She’s out again, but I lock her in the shed before heading back to my car. I always have a case of water bottles in my trunk and some energy bars. When I get back, she’s standing in the center of the room, rubbing her forehead and resting her elbow against the bookshelf, lining the wall.
“You okay?” I ask, shutting the door behind me.
She lowers her hand to her necklace and slides the charm along the chain as she stares at me. “Do you ask all your victims how they feel?”
“You’re not my victim,” I confirm and hand her one of the water bottles. “Your mouth must be dry.”
She reaches for the bottle and checks the seal before unscrewing the cap and drinking about half of it. With the back of her hand, she wipes her mouth and recaps it. “So, you just kidnapped me?”
“I’m not planning on asking for a ransom.”
She cocks her head to the side and studies me. The detector she boasted about in our sessions has officially been turned back on. “You can read me all you want, Eleanor. I don’t plan on lying to you.”
She smirks. “Then what am I doing here?”
“You know who I am,” I confirm, taking a seat on the table, near my material, and open my top drawer. “What I do.” Metal shavings cover my desk from engraving her message yesterday.
“Yes,” she also tells the truth. “Is this your lair?”
“I’m not a serial killer,” I remind her of our previous conversation.
She shakes her head. “All this time, I had been wishing to find you, and you were there listening to everything.”
“Therapy provides intimacy with my test subjects.”
“Test subject?” Her eyes narrow on me, asking for clarification. “This is an experiment?”
“A psychological study, if you will.” I pluck one of the bullets out and hold it in my hand. “The Bullet Theory.”
She reaches for it and holds it in her palm, abandoning the water bottle on the shelf. “I don’t understand.”
“A bullet and a tortured heart.”
“Is that why you chose me? Because I was shot?”
“I chose you for very specific reasons. This isn’t a murder spree; this is a controlled experiment. To get conclusive results, I have to establish a baseline for my test subjects. Finding survivors of vicious crimes, who have been denied closure by the police, is easier than you’d think. Way too many people get away with murder.”
“So, you target grieving people?”
“I don’t target. Grief is one of the qualifications to participate.” I wave my finger in the air and close the drawer. “Not all grieving people are right for the study. They have to classify as a candidate.”
“Lucky to be chosen?”
“I find your sarcasm refreshing.” I reach into my pocket and grab her folded scorecard. “But this is a serious matter. This one is your qualifying mathematics.”
“You’re obsessed with numbers and lines.” She hesitates to take it but does anyway. “The images in the office? The ones that all look the same.”
“Close up images of the markings left on casings after being fired sequentially, ten times. Minor differences until you hit the sixth shot, then if you look carefully, there’s a bit more to it.”
“There’s a bit more to a lot about you. How did you get access to the evidence from my case?”
“I told you, it’s part of my other job. Government secret.” IQ3 might surpass her comprehension ability. Quantum physicists and computers is a complex and somewhat boring area of study for those who don’t understand the possibilities. “I did it legally, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I doubt that. You can’t just walk into The Tank and take whatever you want without having … clearance.”
“I do, and I also have free liberty to interview criminals all over the country.”
“For what purpose?”
“Interpretation of criminal behavior by filling out a scorecard.” I bow my head to the card in her hand. “A lot like that one.”
“Why are you showing me this?”
I wait for her to unfold the paper and read the results. “This is why you needed bloodwork, because of the cdh13 and MAO-A gene? You thought I was a psycho?”
“No, had you shown genetic markers, you would not have qualified for the study. You almost didn’t. You were on the borderline.”
“Are you waiting for me to say thank you?” she asks, vigorously waving the paper in my face. “For making me an experiment?”
I press my lips together, waging my answer. “Thank you is always nice to hear.”
She scoffs and throws her hands up in the air. “So you’re delusional? Great, two in a fucking day.”
Offended at the comparison, I throw the obvious in her face, “I did solve the case no other cop could solve. Well, almost. The precinct sped up my process by wanting to credit a nurse for my hard work. No scientist likes to share merit with freeloaders.”
“What kind of merit are you thinking of getting here?” she asks skeptically. “I don’t have money to give you.”
“I don’t need money. I hold a job with the government—fully funded—for what you call obsession. Quantifiers, reducing complex emotions into a number and converting them into a percentage.”
“Like, criminal probability?”
I knew she was smart. “Yes. I also have access to a ballistic fingerprinting database. I’m not at liberty to share more about that.” IQ3 is in its rudimentary stages, but it can assess for wear, use, and batch similarities of weapons and combine the information with psychological profiles of people within the vicinity and pinpoint likely assailants. Lucky for us, half the population seeks counseling at one point or another.
She looks at her score again. “All the questions you asked me… it was for your government study?”
“Of course not! This is independent of that funding.”
“This is personal?” she asks calmly. “All of this … what is this place?”
“My mother’s writing shed.”
“Where is your mother?”
“Dead. Like your son.”
“So this Bullet Theory, is it because of her?”
“Do you mean, was I the first test subject?” I smirk at her interrogation skills. It’s not just about reading people; she has a way of redirecting the conversation and maintaining a calm, nonjudgmental voice, which encourages confessions. “Let’s call me the first trial run. I took the information to the police.”
“They didn’t believe you?”
“Maybe they don’t like people doing their job for them. Every case I solve shows something they missed.”
“You have a point, but the law doesn’t always mean justice.”
“Is that why you took it into your own hands today?”
She scoffs. “I’m not sorry for what I did.” She hands me the paper back. “Frank deserved it.”
“I’m not sorry, either. All of you deserve closure.”
“Which you graciously provide?”
I grab my mother’s inspiration jar off the shelf and pop it open. “I do solve the unsolvable cases, but I don’t put bullets through anyone.”