CHAPTER FOUR
1520 Words
CHAPTER FOUR
Ilse shot askance glances at her partner, trying to gauge his mood as the city passed by in a blur of gray and they hastened towards the second, and still maintained, crime scene. With Tom, it was always difficult to tell what he was thinking. His expression for hungry matched the same one for happy. And while she suspected he experienced a broad range of emotions, he had mastered the poker face.
She'd had clients like him in the past, but none were nearly as committed to keeping their feelings so bottled up.
Sawyer sat behind the wheel of the car, using one of his long legs to steer. “What?” he said.
“Huh?”
“What?” he asked, shooting her a glance. His stubborn, green gaze fixed on her then moved back to the road.
“Nothing.”
“You're watching me,” he said.
“I'm not.”
“You are,” he replied. “You were watching me back at Rawley's office, too.”
“I—umm. Did you hear what he said at the end there?”
“I heard.”
“You're not... concerned?”
“Nah. Rawley is always talking about promotion. Job review or not—same stuff for me.”
Ilse blinked. She wasn't sure she shared the sentiment. They needed to solve this case if only to make sure no more constants in her life shifted like tectonic plates.
“For real, though,” he said, glancing at her. “Why do you keep staring? Not just back at the office. I have a zit?”
“No.”
“So what is it?”
“Umm—I think I'm in love.”
Sawyer's expression cracked into a grin. He shook his head, his sandy-hair swishing. “Har har. I'm good, doc. Are you?”
Ilse determinedly looked in any direction except Sawyer's. “I'm fine... I got in touch with the warden at my father's prison.
“Oh? Good chat?”
“I've got the date of the parole. Next week.”
“Mhmm. Good to hear...”
Ilse shot him a sidelong glance but quickly returned her eyes to the road. “So... How are things with you?”
Sawyer sighed, shaking his head. “Fine. Good. How much longer until we get there?” He glanced at the GPS and answered his own question as if trying to simply fill the space between them with sound. “Only a few minutes. Not bad.”
“No... not bad,” Ilse said slowly.
Sawyer was acting strange. He'd been acting strange back in Rawley's office. He'd been acting strange on their last case. And now here he was acting strange again. Sawyer wasn't the type to open up, and Ilse didn't want to pry, but she knew it had something to do with his sister.
Beyond that, it was nearly impossible to tell.
But birdwatching? Tom Sawyer? Fat chance. He'd rather watch paint dry.
Briefly, she wondered if she ought to pry a bit further, to see if there was any part of him that might want her help. He clearly suffered from trauma after the horrible events with his little sister. He'd never dealt with the emotional wounds and had only allowed them to fester.
Classic avoidance. Ilse was trained in dealing with that sort of thing, and most of all, seeing Tom hurt like this only made her own heart pang. Her old mentor Dr. Mitchell always knew what to say to get people to open up.
But with Sawyer, Ilse knew an indirect approach would just sound like manipulation to him. A direct approach would get shut down.
She sighed, glancing at the GPS herself now.
After the case...
After the case she'd confront him about his odd behavior. She'd straight-up ask him if he wanted help. It wouldn't have to be her—that might be awkward. She knew professionals though. Maybe even Dr. Mitchell.
But for now, the case had to come first.
Rawley's words from earlier came back to her and she shivered in her seat. Isolated junkyards, minimal security, as many locations as the killer's heart desired. And by the looks of things, he was only just getting started.
***
Ilse frowned at the scrapyard as they moved between walls of stacked cars and abandoned containers. The partitions of crushed automobiles seemed anything but sturdy. Her fingers brushed nervously at her hair, and she moved in Sawyer's shadow in the direction of the yellow caution tape ahead of them.
A couple of police were standing near a fluttering band of caution tape, not the usual crime scene stuff, but traffic tape. Ilse guessed a place like this might have it in supply.
Sawyer raised a hand, gravel crunching beneath his boots as he approached the cops. Ilse lingered back, allowing the recalcitrant agent to take the lead. Normally, Sawyer allowed her to do the talking. Now, though, he came to a halt by the fluttering caution tape.
“'hlo,” Sawyer grunted.
The cops glanced between the two of them. A suspicious, hesitant look. Ilse sighed, reaching for her identification. Sawyer's baseball cap, flannel, and jeans didn't exactly scream fed. Then again, her long-sleeved sweater and slacks weren't agency standard either.
“FBI,” Sawyer added as if it were a passing thought. He nodded towards Ilse's raised hand displaying her ID.
The cops relaxed.
“This the scene?” Sawyer asked, nodding past them.
The two officers stepped back, gesturing over the fluttering yellow tape. One of them, an older man with a bit of a paunch, massaged his chin. He smelled like caffeine, though he'd managed to squirrel away any Styrofoam evidence before the feds had arrived.
“That car,” he said. “The one facing the wrong direction.”
“Buick?” Sawyer asked.
“Yup.”
The two men seemed to be on the same wavelength, communicating telepathically, using as few sentences as possible. Sawyer nodded in gratitude, and the older cop raised the tape, allowing the agents to duck underneath.
Ilse cautiously approached behind Sawyer. “No overgrowth,” she murmured, pointing.
Sawyer nodded. “Yeah. Saw that too. Car was moved here. Plates?”
“No plates,” Ilse said as she stepped to the side to check.
Sawyer nodded. “Serial is probably removed too. Worth checking.”
He approached the door, peering through a shattered window. He tentatively extended his hand towards the handle of the car, but then pulled up, frowning.
“What is that?” Ilse asked, studying the seam between the car door and the frame.
“Welding. Someone welded the door shut.”
Ilse wrinkled her nose, staring at the melted, then cooled metal. Why go to so much work? Welding the door? She glanced at the others. The rest weren't melted. She glanced back at the front door, the shattered glass, her eyes flitting towards the blood stains on the headrest and steering wheel. A couple of wires, snipped now, still dangled where they had once secured the now absent body to the wheel.
Sawyer called over his shoulder. “Any prints? DNA?”
“None!” the old cop called back. He was sipping from a coffee thermos that had appeared as if from nowhere.
“Forensics been through?”
“Yup. Nothing found.”
Sawyer scratched beneath his chin, glancing back at the car. “Well s**t,” he muttered. “Any thoughts, doc?”
Ilse studied the car a moment longer, then murmured. “He gets off on the fear. The posing, welding the door. It's like a screenwriter, holding anticipation until the final moment. He wanted someone to see the body, but not be able to do anything about it.”
“So a sadist?”
“Probably.”
“Great,” Sawyer grunted. “It's always gotta be a sadist.”
He did another lap of the car, while Ilse remained, frowning. The car was facing the wrong direction. An oversight by the killer? Intentional to draw the eye?
She looked away now, across the great expanse of the scrapyard. Rows of soon-to-be repurposed scraps and metal angled in alleys throughout the dusty space.
Rawley's words came back, along with shivers.
The killer had as many junkyards as he wanted to choose from. All generally remote, with few eyewitnesses. Plus, the welding, the metal spike, the soldered door—in a place like a scrapyard, he'd have all the toys to work with that his heart desired.
This guy was only just getting started.
Sawyer raised a hand, waving towards the cops again. “We got the witness who found the body?”
“Yup—he's in the office. Tough old guy. Wants to go home.”
“Let's speak to him so he can,” Ilse interjected, nodding. Crime scenes were Sawyer's realm of expertise. But people? That's where Ilse's experience came into play.
She ducked back under the caution tape, taking the lead this time as she hastened towards the indicated office building.
- Writer
