19. 19
Miranda calls in to let me know that Beckett and Winny are here. They actually scheduled a meeting, asking for both Chester and me to be there. I call it progress. Chester is already sitting on my windowsill, his knees pulled up, scrolling on his phone. He’s wearing a Taylor Swift shirt that reads ‘no its becky’ and I just know he does it to get a rise out of Beckett.
I sit on my desk chair, trying to look like I’m busy, but I’m not fooling anyone, so I just give up. I stare at the door and wait for Special Agent Luta and Special Agent Sanders to come in. I force myself to think of their titles, seeing as they’re here in their official capacity.
When the door opens, both agents walk in with a sour look on their face. I’m getting nervous. What the hell is this meeting about?
Winny greets Chester, who sits up straight in the windowsill as he gives her a little wave and tucks his phone away. Winny, for some reason, starts laughing. What starts out as a light chuckle changes into a full, bend over, clutching-her-stomach belly laugh. Beckett watches her as if she’s gone crazy, and when she’s rubbing the tears from her eyes, he asks her what’s going on.
“Have you seen his shirt?” she asks, as she starts laughing all over again.
Chester smirks as Beckett starts swearing, and I can’t hide my own smile. I wonder if Beckett even gets the reference, because he doesn’t seem like the type to be into pop music and cultural references. Even if he doesn’t get the reference, it’s still funny.
There’s a vein on the side of his neck I can see, and for a second I think he’ll physically attack Chester. Which Chester would lose in under three seconds by the way. Beckett is solid muscle, and while Chester isn’t skimpy, he’s no match for the bulky FBI agent. He breathes furiously through his nose, as he clenches and unclenches his fist. Winny and her laughing fit aren’t helping. He forcefully releases a long breath, and seems to make himself relax.
“Perhaps this was a mistake,” he mutters to Winny, who’s making her way to her chair as she tries to control herself. Just when I think she’s done laughing, she snorts, like, a real snort. Like ‘What does the piggy do?’ snorts. Beckett glares at her and Chester beams.
When there’s a knock on the door, I am pulled back to the present. Miranda walks in with a tray of our drinks and starts handing them to all of us. She’s seriously worth her weight in gold. The coffee break has broken the laughing fit, and we all return to our normal selves.
“So,” Winny says as she crosses her legs in the chair she’s sitting in and folds her hands around a cup of tea. Her voice has returned back to normal again. “We’d like to share the profile with you guys.”
Eyeing them suspiciously, I wait for them to elaborate.
“Why?” Chester asks, just as suspicious as me. The FBI doesn’t divulge intelligence to us. We’re no government authority, we have nothing to do with this case besides literally stumbling into the bodies and the killer’s obsession with me.
“Because Beckett convinced me that it was a better plan to talk this through with you guys than to have you figure it out on your own,” Winny answers. She and Beckett are like the epitome of good cop, bad cop, so it surprises me that Beckett is the one that convinced her to talk to us. I bet he’s regretting the decision now after seeing Chester’s shirt.
“What do you expect of us?” I ask.
“Any help we can get,” Beckett answers, rubbing a hand over his face. He looks tired, and I get it. He’s literally on the clock to make sure he gets to the killer before he takes another victim.
“Any help we give you takes away from help we can give to missing kids,” Chester explains. He’s not being an ass, it’s just how we’ve always prioritized doing the thing we do. We don’t even have enough time to save all the kids we want to save, let alone have any to spare to start chasing a serial killer.
“We understand,” Winny says. Her dark brown eyes look sad. I guess if there’s anyone out there who understands that we’re only human and can only spend our time once, it’s them.
I sigh, grabbing my own coffee while I sit back in my chair.
“Fire away, listening won’t hurt. We don’t have any time or manpower to help you though.”
“That’s fair,” Beckett says, rubbing his neck and letting his green eyes fall on me.
“Do you know how we operate?” Winny asks.
“For the most part,” Chester answers, for some reason chewing his bottom lip.
“Well, we’ve gone over everything we could and found something that’ll hopefully help us further along.”
She reaches over to grab something from her bag and puts a file on the desk. Chester gets up and comes over to the desk so he can see.
“The necklaces on the bodies and the one you’ve received, it seems to be significant. It was the first thing to go on. It means something to the killer.”
She opens the file and brings out an old file, with a picture of a woman, obviously dead, lying in an odd position on the floor covered in blood.
“This is Janine Egbers. Killed a little over thirty years ago by the man she was dating at the time.”
She taps her finger on the photo, and then goes to the next photo. It’s a blow-up picture of her face, and I recognize traits of myself in her. My breath hitches. Her big brown eyes are glazed over, the life gone out of her. On her chest is the same necklace as the victims were all wearing, the same one I received. I don’t know what this means, but a whiff of lime reaches me and I feel nauseous.
“This wasn’t on the FBI servers,” Chester says, his eyes glued to the photo. “Not in the police database either. I did a cross reference search on it.”
“No,” Beckett answers, not even responding to the admission that Chester has been snooping through the databases he shouldn’t be looking in. “The originals have never been digitized. Police here never finished digitizing old solved cases with solved cases. Once Winny found them after long, long hours going through all the old files in storage, we thought it’d be best not to digitize them because of wandering eyes.”
Ah,there’s the sneer I’ve been waiting on.
“Long, loooooong hours,” Winny says, rubbing a hand over her lower back as if it’s hurting. “If I never see another file box again it’d still be too soon.”
Chester picks up the photo. “The resemblance is there, but it’s not like you’re twins or anything. Raven black hair, dark brown eyes.” He cocks his head. “Noses look a little similar. Shape of the face. But that’s it. Your eyes are bigger and your lips are fuller.”
I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to be reduced to items on a checklist. I’m more than just the color of my hair and the shape of my nose. So are all the victims. So is Janine. My insides churn, and I can’t even manage to speak out loud right now. So I breathe in for four, hold for four, breathe out of four and hold for four.
“We believe,” Winny goes on, “that Janine is what made our killer be a killer. Janine had a three year old boy at the time she was murdered. He was the one that found her, was in the house when it happened. Managed to call 911 to get help. His name is Isaac Egbers. Father unknown. He was put up for adoption after Janine was murdered and indeed found a new family, but it was a closed adoption and the files were destroyed. And when we’re talking about destroying thirty years ago, that means there is absolutely nothing to be found. We have no idea where Isaac ended up, or who he became. We’ve tried to find the police officers who worked this case, to see if they perhaps remembered the name of the judge who handled the adoption. But the police officer responsible has passed away, so that was a dead end.”
“For all we believe,” Beckett says, “little Isaac Egbers is the killer we’re searching for.”
Winny shows me a small picture of a little boy. His hair is as dark as his mother’s, but other than that he looks nothing like her. He’s smiling in the picture, staring at the camera with big blue eyes, standing in front of a cake with three candles on it, white icing and sprinkles all around. There’s nothing in this picture that would lead anyone to believe this innocent child would grow up to become a serial killer. Then again, most of the most notorious serial killers started off as cute kids.
“Now, starting with the assumption that Janine is what set this off, it teaches us a lot of stuff,” Winny says, putting the file away again.
“The women he kills are a symbol for his mother. The necklace means family, and Janine was the only family he had. He kills Caucacian women that look like his mother. Which also fits with regular serial killer profiling. Most of them don’t cross racial boundaries in these types of personally motivated killings, so we already figured he’d be caucasian himself. He buries them, to keep them close to him. He wraps them in cling foil so he can still see them. He stuffs the cling foil with limes to keep them from smelling and giving him away. He doesn’t want to share them, he wants to keep them. He cherishes them. They’re his family.”
Beckett takes over, looking at both Chester and me before he starts the true profiling. “He’s a local. He was born here, and this is his killing ground. His victims come from all the surrounding states though. We believe he may have been adopted by people who either took him away from Portland, or they had multiple houses.”
“What significance does that hold?”
Winny bites on a little piece of her nail. “Some of our work is, well, guesswork at best. Based on research and statistics we can predict a lot, but some stuff is harder to predict. Our theory is that little Isaac got adopted by a rich family. Hence the destroyed files, the multiple houses. But it also narrows down who we’re looking at. A little. We’ve gone from a man that’s born in one of fifty two states, to a man who’s born in one particular state.”
“It also supports his method,” Beckett takes over. “Killing twelve people in a year, renting a house like it’s nothing, having time to find, abduct, murder and clean up victims? It takes a lot of time, a lot of money. Someone who’s working a nine to five job or working multiple shifts earning minimum wage cannot pull this off.”
“Why can’t it be someone who’s jobless?”
“The costs that the killer makes are high. It’s not just a matter of having enough time, it’s more about the resources. He’s educated on several subjects. He’s too up to speed on how to leave absolutely no evidence, he can get away with killing twelve women without being noticed or seen. We’re under the impression he made those necklaces himself, which takes time and skill. If I would be allowed to make a guess, I’d say he even has a degree in psychology or criminology, because he wants to understand what is happening to him. But to be honest, that’s just a gut feeling and not based on any of the evidence. Although I’m usually right about these things.”
Sounds like someone I know.
“He’s intelligent,” Beckett continues. “He got away with taking twelve women without getting caught or anybody seeing him.”
“Can’t he just be like one of those crime junkies?” I ask, desperately trying to get some grip back on this whole situation, but it’s all out of my control and all I can do is hold on tight for the ride.
“Could be.” Beckett’s green eyes find mine. “But this is too planned out. This is too deliberate. He’s calculated and meticulous. Everything about this screams intelligence. It’s a common trait amongst serial killers.”
Beckett looks at Chester, and I can see my best friend get riled up. He’s implying Chester would make a good serial killer, but I know him better than he knows himself and he would never.
“We feel like there’s a sexual component too,” Winny says. “There’s no evidence of sexual abuse on any of the victims as we’ve previously stated. But Janine was raped before she was murdered. Her clothes disheveled, all of her private parts out for the world to see. The police tidied her up before they took crime scene photos. Somehow they thought her integrity was more important than getting some good evidence. Anyway, young Isaac saw. And we think something about that feels sexual to him, even if it confuses him.”
“Would he even be able to remember this?” Chester interrupts. “He was three. Active memories only start forming at the age of four or five.”
Winny’s face lights up as she gives Chester a kind smile. “You know your psychology. And you’re absolutely right. But there are kids who start forming memories at an earlier age. Usually just some loose, random memories, which hold great significance to the kid in question. For example, I can remember losing a balloon when I was two. I remember it vividly, it was a red balloon. My parents told me the only instance it happened was when I was two. Now, to an adult, losing a balloon wouldn’t mean that much. But to a two year old? That was literally the worst thing that ever happened to me in my whole life. It made an impact, and I remember. Traumatic events, like finding your murdered mother, can trigger that same response. He feels close to the women he murders, he sees them as his family. But at the same time, he’s confused about getting aroused by them, because they represent his mother. This is why he doesn’t sexually assault him. There’s some kind of morality in him that tells him that it’s wrong to want to act upon sexual desires with your mother. But there’s another part of him that doesn’t give a crap about what’s wrong and what’s right, and just gives into the urges. Which is why we think he only finds sexual gratification after killing these women by helping himself so to speak. Other sexual encounters will leave him mostly unfulfilled, if he even has any.”
The more I learn about this killer, the more he makes me sick. The worst part is that this whole profile doesn’t get us any closer to finding him. It’s a tool to maybe start looking in the right direction. But it’s not like there’s a database filled with psychopaths out there where you can filter on all his characteristics and get a perfect match.
“Do you reckon he even knows he’s adopted?”
“Maybe,” Becket says, as he leans backwards and stares at my ceiling. I wonder what he’s trying to find there. There’s no tile ceiling, so he can’t use it to count the tiles like I do at Robin’s.
“Maybe not. Adopting a three year old and nobody telling him he’s adopted? It’s unlikely. People in the surroundings of the adoptive parents will definitely notice there’s suddenly a three year old there and the adoptive mom couldn’t have given birth to him. Adopting a three year old, moving away, cutting ties to your old life and not telling him? Now there’s new people, they don’t know she hasn’t birthed him. And in time, young Isaac will forget who he used to be and start being who his adoptive parents teach him to be. Not impossible. It’s a ruse that could be maintained. There’s a part of him that remembers Janine, that much is clear. But whether he’s known all along, or he just remembers small parts of it? We don’t know. He must’ve remembered right when he was still young, who his biological mom was and who he used to be before he got adopted.”
“Why help us find those missing kids?” Chester asks.
“Some part of him thinks highly about kids. They’re innocent. They deserve to be saved. Perhaps because of his own trauma. The part of his brain where he understands that those children grow up to be the same adults he murders doesn’t seem to work.”
“So,” I start. “Where does that leave us?”
“With a Caucasian man, about thirty-four years, with blue eyes, who is born in Portland if they didn’t change his birth certificate, who lives in the Portland area, comes from money, has a lot of spare time, but is also smart and educated, with a possible degree in psychology and at least an interest in metalworking,” Chester sums up.
“Well then, that just about solves it, now doesn’t it?” Somehow I can’t keep myself from being sarcastic.
“Where does the clock come from?” my friend asks.
Winny shifts in her chair, pulling one of her legs up and hugging it. Guess she’s comfortable here. “We don’t know. It seems to be personal. It’s not something that can be explained by scientific research. Could be something that held meaning to him as a kid, could be something that developed after. Until we meet him, there’s no way to predict what significance it holds to Isaac.”
“And when are we going to meet him?” Chester asks.
“Hopefully soon,” Beckett says, looking more vulnerable than I’ve ever seen him. “We’re on a clock.”
“Right elbow higher,” I say from my position on the bench in our lane at the shooting range. Chester is aiming over me to the target. His stance is more natural and he seems more relaxed. When he doesn’t hear me, I lift his elbow just a tad. He releases a breath as soon as my arm is back down and pushes the trigger. He gets into position again, slightly changing the way his feet are standing.
“Right feet, forward,” I tell him flatly. Usually I get excited by coming to the shooting range, but right now I’m stuck in my head. He sets his foot back down like he should, loosens his shoulders and focuses on the target again. This time his elbow is in the right position, and as he aims and breathes out, he shoots again.
He puts the safety back on the gun, and places it down next to my leg. Pushing the big red button, he lets the target fly to us. I’m proud to see that he managed to hit the target on multiple occasions.
“I’m starting to get good at this shit,” he says proudly.
“Don’t get cocky. If you can remember the steps to a waltz and manage to perform those steps, it doesn’t make you a professional dancer yet.”
We switch places as I hang another target.
“You’re spending too much time with Remy if you’re making analogies like that.”
I grab the gun, change the clip and weigh it in my hand. “I might be spending time with Remy, but the analogy still stands.”
Without waiting for his answer, I take the safety off again, and empty out my gun in record time, hitting the target every time. I don’t even have to see the target to know so. We both take off our hearing protection and put it away. Chester presses the red button for me, and when the target reaches us, it’s exactly as I thought it would be. Most of them straight through the heart and a few of them right through the head.
Chester looks at it, lands his baby blues on me and says: “Okay. Point taken.”
“This isn’t working out as I thought it would,” I say, blankly looking in the distance. “I thought this would clear my head, but I keep thinking about that little boy. Can you imagine how much trauma he has to have been through to end up the way he did?”
Chester scrunches his face. Fuck, I think he knows a thing or two about trauma. Making circles on the floor with the nose of my shoe, I avoid looking him in the eye.
“It’s fucking hard to break the cycle, I guess. All the studies show it,” he murmurs before he starts spinning his thumb ring. We’re now both trying to avoid looking at each other, which just isn’t going to cut it.
“What’s wrong?”
“What if,” he answers hesitantly, “getting away from the life isn’t enough to break the cycle?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, Isaac had one traumatic event in his life. He saw his mother after she was murdered. Maybe he witnessed some nasty stuff before she got murdered. But he got away. He got adopted. Got two brand new parents. And still he ended up killing multiple women. He became a vicious aggravated predator. Doing to other people exactly what happened to his mother.”
His shoulders are tense, and the crease between his eyes is back. “What if being away from the situation isn’t enough to break the cycle?” The fear in his eyes tells me exactly where this is coming from.
“You’re doing more than just being away, you know?”
“Did you know I’m a prime candidate to become a serial killer?” he asks without answering me.
I scoff. “No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am. Intelligence is actually on the list of early signs for kids to turn into a serial killer. Antisocial behavior. Childhood abuse. Did you know I drank booze before I was sent to boarding school? Substance abuse is on the list of early signs as well.”
I grab Chester’s hand, and tangle my fingers through his. His thumb ring feels huge in between my fingers.
“Being separated from other children your age while being abused by your nanny is different from antisocial behavior,” I scold him. “You’re not antisocial. You certainly don’t have psychopathic tendencies. The way I see it, you care too much. Not all kids who drink at a young age become a serial killer. Not all kids who were abused as a child will continue the cycle. And certainly not all intelligent people have a list of murder victims under their belt. What? You think Albert Einstein killed people in his spare time?”
“Maybe he was just smart enough to get away with it.”
We both pull up the corners of our mouths.
“What I’m trying to say, Albert Junior,” I continue, “is that you’re doing more than just being away. You’re getting therapy. You acknowledge the cycle. You’re breaking it. Give yourself some credit.”
He grunts. For someone who can be confident right up until the point of arrogance, he can be very shy when he gets a compliment about personal things.
“Anyway,” Chester says, “I’m going to be doing anything in my power to make sure this cycle doesn’t repeat. The one of not loving your children, and neglect, physical and mental abuse.”
“How are you going to make sure that never happens?”
“Never, ever have any kids of my own,” he says like it’s the most reasonable conclusion there is to this whole problem.
I bump my shoulder into his. “That’s not breaking the cycle, that’s ending the cycle.”
“An ending is a break.”
“Semantics,” I argue.
Chester looks at the door of the shooting range. “Let’s get out of here, this isn’t working out like we thought it would.”
“What do you want to do?” I ask him as we make our way to the exit. For some reason I’m still holding up my paper target in my hands. A man passes us as he’s walking towards the range and his blue eyes widen as he sees my target.
“Nice shooting,” he compliments Chester.
“Not taking the credit for this, dude,” he answers the stranger, “that’s all this one.” He points his chin in my direction. Of course, assume the girl can’t shoot and it was the boy who did it. For some reason I feel like I should explain.
“I, uh, like to shoot.”
“I can see that,” the stranger says with a weird gleam in his eyes, “good job.”
I guess that’s the first time I’ve ever seen someone get visibly turned on by my ability to shoot a gun. Creepy. I give him my best curt smile and keep walking towards the exit.
“So, where are we going?” I ask Chester. He seems to think about that for a while.
“Let’s go to an arcade.”
“An arcade?”
“Yeah, I think we can use some fun. You can do the games with the guns, beat all the high scores and shit. And I’ll play some games.”
The thought of it makes me chuckle. “Now if there ever was a moment for you to show antisocial behavior, it’d be in an arcade full of kids, when you start yelling at them for being inferior, or heaven forbid, if they defeat you, and you have a hissy fit because they’re not playing fair.”
Pushing his loose hair behind his hands with both of his hands, he seems to consider what I’m saying for a moment. “Maybe call Remy, see if he wants to join us.”
“So he can babysit us?”
“No, so he can beat the high score in those dance thingies. We’ll beat all the high scores, leave obscure names and then skedaddle.”
“Nobody uses the word skedaddle anymore,” I point him out.
“Semantics,” Chester argues. “What will your obscure name be?”
I think about that for a second. “Bang-ing yo dad.”
Chester scoffs. “Why?”
“Because there’s too many ‘yo mamma’ jokes out there, and the bang with the shooting games and the double innuendo is too good. What’s yours going to be?”
He thinks about it, before giving me the widest grin I’ve ever seen. “Isaidyestotheches.” I belly-laugh until long after we’ve gotten into the car, and just for a moment forget about everything I’ve heard that day.