Wondering if Susan Bowles' grief-struck face and bloody bandages would linger in my mind for the rest of my life, I sunk into the passenger seat and squeezed my eyes shut. Entering the drivers' seat, Norman glanced at me with a troubled look. Before he could say anything, like suggest taking me back to the precinct, I spoke.
"Do you think something happened to the husband?"
I didn't really think so, but it was the only thing I could think of that didn't directly involve Susan or her condition, Emily, or poor Jeremy. Indeed, it was a strange coincidence, but that was probably all that it was. A coincidence.
"It's possible," Norman mumbled while tapping the touchscreen, picking the next address from the ARI-generated list, 1964 Woodland Avenue. "At this point, we can't rule anything out. We have to leave all possibilities open."
"Yeah…" not much of an answer, really. I suspected the FBI agent didn't share with me all that was going on inside that reticent mind of his. Not that I had any right to a full disclosure, anyways. In a gust of self-conscious doubt and worry that he regretted dragging me along, I tried to keep up a half-sensible observation.
"A private investigator, what do you make of that?"
"In unsolved crimes, especially in cases involving children, it's not unusual for the next-of-kin to hire a private investigator."
"I guess not."
The parents of the seventh victim were unavailable for questioning. The mother had been admitted to a psychiatric ward ever since learning about her son's death, and we couldn't get a hold of the father. Next on the list were Allan and Lauren Winter, parents of victim number five, 13-year-old Johnny Winter. The body had been found in November last year. We rode in silence, arriving at their registered address eight minutes later. According to the landlady however, Mrs. Winter was to be found at a different address about three blocks south. Despite being well within walking distance, we drove thanks to the miserable weather. The directions took us to a run-down, two-star motel. The tattered lobby was dust-filled and impersonal. The receptionist, whom I could best describe as a generic, shady character straight out of an 80's mafia movie, had his nose deep in today's newspaper, reading up on the last details of the Origami Killer case. He didn't even glance at us.
"Room's ten bucks per hour. If you want towels, that's extra."
Oh, it was that sort of place.
"We're here looking for Lauren Winter." Wasting no time, Norman went straight to the point.
"Never heard of her," the receptionist growled. "Now beat it!"
The FBI agent responded by flashing his badge, repeating the question. The man behind the counter looked like he wanted to tell us to get lost again, but ended up sinking down into his chair, reluctantly pointing us up a flight of stairs.
"Second floor, last door on the left."
Walking through the corridor, I tried my best to block out the muffled, but oh-so-suggestive sounds emerging from behind closed doors. I didn't dare look at or speak to Norman. Last door on the left, and thankfully no sounds could be heard as Norman knocked on the door. A woman in her mid-thirties appeared in the doorway, wearing a dress that some would refer to as soft red, others as rose. She too had that worn, older than she really is - look you get after years of struggle and misery. Lifeless, dark eyes scanned us from top to bottom.
"Lauren Winter?" Norman enquired, holding up his badge. The woman's apathic face turned to a mix of resentment and distrust.
"I've already told the police everything I know, and I have nothing more to add," she sneered. "Leave me alone."
She was about to close the door. Norman had to forcefully hold it open with his hand.
"Please, Mrs. Winter. I just need a few minutes of your time."
Chocolate-brown and pale green eyes faced off in a staring contest that lasted for the longest twenty seconds I've ever endured. Figuring she didn't have much of a choice, Mrs. Winter reluctantly closed the door to unhook the chain lock, allowing us to enter. Stepping over that threshold left me yet again with that dreadful feeling of imposing. Mrs. Winter lowered her face, letting her dark hair cover her features. The ivory skin was a stark contrast to the ebony-colored hair and bloodshot, cracked lips. Like an older and washed-out Snow White. Lighting a cigarette, she spoke in a monotone voice.
"You have ten minutes. I have an appointment at eleven and I need to get ready."
It was exactly 10.42 am. Again, Norman wasted no time beating around the bush. He introduced us and stated his reason for the unexpected visit.
"I'm really sorry, Mrs. Winter. I know this is difficult for you, but it's highly important that I learn everything I can in order to best understand the killer and his motives."
The woman lifted her head and turned to face us. Her mouth was stern and face emotionless, but her eyes glowed with rage.
"Difficult? You think you understand how this is difficult for me, agent Jayden." She lowered her hand holding the lit cigarette and approached us. "Because you're a psychologist you think you know how I felt when the police informed me they'd found my son's body dumped on a godforsaken wasteland, like yesterday's garbage?" Fingers trembling, she took the cigarette to her mouth and inhaled deeply. The tobacco smell made me nauseous. Having stayed between the door and Norman, I stepped forward to approach the grieving mother. The FBI agent stopped me by gently and subtly placing his hand on mine. Give her time, she'll talk. My skin was tingling where his fingers had brushed, and my heart was racing. Great timing, dopamine.
"I miss him so much." Tears sprung between Mrs. Winter's now red eyes. "He was such a sweet boy. Sometimes he would fight the kids who called me a… you know."
"So, he knew?" I blurted out, regretting it immediately. Lauren seemed unfazed.
"In his own way, he understood," she replied, staring at a fixed point in front of her. "Of course, I made sure he never ran into any of my… clients."
I awkwardly tucked a strain of hair behind my ear. We stood in silence, letting the woman speak on her own terms. I glanced at the watch mounted on the wall to my left, noting the seconds ticking by. Deep down, a part of me wanted her to remain silent long enough for the client to show up while we were still there, spot us and turn on his heels in the doorway. Silly, I know. It's not like it would've helped Lauren's situation, neither financially nor emotionally.
"It's not how I wanted to live, but we needed the money. I was trying to earn enough to get us out of here. To give my son a better life... but now, I just don't care anymore."
"What do you remember about the day Johnny disappeared?" Norman continued in his ever so gentle voice. I knew it was for the sake of keeping the meeting short. Still, the question seemed harshly direct, even for him.
"He used to go play with the neighborhood kids after school," Lauren told and for a brief moment, fond memories made her face soften, then sadness washed over her face and her jaw tensed. When she spoke again, her voice was tick with grief.
"I'll never forget that day. It was pouring down. Like it is now. All his friends returned home around five… except him."
The narration was static and hollow and came across as… almost rehearsed somehow. Like she's been telling and retelling these exact lines over and over.
"Did you suspect anyone?"
Lauren took one final drag from the cigarette and put the stump in an ashtray. The air was now thick with smoke and I could feel my eyes burning.
"I meet some shady men in my line of work. I thought of it at first, but... No, I don't believe any of my clients could have done that to my Johnny... or to all those other boys."
"What about Johnny's father?" Norman enquired.
"A good-for-nothing looser who used to beat me up when drunk," Lauren snapped. Her face hardened. "I haven't seen him since the day Johnny disappeared. Coward. I'm glad he left."
Forcing back my tears, I admitted to myself Norman had been right. I wasn't prepared for this. I reminded myself that no matter how painful for me, it was nothing compared to what these women had to endure. Her frail body drained of energy, Lauren slumped on a kitchen chair, and lowered her head again, letting her dark hair cover her face, masking shiny streams running down her cheeks. Her shoulders were shaking ever so subtly. I grabbed a sheet of paper towel from the kitchen counter, handed it to the crying woman and sat down next to her. She whispered a thank you and dried her bloodshot eyes. I had no idea how to reach out to her, but I had to try.
"Do you have anyone who can help you out or someone you can talk to?"
"No," she whimpered, choking down a sob. "I'm all alone."
"Have you been in contact with any of the other parents?" I suggested. "What about… eh, maybe like, a support group or something?" I knew I could be threading on dangerously thin ice here, but then again, we'd done that just by showing up and asking the kind of questions that forced the poor women to relive painful memories. Lauren remained quiet.
"I don't think there is one… I guess we've all been too caught up in our own grief."
She closed her eyes, huffed and blew her nose. The clock passing 10.50, we were almost out of time. I tried to come up with something to say, but nothing seemed right. We sat in silence, the ticking of the clock as seconds went by being the only sound. After a minute or so, Lauren broke the silence.
"I don't know if it's important, but around midnight three days ago a private investigator showed up here and started asking questions about Johnny, like you have been asking now. Claimed to be hired by the families of the Origami Killer. I dismissed him at first, but then he helped me out by beating up a violent ex-client so I figured, you know… maybe he was a nice guy."
It wasn't until now I noticed that Norman had been leaning against the wall a few steps behind, listening in on the conversation. He paced over to the kitchen table and sat down on the last empty chair.
"Do you recall his name?"
"Um, Shelby something..."
"Scott Shelby?"
"I think so, yes. Wait, he left me his card."
The woman rose and swiftly picked up a small piece of paper from a vanity table nearby, leaving behind a hint of cheap cologne. Norman studied the card while tracing his jawline and rubbing his chin with his index. Then he handed the paper back and rose.
"Thanks for your time, Mrs. Winter. If you remember anything else, give me a call."
Upon leaving the apartment, I felt yet again a surge of conflicted emotions. Massive relief to get out of this creepy place mixed with sadness and helplessness of leaving the poor woman behind, all alone with her grief and who knows how many shady clients. As a matter of fact, the whole morning had been a mesh of mentally draining, conflicting emotions. On our short way through the corridor and down the flight of stairs, we passed three or four 'johns', all sporting visible gold rings on their left hand. I wondered if Lauren's client was among them. I had no idea places like these were so busy this early during the day. Then again, I guess it makes sense for lunch time to be peak hours when it comes to married men visiting prostitutes. No need to make up excuses to the missus. Out on the pouring streets again, we went to grab lunch while discussing the case and what we'd learned so far. As I'd been busy feeding Emily, Norman had learned from Susan that Jeremy had disappeared while playing with friends nearby. Both victims had disappeared while playing outside with other children, but away from their parents. No one had seen or heard anything suspicious. In both cases, the fathers had disappeared shortly thereafter. Despite both men having a history of being prone to violence, as well as having drinking and/or gambling problems, it certainly was a strange coincidence. Or, maybe not. After lunch, we visited Hassan, the father of the first victim, 13-year-old Reza. Norman hoped that questioning the parents of the very first victim might help shed some light on the investigation, as a serial killer is more likely to make mistakes when committing their first kill, possibly even leaving behind incriminating evidence. Sadly, it was to no avail. Hassan politely, but abruptly dismissed us. He too, had recently been visited by a private investigator.
Heading back to the precinct, it was my turn to stare blankly into the air. The sorrow in the parents' eyes and their brittle voice as they spoke of the child they'd lost would haunt me for a long time. Had it been worth it? For the sake of insight into the investigation, no. But that wasn't really why I'd tagged along now was it? Norman side-eyed me with a concerned expression. What was I to say? That I enjoyed spending time with him so much that even having to witness parents grieving a lost child made it worth it? Had it been worth it?
It turned out that Scott Shelby was an ex-cop, assigned to the Philadelphia PD for eighteen years, five of them as Blake's partner and mentor. He'd retired a little over three years ago and had worked as a P.I. ever since. Norman registered his personal information in the ARI, as well as a low-priority memo to question him over the weekend. I reluctantly bid Norman an awkward goodbye and returned to the lab. Due to my two-day excursion with the FBI I had to work late to catch up, and I ended up taking the ten o'clock train for D.C. that night. About six hours later than initially planned. I put my head back on the seat and watched the lights flicker by, distorted by the shower outside, and let my mind wander through this week's occurrences. From Madison text Monday morning, up till sprinting through Lexington Station to catch the train just ten minutes ago. How I'd tried my hardest to avoid Blake, only to end up talking to him anyways. The evidence had already been logged, and Gabs had informed Perry. Moreover, no way they'd leave crucial evidence, or any evidence or information for that matter, in the hands of one person, an intern nonetheless. Perhaps Gabs just wanted to teach me a lesson. One that couldn't be learned from an academic source like a book or a lecture. The lesson being to never run away from confrontations or other uncomfortable situations. Or else, people like Blake would take advantage of me for the rest of my working years. I cooked a smile at my own conspiracies. Whatever the reason, I was grateful things had turned out the way they had as it had inadvertently thrown me together with Norman. Heck, for that I even owed Blake a thank you. Despite everything… yes it had been worth it.
As the lights from suburban Philadelphia disappeared behind me, I phoned Madison. Hoping she wouldn't let the opportunity of a possibly scoop go by, I asked if she could dig around regarding the victim's parents and the detective. Despite my vague and extremely obvious I'm not telling you everything I know phrasing, she reassured me she'd get back in touch asap. Hanging up, it didn't take long before my eyes were dropping. Physically, mentally and emotionally exhausted, I fell asleep.
