Left To Run

by Blake Pierce

  “You think it’s him?” Robert queried, then answered his own question. “Has to be. Fits our time frame perfectly.” He pointed at the screen, tracking the figure as they played the video clip on loop.

  The only figure besides an elderly couple exiting the building in the allotted time frame was a man in uniform. He carried a toolbox in his right hand, which swung mildly with each stride. He seemed of average height, but had a cap over his head. He had longer hair, though not quite as long as the tech working on Robert’s computer. Besides the hair, they couldn’t make out anything about his face beneath the brim of the hat. The man also wore gloves.

  The grainy footage played again on loop. The video almost seemed to taunt them as the toolbox swung nonchalantly by his waist. Adele watched as he entered the apartment. Then the tape fast-forwarded, and about an hour later, judging by the timestamp, he exited the building. Still carrying the toolbox, still with his hat over his face, his head hung low, his gloves on. “Anything?” Adele asked, quietly. Robert continued to frown, studying the screen.

  “Nothing,” he said, “I don’t see anything.”

  “Hang on, play it again,” Adele said.

  For the fourth time, Robert restarted the clip, and they both watched.

  Yellow hat, average height, longish hair. No visible features, no reflection in the glass. No one else entering or coming from the building except for an elderly couple.

  “Nothing,” Adele echoed Robert’s word. “Come on,” she said through clenched teeth. “There has to be something… there’s always something.”

  Robert continued to stare. “One hour he was in there. That’s long enough to talk his way in, kill her, cut out her kidney. But he had to move fast.”

  She didn’t even bother glancing up, but Adele could see Paige out of the corner of her eye shaking her head.

  “Why the toolbox?” Robert cut her off, frowning. “If all he needed was a knife, to get the kidney, to kill her. Why the toolbox?” She watched as her old mentor jabbed a finger at the screen, pointing adamantly. “See, see I knew it. He switched hands.”

  Adele hesitated, “Excuse me?”

  Robert jammed his finger against the screen again. “He switched hands. The toolbox. When he’s entering, he’s carrying it in his right hand. But look, look.” He waited, pausing for the video to repeat its loop and come back around to the part where the killer exited the building. “Look; left hand. He enters right hand. Exits left hand.”

  “Okay, I’ll give you that,” Adele said, “he switched hands with the toolbox. So what?”

  “Everyone has a preferred carrying hand. Just watch anyone carrying groceries in from the store. Every single person has a preferred carrying hand. He preferred carrying the toolbox in his right hand when he entered the building. But then coming out, he’s holding it in his left hand.”

  “So,” Adele said, “now, he wants to treat it delicately. When he leaves, he’s taking more care with the toolbox. Look, he’s not even swinging it as much.”

  They played the image again, and both of them nodded in turn. Adele heard a shifting sound, and a creak of the floorboard; she noticed Agent Paige now moving further into the room, as if lured by the curiosity of it all.

  “It’s the kidney,” said Adele, nodding once in certainty. “He has the kidney in that toolbox.”

  Robert shifted. “So he is right-handed, and he has the kidney in that toolbox. What’s the significance of that? You don’t think he eats it…” Robert trailed off, allowing the horrible question to linger.

  But Adele shook her head quickly. “No, I actually don’t.” She stared at the screen now, her cheeks heating. “The apartment was warm. I don’t think he did that. I think the victim wanted the heat on. It was probably chilly; I don’t know. But that tells me one thing—why didn’t that water evaporate on the bathroom floor? It was there for hours. A thin glaze of a puddle. How come it didn’t evaporate? Even most of the blood had dried except for the thickest parts. So why was the water still there?”

  Robert tapped his fingers against the desk now in a quiet drumming sound.

  “Ice,” Adele said.

  Robert looked up at her and he began to nod.

  “There’s ice in that toolbox,” Adele said. “Some of it was moved, displaced by the kidney. That ice ended up on the floor and melted slowly. At the second victim’s crime scene, I remember opening the freezer. There was a tray of ice missing its cubes. Maybe he needed extra. This time, I’m confident he brought his own.” She turned, tapping a finger on the image of the grainy toolbox.

  “At the second scene he needed more ice?” said Robert.

  Adele shrugged. “I don’t know if he took it because he forgot to bring some of his own, or if he just wanted more. But I bet you he had something to do with the missing ice.”

  “But if there’s ice in that toolbox…” Robert said, trailing off, “that means he’s not taking the kidneys as trophies. He’s keeping them viable!”

  Adele shook her head resolutely. “What was his name—Mr. Waters, he said he was on the run back in the US for operating with a suspended medical license, yes?”

  Robert nodded. “You don’t think he has something to do—”

  “No. That’s not what I’m saying. My point is, I was looking into it a bit. The underground market, for faux doctors and those operating outside the law, or outside hospitals, at least, is much bigger than you might think. He took the kidney and had ice in his toolbox because I don’t think it was a toolbox. It looks like it. But I think it’s a cooler. What if he isn’t a psychopathic killer, but just someone stealing organs?”

  Robert stared at her. “Sounds pretty psychopathic to me.”

  “You know what I mean. What if he isn’t in it for the pleasure of the kill? There’s been no mutilation to the bodies. He doesn’t seem to have a sexual thrill. He doesn’t spend much time with the body as far as we can tell. That would explain no physical evidence. He doesn’t get off on fear, either. Which would explain no defensive wounds. They don’t even see him coming. He doesn’t enjoy the kill. It’s a necessity for his business.”

  Robert hesitated. “That would explain why they’re nobodies. Recent expats, people trying to escape one life but yet to establish a new one. Vulnerable. Many of them without connections or friends. They would be alone half the time in their apartments. Except for philanderers like Mr. Waters, there hasn’t even been time for them to establish romantic relationships. Girls, alone, without connections, barely able to speak the language, trying to make friends in a big city like Paris. They’re the perfect victims.”

  “I think,” Adele said, hesitating, “what if all of this is organ harvesting? A black-market operation? What if he sells these kidneys?” She fell into silence as a slow, ominous prickle tingled down her arms. A serial killer might get scared—might call off an attack or go into hiding. Like her mother’s killer. But someone killing for profit? There was no telling if they’d ever stop.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  At that moment, Adele heard a groan. She stared resolutely out the window, refusing to look back toward Agent Paige.

  But Paige approached, causing the floorboards to creak as she did. She snorted again, as if determined they respond to the noise. “Organ harvesting?” Paige snapped. “Are you two stupid? It’s a serial killer. And you’re talking about a black market of organ harvesting? Conspiracy theories in the DGSI offices. You’re getting old,” she said, and Adele knew she was directing her comment toward Robert. “And you, well, it’s not like I would expect anything better.”

  Adele closed her eyes, breathing quietly, trying to count to ten in her head. Part of her wanted to shoot the woman. But she supposed it might not be the most advised option. Still, punching Paige sounded very enjoyable at that moment.

  She glanced down and noticed Robert reaching out and patting her on the leg in a gentle, calming motion. He pressed his hand against her knee and held it there as if trying to anchor her in place.


  “Do you have a better theory?” Robert said, coolly. Adele knew he wasn’t so much offended on his own behalf as he was on hers.

  “No,” said Paige. “I don’t need a new theory. We are dealing with a psychopathic killer, preying on young women. Who cares what he’s thinking? Killers are always thinking stupid things. And you, both of you, are wasting our time. Interpol or not, you’re working in the DGSI, and you’re jumping to the wild conclusions of a first-year rookie!”

  Adele turned at last, glaring at the woman. “Shut up,” she said, her temper boiling.

  “Oh? Good one,” Paige retorted.

  “I said, shut up!” Adele shouted.

  Paige’s eyes narrowed. She flashed a crocodile grin. A smirk devoid of joy and fueled only by malicious pleasure. “You’re inept and impossible to work with.”

  “I’m impossible to work with?” Adele said, stunned. “You’re unconscionable!”

  Paige grunted and turned. “I’ve had enough of this bullshit. I’m reporting you to Foucault. I can’t work with stupid and her lecherous old sugar daddy.”

  With a spring in her step, Paige hurried out of the room, up the hall. Robert lifted his hand, and he nodded toward the door. “Probably best you’re in that room when they have that conversation.”

  Fuming, Adele extricated herself from the desk and hurried into the hall as well. She adjusted her sleeves as she raced after Paige, her blood pulsing in her ears with throbbing pumps. She strode down the hallway and ignored the elevator, watching the door slide shut as Paige entered. Adele made a beeline for the stairs, hurrying up them three at a time. She passed a couple of coworkers but ignored them, despite their nods of greeting.

  Just before she reached the top floor where Foucault’s office was, she heard the ding of the elevator above her. The noise was accompanied by the sound of sliding doors, then quick, hurried footsteps.

  Adele cursed and put on an extra burst of speed until she was practically racing up the final steps, then turning down the hall toward the executive’s office.

  She glimpsed the opaque glass door; wooden chairs and a bench faced the room. Adele glimpsed white painted walls and a thin carpet before spotting Paige rushing to the door, and then the sound of rapid knocking as she tapped her knuckles hurriedly against the frame.

  Adele set her jaw and strode down the hall. She heard a voice call from inside the opaque office, and Paige tapped even more insistently.

  The voice called a second time, and Paige opened the door, pushing it in. She paused in the doorway, glancing toward Adele, and her eyes narrowed. She shut the door firmly.

  Adele immediately heard shouting from Foucault’s office. She raced forward, catching words like, “…inept…” “…useless…” and “…fire her, Thierry!”

  Instead of knocking, Adele grabbed the handle, flung open the glass door, and stepped in. Executive Thierry Foucault sat behind his large desk. He had a headphone in one ear, and a glass of wine in his hand. A cigarette was smoking in an ashtray.

  The smell of nicotine smoke lingered on the air, mingling with the odor of expensive cologne. Adele had been in the office before, and at the time, the windows had been propped open, and the air hadn’t been so pungent.

  The room was soon polluted with sound as well, drowned in shouting as Adele and Paige both tried to be heard. For a moment, Foucault just stared at them, his eyes dancing between the two like someone watching a tennis match.

  The executive of the DGSI shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He had a hawk-like nose and dark eyebrows. His hair was slicked back, and if Adele hadn’t known better, she would’ve guessed he was some sort of banker.

  Now, though, she was shouting at the top of her lungs, trying to be heard over Agent Paige. “Unreliable!” she was saying. “Completely unacceptable! Undermining the case from the very—”

  Paige, not to be outdone, increased her volume. “Inept! Sending us on wild goose chases! A complete fool!”

  “—hateful and spiteful from the start,” Adele insisted, grinding her teeth and glaring at Paige now. “Uncooperative to a degree I’ve never seen before!”

  “—stupid,” Agent Paige snapped, “harebrained theories—”

  At last, Executive Foucault lowered his glass of wine, pulled the earbud from his right ear, and, with a growling tone, shouted, “Enough!”

  Both agents fell silent, staring at their boss. He breathed heavily and gave a small cough. He reached out, grabbed his cigarette, put it to his lips, and pulled a long drag. He held it for a second, his eyes closed, and then he exhaled, breathing a jet of smoke toward the closed windows.

  Adele shifted uncomfortably. Foucault noticed this motion and scowled. Agent Paige smirked.

  The executive regarded the two of them and said, “I had hoped… by pairing you two, you would be able to work out anything between you. I can see now I was mistaken.”

  “Work out?” Agent Paige snapped. “This loathsome weasel is impossible to work with!”

  For her part, Adele ratcheted her eyebrows up. “Get your finger out of my face.”

  “Quiet!” Foucault thundered

  A tentative silence fell again. Both of them were heated, but still, for the moment, Adele reminded herself where she was and who sat behind the desk. Foucault was a powerful man with powerful connections. If she wanted to continue working with Interpol, and through DGSI and BKA, pissing off the director of the French agency wouldn’t be a good start. She swallowed back the next series of retorts and stared directly at Foucault, refusing to look at Agent Paige.

  The executive took a long drag from the cigarette again and then smooshed the butt into the ashtray, causing the last bit of white and yellow paper to rend across spreading ash.

  He breathed a couple of times, then said, “Clearly, pairing you two was a mistake. Paige, I’ll find you something else come morning. Agent Sharp,” he said, “I’ll assign you a new partner.” Then, with a frown he added, “I might also suggest the DGSI was operating just fine before you got here. I don’t like what this signifies for future operations. If you can’t manage a team of one person, a single partner, I’m not sure what sort of role you’ll have in cases to come.”

  “Sir,” Adele said, scandalized, “Agent Paige is the one—”

  “Enough!” Foucault snapped, cutting her off. “I wasn’t asking for excuses. I was telling you how it is. You can’t even manage one partner; I don’t know how Interpol expects you to navigate the treacherous waters of multiple agencies across the world. I’m going to have to take a long hard think about this program if things continue like this, understand?”

  Adele could feel her cheeks heating up, and she didn’t have to look to sense Paige’s delight. But she fixed her gaze on the executive and with as much strength as she could muster, she nodded her head once. “I understand.”

  Everything in her wanted to add more, to repeat how this was Paige’s fault, to point out what the older woman had done since they started. She’d been a nuisance at every turn. But judging by Foucault’s expression, she doubted he would hear it. And, the more she thought about it, she realized there had to be some sort of personal relationship between Foucault and Agent Paige. After the incident with Matthew and the missing evidence, Paige had only been demoted. Foucault had been in charge then, too. Any other executive would have fired Paige, if not pressed charges. Clearly, there was a history between these two. Though, as Adele glanced at Foucault, she didn’t think it was intimate. Still, now wasn’t the time to figure it out. She filed the question away for further consideration.

  Agent Paige cleared her throat. “Thierry, maybe it would be better if I took the lead on this case, and you assign Sharp something else.”

  “Agent Sharp,” Foucault said, “is working with Interpol. I’m not interested in starting anything on that front. Sorry, Sophie, but you’re going to have to wait. And you,” he said, glancing at Adele again, “are going to need to wait for me to find you a new partner. Can I rely on both of you
to play it professionally from this point forward?”

  Again, Adele wanted to protest, to defend herself. But at the same time, there was a level of truth to his words. She had a responsibility to the BKA, to the DGSI, and to the FBI. She had a responsibility to Interpol not to rock any boats. And while Paige was insufferable, it was up to Adele to manage unruly partners. She was in her early thirties, and this was the age where careers were either made or destroyed. Glancing at Foucault, she knew this wasn’t a man to cross. So she nodded her head in deference, then said, “Am I free to go?”

  Foucault grunted. “I never asked you to come. Just don’t slam my door this time.”

  Stiffly, Adele turned and marched, straight-legged, out the door. She quietly shut the door behind her, resisting the urge to linger and eavesdrop through the glass.

  As she stepped into the hall, she exhaled, breathing a sigh of relief. It felt, for the first time, like a ball and chain had been unlocked from around her ankle. Hopefully, she could move freely for the first time in days.

  She shook her head in a physical gesture of relief. Adele thought of the three victims, of the killer with his toolbox. Despite what Paige thought, Adele felt certain that organ harvesting had something to do with it. The water on the floor and ice—the toolbox as a cooler, the missing kidneys… Someone was killing people to harvest their organs. But where should they go from here? What was the next step? They still didn’t know who that fake maintenance man was. What connection did he have with the three women? All of them had been expats. There were online forums and groups where they connected. Perhaps that was where they would start. To investigate anyone who might have a connection to those groups. Maybe they weren’t the killer, but they could easily be supplying information to the actual culprit.

  Adele adjusted her suit and straightened her sleeves again. She marched straight to the elevator and pushed the button. Paige could take the stairs this time. Adele had to find an organ harvester.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN