by Cole McCade
Something special about the way he thought.
He had a way of seeing things others couldn’t. A way of breaking down patterns, whether those patterns were in kill methodologies or in the chemical pathways that drove a serial murderer’s actions. A way of slipping himself into the moment as if he could relive every crime scene from the murderer’s point of view, capturing motive, method, intent with mathematical precision.
Aanga had hated losing him, in the BAU.
Had hated losing him, period.
He’d always thought it was a case of the wrong place, the wrong time, with them. Seong-Jae had been his subordinate, young, afraid of himself…and Aanga hadn’t been in the right place to be anything but a mentor to him, after a few career setbacks that had left him fighting with his own ego to accept that he was content with where he was. The chemistry had been there, and then it hadn’t been, and then something had happened one night and Seong-Jae had pulled away from him across a chasm with no bridge.
Now here he was, with this Khalaji fellow.
And even if Seong-Jae had gone into shutdown mode, blanking himself out…
He stood just a little too close to his partner, the backs of their hands brushing, and it was Seong-Jae who kept letting his hand slip back to initiate that contact again and again.
Ah, Aanga thought.
So that was how it was.
He turned to face them both, studying them, letting his thoughts turn over, before offering his hand to Khalaji. “Thank you. For trusting me back there, and for backing me up.”
Khalaji tore his gaze from the car with the suspect, looking down at Aanga strangely. He was a massive man, an imposing man, built like some strange wild-haired rugged man of the mountains—which was what made the sense of gentleness that radiated off him paired with the hint of cultured refinement in his speech, in his clothing, so much more incongruous. That scar around his throat, just barely peeking past his tie, was a curious point, as was the much older scar slashing through one eyebrow and eyelid; as curious as the new facial scar Seong-Jae had yet to explain.
Strange. Interesting.
And, Aanga thought, not someone to be underestimated.
Khalaji regarded Aanga’s hand with gray-blue eyes, clearly deliberating, then reached out to clasp it firmly, a brief but not unfriendly shake, his hand large and strong and weathered. “That was my job.”
“You’re good at it. That could’ve gone a lot worse. Instead it was as neat as it could possibly be, considering the circumstances.” Aanga let go, tucking his hands into the pockets of his slacks. “You’ve got good instincts for how to de-escalate suspects quickly. Saying exactly what they need to hear to calm them down and make them feel safe enough to surrender. You’d have made a great hostage negotiator.”
Khalaji snorted. “Somehow I ended up doing better with dead bodies than living ones.”
“Still. I understand now why he relies on you so much.” Aanga cocked his head toward Seong-Jae. “Isn’t that right, Seong-Jae?”
Seong-Jae blinked as if snapping from a deep sleep.
But what Aanga wasn’t expecting was the look of confused disapproval, almost disgust, that Seong-Jae turned on him.
Seong-Jae looked at him as if he’d never seen Aanga before, and couldn’t understand exactly what was in front of him.
No…
He looked at Aanga as if Aanga had disappointed him somehow.
Aanga sighed.
Goddammit, he was trying.
But after a moment Seong-Jae looked away, thinning his lips, before pulling away from both of them and striding across the parking lot, clipped words slipping over his shoulder, drained of emotion.
“Come,” he said. “Before Garza leaves us to find our own way back to the station.”
Aanga closed his eyes, pushing his glasses up to rub his nose. “Damn it. He’s mad.”
“Yep,” Khalaji said, an odd edge in his voice, before Aanga opened his eyes to watch as he, too, pulled away to follow Seong-Jae. “But that’s not your problem right now.”
Lingering, Aanga watched as Khalaji caught up to Seong-Jae, touched the back of his hand with his fingertips…only for Seong-Jae to wrap his hand tightly around Khalaji’s, almost ensnaring in a desperate grip as they leaned in close to murmur to each other, resting almost temple to temple as they walked with a stride that said they were only too used to moving in tandem like this, never tripping each other up, always in synch.
That shouldn’t hurt so much, making Aanga’s chest ache in terrible and poignant ways.
But it did.
Ah, well then.
He shrugged, resettling his glasses and adjusting his coat, before following them.
He was here for a reason, and as much as he wished…
That reason wasn’t Seong-Jae.
He had a killer to catch, after all.
C
GABRIELLE LEON WONDERED IF SHE would have to remind Matheson that not only was she not the secretary, but she wasn’t HR, either.
He shouldn’t have put the work of interviewing a potential new receptionist on her. Especially when the receptionist was also his assistant, and he knew what he needed out of secretarial staff far more than Gabrielle did. The interview criteria she’d look at were far different from the interview criteria that might motivate his decision, but…
She sighed, leaning back in her office chair and looking down at the resume of the only candidate who was scheduled in today.
Whomever they hired would be helping her, too.
So she supposed she’d just work on finding the best choice who could balance the needs of a busy office, and go from there.
She glanced up, though, as she heard the door in the waiting area open, followed by the quiet click of heels and a soft voice. “…hello?”
Standing, Gabrielle smoothed her pencil skirt and jacket, tucked her hair into place, then put on her best friendly-but-professional smile before stepping out of her office.
A young woman stood in the waiting room—short, curving, dressed professionally but cutely in a pink and white checkered cropped jacket, close-fit white top, and flaring knee-length A-line skirt in matching pink, with a broad belt cinched just under her chest; the colors made her golden-tan skin nearly glow, and her dark brown eyes were bright and sharp-looking in a round face with full cheekbones and a pointed chin. She had her dark brown hair swept back in a neat chignon, pinned with little silver hair pins topped in wire flowers centered by pink pearls—and she carried a neat navy blue folder in front of her, clasped in trimly manicured fingers.
Score one point already for professional presentation, Gabi thought. Girl knew how to dress for an interview while still having her own style—but her resume said she’d already temp clerked for several lower circuit court judges, and had graduated from U of M with a major in communications, so that wasn’t surprising. Twenty-five, and already a solid career history with a good foundation in her grades, and plenty of political involvement in prior student organizations.
Gabrielle might not trust her instincts much right now, but on paper, at least…
She had a good feeling about this one.
And she brightened her smile as she stepped forward, offering her hand. “Hi,” she said. “I’m Assistant D.A. Gabrielle Leon. It’s Daniella, right? Daniella Vasquez?”
“That’s right,” Daniella said, slipping her hand into Gabrielle’s and shaking firmly with a sweet smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Leon.”
[14: FLESH AND BONE]
SEONG-JAE THOUGHT HE JUST MIGHT be dissociating.
That was the only explanation for why he could not seem to feel anything, think anything, function at all; he felt as though a strange hand had clutched onto the back of his neck, digging into the nape of his skull and pushing a cloudy pressure up into his brain, enveloping it in smoky grayness. That hand pinched tight enough to cut him off from his emotions, from his senses, from any thoughts other than vague words that had no real conn
ection to anything. Even his body felt detached from him, save for a vague phantom throbbing in the scar on his thigh, an echo of pain.
He had not said anything since Malcolm had caught up to him in the parking lot, held his hand, murmured Are you all right?
And Seong-Jae had answered, No. But I cannot talk about it in this moment. I am sorry, Malcolm. I am sorry.
Malcolm had simply accepted that.
And Seong-Jae had said nothing else.
Still said nothing else, as they stood outside the observation window and looked into the interrogation room—where, shaking like a leaf, Kevin Arnsford sat handcuffed to his chair with his jumpsuit still spattered in blood, and the bloody rabbit mask sitting on the table next to him, staring at him as if in silent accusation.
Bugs Bunny, Seong-Jae thought numbly.
The mask was a mask of Bugs Bunny.
How odd.
Some detached part of him thought perhaps he should find that funny, for some darkly ironic reason.
Yet he could not find it in him to laugh.
Aanga stood to his left, Malcolm to his right, both of them looking in at Arnsford as well; Garza flanked Aanga’s other side, and she eyed them before turning her head back toward the window.
“So this isn’t our guy?”
“No,” Aanga said without a moment of doubt. “He isn’t.”
“You want to explain for the one person here who isn’t clued in on this fuckery?” she asked.
“Seong-Jae?” Aanga said, but it did not truly register—until he repeated, “Seong-Jae.”
Slow to process, his own name filtering in, then intent, expectation.
It was as though a ten-car pile-up had slowed traffic in his mind, forcing all thoughts to come to a halt behind that barrier until one at a time could route around a detour to make its way through.
They wanted him to explain.
And Malcolm was watching him with his brows set into a heavy furrow, slate blue eyes turned dark.
He let himself lean closer to Malcolm, enough for their arms to brush; right now Malcolm was his touchpoint, and when Seong-Jae came into contact with him it felt as though he absorbed a surge of Malcolm’s energy, his warmth, to bring his mind to life again, that electrical jumpstart to at least wake him up enough to gather his sluggish thoughts together and speak.
“The kill method does not fit the modus operandum of the killer we seek,” he said. “Our suspect is methodical. Even during the prison break, he had a plan, a pattern, and a methodology in mind. He acted with deliberation and without fear. If he could not achieve the symmetry he sought with the tools at hand, he would at least achieve symmetry in his design.”
He raised his hand, pressing it against the glass, his fingertips just aligned with the edge of Kevin Arnsford’s head. Kevin was a reedy man, just like the others—forty-seven, beginning to show the ropy musculature of advancing age, his skin leathery and worn. His history said he had worked in road construction prior to his arrest for indecent exposure on conservation land with protected species of cacti on multiple occasions, details of which had been mercifully left out of the report.
He did not look as though prison had served him well.
His bones seemed to hold together too loosely, and his thatch of dark brown hair was a dry shock sticking up everywhere, his eyes sunken in his skull.
But his face was quite orderly and symmetrical, was it not?
He perhaps might even have been considered conventionally handsome in his day, considering that most standards for attractiveness were frequently subconsciously defined by facial symmetry.
All of the suspects had a particular facial symmetry, he thought.
The Golden Ratio Killer’s chosen ones.
“This man was only given loose instructions,” he continued. Somehow it was easier to step into someone else’s shoes when he was hardly moored in his own; as if, if he could not remain connected to himself, he could at the very least be someone else, read the actions driving the scenario, visualize the ghosts of Arnsford’s recent past. “He was not told the precise methodology by which our suspect practices his craft. He was simply told to find a rabbit mask, and attack people with a blade. Somewhere public, so as to draw our attention. Our suspect does not do his work where he can be observed, even if he might stage his victims to be found later. He needs time. Space. Silence. Solitude. Such detail requires a great deal of concentration, focus, and intent, and he cannot have those things if he risks being caught. Therefor a public attack would be out of the question.”
Garza grimaced. “So we’re going in there assuming he’s not guilty?”
“Just like Walters,” Malcolm pointed out. “There’s no end game in letting himself get caught. This is just a trail of breadcrumbs to lead us where he wants us to go, and keep us busy.”
“I don’t like being led,” she growled. “I don’t like being toyed with like this.”
“None of us do,” Aanga said. “We’re playing a game of chess without having all the pieces or being able to see our opponent’s moves. We’ve got to figure out how to think ahead and anticipate what’s going to happen next.”
“Then we should get in there and talk to him.” Malcolm thinned his lips, tugging his beard, eyes lidding. “See what he can tell us. You mind if I take lead on this? I’ve got a few ideas.”
“By all means,” Aanga said just a little too mildly, “be my guest.”
“You really think he’d have anything useful?” Garza asked.
“Only one way to find out,” Aanga answered. “Besides, we’ve got him on his own crimes. We have leverage to use against him. He may not be guilty as the Golden Ratio Killer…but he still assaulted a dozen people with a deadly weapon, and left one of them dead. We’ve got witness testimony, store security camera footage…and he’s terrified enough that he’ll likely just confess. Look at him. He’s sweating.”
“Yes,” Seong-Jae said numbly. “Because he knows he is about to confess to a crime that he never wanted to commit.”
C
SEONG-JAE HUNG BACK, AS THEY filed into the interrogation room with Arnsford. He was beginning to feel the pressure of working in such a large group again, when he had grown so simply and easily accustomed to working with Malcolm alone save for the occasional brief intervention of Cara Stenson, Captain Zarate, or Mx. Marcus.
It was…not exactly uncomfortable, but when he was already struggling with processing delays it roused an instinctive habit to efface himself, make himself less visible, hide himself away in the back of the group.
Perhaps he was regressing.
He had done that frequently when working with the BAU, as well.
It had not been merely his status as a junior agent, either.
He had often simply tried to make himself invisible, until Aanga coaxed him to the forefront and encouraged him to speak and share his observations.
Seong-Jae grimaced to himself.
He hoped that it was not Aanga’s presence pushing him back into old patterns of behavior, before he had found himself on his own and without the influence of the man at once overshadowing him and coaxing him out of his shell.
But he diverted his focus to Arnsford, as Aanga pulled up a chair and settled down with Garza standing behind him like watchful falcon posted sentinel; Seong-Jae held himself apart, leaning against the wall next to the door.
While Malcolm simply settled on the edge of the table across from Arnsford, right next to the bloody mask, and offered a bland, almost too easy smile.
“Hi,” he said. “I’m Malcolm.”
“Fuck you,” Arnsford spat back with nasty mock-pleasantry. “I’m Kevin.”
“Thought you’d say that,” Malcolm answered cheerfully. “You’re pretty angry right now, aren’t you, Kevin? Processing the stages of grief.”
Arnsford eyed him suspiciously, his eyes narrowing. He had a long nose, and it drew up into a scrunched furrow as he leaned away from Malcolm. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
Malcolm ticked the points off on his fingers. “Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Your first step was denial. When the man in the rabbit mask—the real man in the rabbit mask—told you what he wanted you to do, you refused, didn’t you?”
That suspicion in Arnsford’s eyes turned wary, almost afraid. He glanced at the bloody rabbit mask, then closed his eyes tightly and looked away; he was white as a sheet, creating a strange unnatural pallor under his leathery skin, his pores turning into black pits in his face. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“He wants you to talk about it,” Seong-Jae interjected. It was out before he could stop it, a thought appearing out of the fog and making itself known, too sharp and too bright, as if it belonged to someone else, some darker thing living inside him. “The white rabbit wanted you to speak. Not to keep secrets.”
Arnsford said nothing. Malcolm watched him with those slate blue eyes penetrating, the wolf on the hunt, keen and catching the scent; he folded his hands in his lap.
“So you’re still clinging to denial,” he murmured, rumbling deep, thoughtful. “He demanded, you refused, he insisted, and you…you’re furious, now. That’s the stage of grief you’re in. But you’re still trying to deny him, too. So even though you want to move on to the next stage and bargain with us now, to plead your innocence, to say you didn’t want to do it…that means doing what he wants, and telling us what he told you to do.”
“How the fuck do you know all of that?” Arnsford ground out. He looked at Malcolm as though Malcolm were some kind of strange soothsayer, reading his thoughts and plucking out his deepest inner horrors. “Did you get it on security footage or something?”
“I know because I know you’re not the man we’re after, Kevin,” Malcolm said gently. “I knew the second you said you were sorry. I know you’re not the monster here. So why don’t you tell us who did this? Who made you hurt people like this?”
Kevin Arnsford screwed up his jaw into a tight line, his lips peeling back; he looked as if he might simultaneously burst into tears and lunge at Malcolm’s throat, before he let out a low moan.
