“Before you do, are you sure you’re willing to risk your relationship? If you do this, it may be interpreted—”
“I don’t care how she sees it. I’m not going to let my fiancée come in here and talk to a murderer so she can play into the Bullet Man’s game. It’s not closure; she’s just prolonging the agony for both of us. We’re so close to nailing—Damnit—One sec…” He puts me on hold because the line goes silent.
Reprieve allows me to assess my methods. Adrenaline rushes through me, igniting my synapses. With my feet planted steadily on the floor, I glance around the office.
What if they were setting me up? Not that it would deter me, but I might have to adjust my plan. I get up and walk toward the couch, the one Elle sits on all the time. She never touches anything else, but her hand could’ve slid between the cushions and bugged my office.
My jaw tenses as I pull out the three cushions and slide my hands over the interior material, feeling for a small device. Kneeling down beside the couch, I pull my cell phone out of my back pocket and make a call to the receptionist. While I’m busy asking for different files, I listen for interference while traveling around the room, bending and crouching down while talking. When transmitting signals, electromagnetic fields may cross and create crackling noises.
No strange noises result from my call, so I end it and drop my cell phone on the desk to free my hands. While I wait for Kace, I restore the couch cushions and straighten the angles of the square furniture.
A few minutes later, Kace comes back on the line. He’s out of breath, and by the echo in the background, it sounds like he’s in the stairwell. “Dr. Mills?”
“Yes?”
“I’m back. Sorry. That was Frank telling me they just brought her in.”
“Brought who in?”
He chuckles lightly as the squeak of a door opening captures my attention. “Yeah, all this time we’ve been referring to the killer as the Bullet Man … Apparently, it might be the Bullet Woman.”
They think it’s a female? I test their hypothesis, “Female killers are often not sexually-driven.”
Kace replies, “They also tend to operate within their home base, and female serial killers tend to have neater killings.”
“You’re thinking Munchausen syndrome by proxy?”
“Or a derivation of it—at least that’s what the psychological profile says. Our suspect is a nurse at the hospital. We think she targets the waiting area for grief-stricken family members. She’s been to some of the murderers’ homes.”
What kind of evidence can they possibly have? “She may just be friends with some.”
“More than two isn’t a coincidence. It’s a pattern.”
Who am I to disagree? “Yes, you do have a point there.” I keep my tone monotonous and pull up my schedule on the computer. “I won’t keep you any longer. The appointment you wanted, would you prefer to do it at a different time? Once you’ve made an arrest?”
“No,” he quips. “There are tons of people here, and she’s already lawyered up. We can’t exactly prove intent or direct first step. She didn’t stalk anyone, and there’s no proof as to whether or not she targeted them. Most of the couriers identified her as someone they knew, but she’s a nurse who works at the ER. It’s probable they are familiar with her face. I’m beginning to fucking hate the word proxy.”
Ignoring his comment, I focus back on Eleanor. “Perhaps you were right in keeping Eleanor away for the day. Today seems particularly busy.”
“I’m not exactly sure what that means for us, though.” He clears his throat. “I don’t want to lose her, but I don’t recognize her anymore.”
“Are you basing this off the last twenty-four hours or the last three months?”
He takes a long time to answer. “I don’t know. I shouldn’t make decisions when I’m angry. I’m going to stay with Frank for a couple days and try to figure some things out, but I don’t want to leave Elle alone.”
“Why is that?” Desperation is one of the main factors in sending someone over the edge.
“Because you made her write a suicide letter, which is messed up, and she’s got a gun in the house. I don’t know what she’s going to do with it.”
“Relax, Detective Dalton. People exhibit warning signs, and from what we’ve discussed in therapy, I don’t have reason to worry about drastic situations.” Revenge is a good reason to live. Once the revenge is over, however, people often find themselves with nothing left to exist for.
“I haven’t relaxed in months. I already told you this, I’m worried about her every day.”
“Precisely why I’ll make time for you tomorrow at three, is that okay? Or will you be occupied and prefer a different day.”
“No, three’s fine. I’ll come with Elle.” He hangs up shortly after his last statement. I stare at the stack of papers on my desk. The case file for the Devero shooting and the evidence bag with the retrieved bullet.
Getting my hands on Eleanor Devero’s file was as easy as taking a leak, and virtually untraceable. One of the tech guys slid the images to the top of the list when I mentioned needing the results for a criminal write-up. Soon I’d have the information.
The phone rings, bringing me out of my pensive state, and I drop the bag on the desk to answer. Cara has barely even spoken when the door to my office is thrown open.
“Ms. Devero,” I greet the intruder while casually standing. With the receiver to my ear, I eye the intriguingly non-disheveled girl in front of me.
My receptionist trails off excuses in my ear, but I don’t mind. My subject has just walked in, and I’m curious as to what she has to say. I nod for Eleanor to take a seat and thank the woman, still talking my ear off. “I’ll see her now. Cancel my ten o’clock.”
“You have a full day today and tomorrow, sir. How am I going to reschedule them this week?” the receptionist cautions. Thursdays and Fridays are generally my busiest days, but everyone else can wait. “Cancel my three o’clock tomorrow. I’m going to need that particular time available also.”
Elle looks at me cautiously. “What’s that?”
Shit, the file and the evidence bag.
“Is that my name?”
“Yes,” I answer honestly, dissuading her suspicion with the truth. “I wanted to look over the official police report on the shooting to help walk you through that day. Perhaps hypnosis could jog your memory.”
“Oh.” She takes a seat on the same couch she always does. “Cap gave it to you?”
“Yes and no, I work on a government-funded project that has access to the database and to The Tank.”
“Sounds boring.”
“Boring, tiring, depends on the day,” I joke, but it lands on deaf ears. Her heart is somewhere else today, so I cautiously slide her evidence into the top drawer and head over to my armchair.
We’re directly in front of each other, with only a coffee table between us.
“Would you like some tea or coffee?” I offer.
“No,” she says sharply and leans forward, resting her elbows on her thighs. “I’m sorry to just barge in like this.”