I think I was told to stay away from her, but I was also told to stay away from Will Graham, and I've visited him thrice this week.
Freddie Lounds keeps her air of eccentricity and non-conformity even in her best reporter stance—she says she'll write only about what she jots down and only share the information I explicitly permit her to, but I know that she's got a tape recorder in her purse and I know that she really doesn't care.
Obstruction of justice, I can practically hear delivered from her gracious voice, is in not doing my part in informing the public. Goodness is a concept, Mr. Thakore, and concepts must be reached through proof and solidity. My idealization of "goodness" is less "justice" than it is "truth." You deliver the verdicts and I will inform the world of them—we go hand in hand, you know. If I wanted quick money, I'd become a politician—I want to make a difference.
I can't deduce whether that difference is accidentally informing a killer of their imminent arrest so that they can high-tail it before we find them or if it's keeping the world informed of the evils that humanity is capable of. Either way, I suppose, it really does level the playing field. If our "jadestone ripper" is as destitute as he seems and as Dr. Lecter predicted, the chances of him scrolling through tattlecrime and coming upon his very own article seem incredibly slim.
Her curls bounce around her face as she nods, pursed lips and rosy red cheeks, bright, big eyes that reflect my own apathy back at me. "You are actual FBI, however," she confirms, and I nod.
"Yes. Unlike Will Graham, I am authentic FBI," I drawl, leaning further back in my chair. This is the worst setting. She invited me to lunch, took me to a noisy café, asked me questions and then looped all the questions I asked her back to me. It's like stringing a needle with thread, and she's ready to embroider her story of the century: unhappy looking Indian boy takes Will Graham's place as a very unqualified replacement because he's too busy dealing with his sad feelings, but at least he's not crazy, or so we think.
"Cheers, then, to hoping that you don't end up gutting a few people during your time employed," she lilts, voice light and effervescent, lifting her coffee as I fumble to reach mine in time without looking delayed. I want to tell her something about toasts not working like this, but I say nothing.
"I'll do my best, I guess," I mumble, my words bubbles through my coffee. She sips, sighs, taps her pen twice and looks over her shoulder. I think she has this down to a routine. I pick up the physical cues, but I can't make sense of them: doing something with clear intent, most likely to find a softer way to deliver a pressing question due to her fidgeting acting as a distraction or an act of casual camaraderie that's supposed to make me comfortable—but why? And what's she even going to ask? What's her deal with this "myopic morality" jab? I start to sink back into my comfortable place as a turtle staring out of its shell at the world around it when she seizes my current blurry-eyed stare of confusion and dismal wonder by the neck and hauls it out from its safety.
"Tell me about the case you're currently investigating," she says, curt, leg crossed as she stares in my general direction but seems to focus on my ear rather than my actual eyes. I stare back, aiming a little better with my sight set exactly on her eyebrows instead of her eyes, and I shrug. I have no idea. It takes me a moment: what am I doing?
"That's classified," I say, and I don't even know why I bother, because the next few minutes is me going over what we've discovered: religious killer, rooted in Aztec (I say it instead of Mexica because I don't feel like having a history lesson with her) culture, sloppy work and the trademark jadestone left like a signature on a piece of artwork. More like a kid's fingerprint on the back of their kindergarten project—these murders are really stupid.
She nods, writes, fidgets and stares at various parts of my face. She smiles when I say things that are pseudo-funny and quickly darkens into a grave mien when I say things that regard gory details or sad, mourning relatives. Like a conductor steering an orchestra to perfection, I use my voice to drag her through crescendos and diminuendos galore—she goes along with it, even offering a bubbly laugh when I say something particularly absurd or gently placing her hand over mine when I wrench out a few sad sighs. It's all an exchange, though, because the better she does with her acting, the more she demands of me with her inquiries.
"But what about you?" she murmurs after I describe how Nina Twinning's parents are offering reward money for people who have information regarding her killer, "how are you handling this?" Her eyes briefly meet mine, and the sincerity makes me flinch and drop my gaze to the tabletop. I liked her more when she pretended to care about me, not when she asked things with genuine intent.
"I'm fine…I guess. I mean, I'm not going to go nuts and start carving people open myself, but I am sad. It's sad stuff, you know, seeing all these people who are—essentially—my age die so young. It all doesn't seem fair," I prattle, realizing how stale my words sound, and none of it really sinks in. Sad. It's sad. Yes, these murders in which people have their organs stolen are sad.
"I can't empathize with the killer," I admit. She looks confused, and reminds me that I was chosen specifically because I don't attempt to use empathy to connect with and profile the killer. Not having empathy only makes sense.
"No, what I mean is, I can hardly comprehend why they'd go about this kind of thing. He's harming himself—and others—for…others? These are all religiously-motivated murders with what we anticipate the goal being to sustain humanity, or so they believe. So he risks arrest, kills others, but does it with the sake of keeping everyone else alive or healthy?" I shake my head—it just feels disjointed, a loose end, and Freddie seems bewildered that it doesn't make sense to me.
"He thinks that the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few," she offers, and I think more about the fact that she just quoted Star Trek rather than the pressing obviousness. He does it out of goodness and his love for others to the point where he is so determined to keep this earth alive that he will hurt the people who he so truly cares for.
I mean, what else could that be? Who would do something obviously wrong because the ultimate goal is obviously right? Why would any deity set that as the path for a mortal to tread in their quest for heaven? Either way, avoidance or participation, a sin is committed. You can't get out of this rut.
Human life cannot be weighed like coins in an exchange, but yet, I feel deep within me, some lives are truly worth more than others.
