move on when I know that seven of the eight members of my parents’ work group are now dead. That you’re the only survivor. How am I supposed to move on, when I feel like you have the answers I’m looking for but won’t say?”
“I’m sorry, Blake. But like me, you have to find a way to let the past remain in the past,” she says. “Now please, I have to go. And I beg you… don’t call me again.”
The line goes dead in my hand and I stare at the receiver for a long moment, my emotions swirling around inside of me and coalescing into something dark. Something angry.
Before I’m even aware of what I’m doing, I grab my office phone and hurl it across the room. It h
its a picture frame hanging on the wall and rebounds with a horrendously loud crashing sound. The frame hits the ground and the glass shatters with a sharp tinkling noise.
I lean forward with my elbows on my desk and bury my face in my hands. I try to stifle the tears but can’t, so I give up the fight and let them flow. Gina Aoki was the last chance I had to get the answers I have so desperately wanted for so long. And she drop-kicked me. Refused to answer a single question and told me to never call her again.
What kind of person does that? What kind of a person can hear the anguish in another person’s voice and tell them it’s time for them to move on?
“Everything all right in here, boss?”
I look up to find Rick standing in the doorway of my office, his face etched with concern. I offer him a weak, faltering smile.
“No, I’m not all right,” I say. “This will never be all right.”
Twenty-Seven
Criminal Data Analysis Unit; Seattle Field Office
“Hey Rick, how long is your snazzy photo enhancing program going to take?” Astra calls from her desk.
“Excuse me, but would you walk into Gordan Ramsay’s kitchen and ask him when his amazingly delicious meal would be ready?” he returns.
“Yeah, I would if I was hungry,” Astra replies.
“You cannot rush genius, is my point,” he says. “Do you know what my program is doing? It is breaking the photo down, pixel by pixel—”
“Forget it. Forget I asked,” she cuts him off.
“Did he really just compare himself to Gordon Ramsay?” Mo asks.
“I believe he did,” Astra says.
I hear their voices but don’t really comprehend what they’re saying. My mind is otherwise occupied at the moment. After my meltdown in my office last night, I went home and actually got a decent night’s sleep. It’s amazing what being physically drained and emotionally spent will do to you. Rick promised to keep my meltdown just between us and building facilities already found a new phone to replace the one I smashed last night. The only thing left out of place is the picture frame I also smashed, but I’ll replace it soon enough.
My hands clasped behind my back, I pace at the front of the bullpen. We’re still waiting for the digital cleanup of the picture from the ATM to complete its cycle, and until it does, we’re stuck twiddling our thumbs. We’ve reviewed the evidence, have read the murder books Rick was able to purloin for us, and have gone over everything there is to go over every which way to Sunday. There isn’t any aspect of this case that I don’t know by memory.
Fat lot of good all that knowledge is doing me, though. I’m no closer to naming a viable suspect, let alone catching the killer than I was before we got word that Summer’s body had been discovered. Frustrated doesn’t even begin to cover it. As I pace, I’m saying a silent prayer that when that photo is resolved, we can actually identify the sticker, and it leads us somewhere relevant—like to a suspect.
At this point, we’re grasping at straws, just waiting for some actionable information. And in this case, actionable means we’re waiting for another body to drop. I’d rather avoid that happening and grab this guy before he snuffs out another young life. But at the moment, he’s a ghost. Right now, all I have is the profile I’m putting together in my head, but it remains nameless and faceless.
And of course, mixed in with all of that are all of the feelings I have about Gina Aoki. There’s some small part of me that wants to go storming over to her office and demand she speak with me. At the point of a gun, if I have to. But the practical side of my brain quashes that one right away; I’m not too keen on spending the rest of my life in prison.
I just don’t understand how she can hear the desperate pleading in my voice and be okay with that. She could clearly hear that I was suffering. That I’m in tremendous emotional pain. But rather than try to help me salve my wounds, she kicks me in the teeth.
Is it because of a cruel, unsympathetic nature? Is it because she doesn’t want to meet the same fate as everyone else in her work group?
Or—is it because she might be the only survivor for a reason? Maybe she knows exactly what happened to my parents all those years ago—and thinks I’m out for revenge.
“I’m thinking it’s a scorned lover,” Astra says.
Mo is nodding along. “Yeah, I can see that. That makes sense.”
“What do you think, Blake?”
I turn at the sound of Astra’s voice but look at her blankly. I’m so lost in my own head, I have no idea what she just said.
“Sorry, what?” I ask.
“Somebody’s off in la-la-land today,” Astra comments with a grin.
“Yeah, I suppose I am. Sorry.” I shake my head to clear my thoughts. “What was the question again?”
“We were talking about our unsub,” Mo explains. “Astra and I are both in agreement that the killer is symbolically destroying a lover every time he murders somebody. An old girlfriend who did him wrong.”
“What does the superstar profiler think?” Astra asks.
I shake my head. “I don’t think it’s a lover he’s destroying. I think it’s somebody much closer to him. A sister or a mother, perhaps.”
They all look at me like I’ve lost my mind. And maybe I have. But as I’ve been going through all the facts of the case, I’ve come around to a different conclusion.
“You think he’s symbolically killing his mother?” Mo asks, sounding horrified.
I nod. “I do. The rage we’re seeing him inflict upon these girls is personal. And it’s way over the top,” I say. “The extremeness of the violence is the key for me. I personally don’t think you can be that enraged by a lover. I think the depth of that violence can only come from one place—somebody who was supposed to love you unconditionally and didn’t.”
“So, you think he’s killing his mother because she didn’t love him?”
“Not the way she should have, no. Think about it. With a lover, no matter how deeply in love you are, there is always the understanding that things between you can end at any time. There truly is no expectation of forever,” I explain. “But with a sibling or a parent, the expectation of their love is forever. You expect that your mother will be there when nobody else is. So, from our unsub’s perspective, his rage stems from the fact that his mother, or his sister, were not there. The expectation of their forever love was broken.”
“I’m not sure that makes sense,” chimes in Astra. “All these women are very young. College girls. They fit a very specific profile. If it was his mother, wouldn’t he be targeting older women?”
“There is that,” I acknowledge. “Which leads me to believe it could be a sister as well. In either case, the specific techniques of torture used just don’t fit with the profile of a lover. Rick, call up the crime scene photos.”
Rick taps a few keys and displays the bodies of Summer, Serena, and Emily on our screens.
“The cigarette burns,” I point to each of them. “That’s my clue. I think our unsub got cigarettes put out on him as a kid and is now symbolically taking revenge by doing the same to his victims. If the trigger was an ex-lover, the torture pattern would be more explicitly sexual in nature—like the Suban case a few weeks back. Cigarette burns are more indicative of a persistent pattern of abuse, over the long term. That doesn’t fit with the theory of a spurned lover. It has to do with child abuse.”
The room falls silent as everybody processes what I just said. It’s a theory that only occurred to me in the shower this morning. But as I formulated it in my head, and even more so as I was just saying the words, it feels right to me. This one has the ring of truth in it for me. But there’s one last layer to this I’m about to hit them with— one that I think will blow their minds.
“I also believe that when we catch our guy, we’re going to find that not only was there physical abuse, but sexual abuse. I believe that our unsub had a longstanding sexual affair with his mother. Or his sister. One of the two,” I continue.
“And we’re also going to find that water played some role in all of this. The fact that all three bodies have been found in water is significant to our unsub,” I continue. “I just don’t know what that significance is to him yet.”
“Huh,” Astra says. “That’s an interesting theory.”
I give her a smile. “You don’t sound convinced.”
“I’m still stuck on it being a girlfriend or maybe a fiancée who set him off,” she says.
I shrug. “We’re all allowed to be wrong.”
Mo and Rick let out a long, drawn-out, “Oooooohhh,” like we’re back on the playground. It makes me laugh. I’m so grateful for these people in my life. They can usually always pull me out of whatever dark place I’m in and get me laughing again. It’s something I very much need with all the emotional clutter in my head right now. I need the distraction.
“I smell a bet coming,” Rick announces.
“A bet?” I ask.
“I’m in,” Astra says. “And I’m willing to back it up with a hundred bucks.”
“Betting on a profile?” I ask, arching an eyebrow. “Don’t you think that’s a little tacky?”
She screws up her face for a moment then looks at me. “Yeah, probably. But I’m still willing to—”
“Lose money? Sure, I’m in,” I shrug. “A hundred bucks on it being his mother who touched this off in our unsub.”
Astra laughs. “Any other takers on this action?”
“I’m going to throw a hundred on it being a girlfriend,” Mo says.
“Pot’s getting rich,” I say. “What about you Rick?”
He shakes his head. “I’ll leave all the profiling stuff to you guys. I’ll stick with something that makes sense to me,” he says and taps his computer.
My cellphone rings, and when I look at the caller ID, I see a call coming from a blocked number. I move to the side of the bullpen and connect the call.
“Wilder,” I answer.
