by Hadena James
The day was ending. Commuters were filling the streets again. I watched them scurry to and fro. Their coats were turned up against the cold winds that blew off Lake Michigan. Snow flurries were beginning. People with hats and gloves were pulling them tighter. Winter was about to descend upon Chicago with a vengeance and fury, encouraged by arctic winds coming from Canada and sweeping across the Great Lakes.
Tomorrow or the next day, there would be real snow. Today flurries and sleet. You could feel it in the air. The threat of snow was oppressive.
The pieces almost fit together, but not exactly. It wasn’t just that we were missing a few key pieces; it was that the pieces we had seemed to have slightly different size connectors. I clung to the thought and tried to smooth it out, figure out what was wrong with them.
Below me, an El-Train screamed to a halt. Indistinct talking filtered up to me. The muffled sounds of thousands of footsteps drifted with the voices.
“You’ll freeze on this balcony without a coat. It isn’t as sheltered as yours,” Xavier wrapped a jacket around me.
“Look at them. All those people. All of them oblivious to us. We stand up here, trying to figure out where to look for serial killers and missing women and they go about their lives like it isn’t happening.”
“That’s because for them, it isn’t. It isn’t their family or friends that are missing. They don’t know anything about the serial killer except what they see in the news or read about in the paper and that isn’t very much. They continue forward. Tomorrow they will wake up and start the routine over, the same as they have every day for the last year and the same as they will start everyday for the next year. In their world, we exist, but only as background noise.”
“We’re still missing something, something big and important. Something that keeps everything from coming into full focus.” I turned to face him as I finished the cigarette.
“I know. The answers don’t seem to be on the bodies or in the devices or in your past either.”
“Where do we look for it then?”
“That’s too philosophical for me.” He shook his head and took the butt from me. He dropped it in a soda bottle. “I didn’t think sociopaths got depressed.”
“I’m not depressed, I’m irritated.”
“I can’t imagine what you’re like when you are mad then,” Xavier smiled and dragged me back into the room.
“Ace is still hung up on what we’re missing.” Xavier said as I closed the balcony door.
“Why?” Lucas asked.
“Because I think that is where the answer lies. You don’t become an expert on torture in a few days. Where are they getting their information? There isn’t exactly a ‘how to’ manual or a ‘torture for dummies’ guide.”
“Yes there is,” Michael looked at me. “You wrote one.”
“No, I wrote a scholarly thesis on it. It’s not a ‘how to’ manual.”
“But you were turning it into a book for the layman, yes?” Michael pressed.
“Yes.”
“In it, you had to go into details about some of the lesser known methods.”
“How do you know?” I frowned at him.
“Because I hacked your computer and have it.” He smiled back.
“That’s just scary.”
“True, but you have good security. It’s very unlikely you’ve been hacked before. Anyway, I’m looking at your book and every torture device, including the Scavenger’s Daughter, has a lot of detail,” Michael said.
“Who knows you are writing the book?” Lucas asked.
“My publisher, my thesis advisor, Nyleena and Malachi. I’m sure The Butcher knows, but he hasn’t said anything about it.”
“Seriously, could it be your serial killing stalker?” Michael asked.
“Unlikely,” Lucas dismissed Michael’s question. “Her serial killing stalker is about terrorizing her, which he doesn’t get, so he continues to press her buttons to see what she reacts to. This isn’t his thing. If he was going to start killing to do more than terrorize her, he’d have a much different method. He’d probably be a Jack the Ripper copy-cat. Back to her book though.”
“It does go into some pretty gruesome detail,” I admitted. “Everyone loves a horror story, but it’s still in draft version. Nyleena has a copy. Malachi has a copy. My publisher doesn’t. My thesis advisor doesn’t.”
“Both live in secure areas,” Xavier frowned.
“Yes they do,” I frowned with him.
“But Nyleena has a boyfriend.” Lucas chirped.
“She has an insignificant other, not the same thing. She wouldn’t show him a copy of it.”
“What if he stole a copy of it. You admit that you don’t know his first name. Why?” Lucas prodded.
“I do know his first name, it’s Al.” I reminded him.
“Oh, well. Michael, see if Al and Marcus are related or if it is just a coincidence,” Lucas shrugged.
“On it,” Michael’s fingers began to move swiftly over the keyboard again.
“Why didn’t we do that earlier?” I asked.
“Because Alejandro had a moment.” Lucas answered.
“Why is he the boss?”
“No one really wants the job. He isn’t the first we’ve had in three years. Hell, even your buddy was approached about it and declined it. Our supervisors have short life expectancies.” Xavier informed me.
“Alejandro’s doing good at five months,” Lucas agreed. “He’s outlived the last one by a month and a half.”
“You telling me the position is cursed?” I gave him a sideways smile.
“Something like that,” Xavier muttered. “When we do capture a serial killer, the supervisor does all the interviews and things. Since we have a high capture rate, this makes the supervisor a target. So no one ever wants the job. It is usually the last stop on your way down in the Marshals Service.”
“One has quit,” Lucas added cheerily.
“How many have you had?” I asked skeptically.
“With Alejandro, we’ve had seven in the three years we’ve been up and running.” Michael said his fingers still moving over the keyboard.
Chapter 46
