Beasts, p.7
Beasts, page 7
“Once the pattern of young college girls with brown hair and brown eyes starts to become clear, we knew that he had been working up and refining his skills to go after what we think is his source of rage against a specific woman.”
My hand shakes between Isaac’s bigger ones; he caresses my knuckles to calm me down, but it’s hard when I’m in an interrogation room rather than a conference room where I’m feeling like a criminal being questioned.
“Based on that and the profilers at the FBI, we narrowed our searches down to women who have had reports of stalking. We know that The Butcher stalks his victims to find their most vulnerable time, and we have already checked out the potential victims that fit the profile.” Hans takes out a piece of paper from underneath the first page.
He looks at it, turns it towards me, and slides it over on the table. I glance down, reading the report on a break-in with my apartment address on it. I didn’t file any police report, and I didn’t even know my home was broken into. Nothing was taken, and the door was not damaged.
Isaac takes the paper, reads it, and his hand tightens around mine under the table. He sets the paper back down on the table, and the detective has this smug look on his face for some odd reason.
“Your neighbor had called in; she saw someone suspicious going into your apartment, and she couldn’t see who it was,” the other detective points out.
“Detectives, get to the point. I’m sure you did not pull us in here for a simple break-in that could lead to The Butcher,” Isaac says as his imposing body straightens.
His blond hair is slicked back, bringing the entire focus to his brilliant blue eyes, and I wish I can look into them and see what he’s thinking. For someone whose eyes matches the sky, he’s a grounded man with logic and order instead of freedom and recklessness.
“We believe that your apartment doesn’t have any signs of a break-in is because the killer has a copy of your key,” Hans comments with a rumble in his throat as he clears it.
“We have also narrowed down a list of suspects that you need to see, but one of them is the most probable given your proximity and other factors.”
Hans flips a stack of papers and fishes out a colored photo that’s the size of a piece of printer paper. He slaps it on the table in front of me so aggressively that my shoulders jump in shock.
I recognize it as a surveillance photo from a traffic camera, but I don’t know where this is from since I don’t recall the houses or the street. It’s at a bird’s-eye view. Everything is at an angle, so I honestly have no idea where that place is.
I do see Kian though. I would recognize him from anywhere. His body is unmistakably big, and his shadow looks like a devil crackling under the bright Florida sun.
That could be the streets of my apartment, but it’s an educated guess at best.
“My landlord?” I squint down at the grainy picture.
One would think that Florida is a thriving state and their security cameras are state-of-the-art, but this is so blurry that I would have thought it was Bigfoot if I didn’t know Kian.
“Yes,” Hans nods firmly, “He has access to your apartment, and his story doesn’t check out.”
“Story?” I repeat owlishly.
“Holly, quiet,” Isaac warns, and my lips seal tight at that command.
“We asked the FBI to look into him; he has no physical footprints,” the other detective points out, leaning on his forearms as he laces his fingers together.
“Then why have you not brought him in for questioning?” Isaac cocks an eyebrow, façade cooler than the North Pole.
“We don’t have enough evidence,” Hans signs, “He covers his tracks surprisingly well.”
“In other words, you have nothing.” Isaac’s word ignites a fire in the detectives’ eyes as they become defensive.
“We have connections that can tie him to be The Butcher,” Hans says, and he must have realized that he said too much when he leans back to his chair with arms crossed over his chest to put an emotional distance between Isaac and himself.
“This has nothing to do with my client,” Isaac begins with a glare, “You brought her in to get information on him. From the beginning, this isn’t about Ms. Price but about John Wilson.”
“She’s the centerpiece that we have been looking for,” the detective to the side says, and I kind of remember his name.
Wallis, Detective Wallis.
Yes, that’s his name, and I keep thinking Walrus. It’s bad for me, and I have to remind myself not to call him that by accident. Sometimes people’s name has trouble staying in my memories when I have met them briefly, and it’s even worse if it’s a police officer since I could get in trouble for being disrespectful.
I have heard stories of police abusing their authority on civilians who don’t know the law.
Good thing I have Isaac with me; he’s a notorious lawyer that defends criminals who are clearly guilty of crimes, but he’s just doing his job, and he’s too good at it.
I did look him up on the internet; curiosity and boredom can do that to me. People bash him online for being a bad man because he gets criminals off their charges while some shady people praise him for his service.
Journalists do a lot of digging and they gave an estimate of how much net worth he is and how much he actually has from years of defending the despicable.
In the millions is all I know, the number of zeros in the journalists’ stories is insane, and I have never in my life seen that much money before.
“Do tell, detectives, or my client and I will be walking out of here,” Isaac urges as he laces our fingers together.
Both men share a look; the communication and understanding between them is a sign of trust in the partnership. I can practically feel the understanding from them and the trust that they believe in each other.
It’s familiar because I have felt it before with Kian and Isaac. They may look like they want to rip each other’s throat out with passing threatening looks for reasons that escape me, but they never verbally or physically assault each other.
However, they have this mutual understanding that is weird to me. I’m not sure what they are doing or if they have a history together since they act like they don’t know each other, but the level of deep trust that they have towards each other is bizarre, to say the least.
It’s as if they are both working towards a common goal.
Outside perspective would tell me that they are colleagues at best, but to me, they are two men working in tandem for something and they’re willing to put aside their differences to do so.
“Ms. Price is his next target, and we have enough evidence to support it,” Hans nods to himself and glares at me as if I had personally offended him.
I know I’m not talking and giving him the information that he wants, but I’m not going to help him implicate or hurt Kian because he thinks that my landlord is a killer.
Kian is one of the nicest people I have ever met, albeit rough around the edges and kind of cranky most of the times with no-nonsense policy he implements on me.
“Please do not waste any more of our time, detectives,” Isaac sighs as the two men take another moment of silence to bring up the tension in the room.
“We will start from the beginning when John Wilson came into Ms. Price’s life,” Hans clears his throat and takes a deep breath, waiting for the right moment to spill the beans.
I thought that police should keep their cards close to their vests and bring them out when they want to have the upper hand, but these two are just feeding Isaac information as if it’s a bar.
“First, he sends the real landlady to a nursing home to gain access to Ms. Price’s home and life. Then he lays and waits for the right moment to strike, but because attacking a college student is going to make head news, he started with others that are not going to spark national news.” Hans brings out crime scene photos for me to see, and I had to swallow the gag that wants to come out.
I hide my face into Isaac’s black suit jacket. His arm is firm and muscular under my forehead. I use it as a stable for me to breathe when his scent fills my nose; it calms my beating heart. His body shifts and I’m pretty sure he’s taking the time to look over the photos, and when he slides them back to the detectives, he doesn’t say anything.
Isaac is waiting for them to unravel all their cards and then he’s going to strategically plan everything. He’s the type of person to let everything happen first and strike back with a more sadistic bite than the detectives can handle.
“And when Ms. Price was hurt outside of the coffee shop, he felt that it was unfair to him because his goal was to get your legs, and he can’t get them in the best condition since you are injured—” Hans pause abruptly.
He clicks his tongue, “John Wilson probably thinks that it was the couple’s fault for harming your legs. He had them killed in a heinous manner and prevented us from getting an ID. He used forensic measures to make sure to put us on a different trail with new methods of killing, but it’s rare that two killers are operating at the same time as each other—as the news has portrayed it.”
Detective Hans gives the reigns to Detective Wallis, and he speaks in his cracked voice; he has to readjust himself and fix his suit to cover up the embarrassment.
“Once he killed the couple, he returned to stalking you, and when he broke into your home, he wanted you to spiral into paranoia. It’s all part of a game to him, stalking and getting you on edge.”
I understand where they are coming from and how they came to the conclusion. Their arguments are convincing and very plausible. They just don’t have me convinced, I know Kian, and he is not The Butcher as they claim him to be just because he gave a fake name.
I don’t know why, but he must have his reasons, and I would believe him if he is in trouble, so he needed a new identity.
Detective Wallis continues, “He started to kill brunettes, then escalated to younger and younger until he got to college students. Do you see where we are going with this?”
“Are you implying John Wilson hates my client? I do recall you saying The Butcher is killing women who resemble a woman he despises,” Isaac points out with a sharp tongue; his smile stretches across his handsome face, and a devil’s gleam peaks out from his façade.
“That remains unclear. We found no connection between him and Ms. Price. No one matching his description can be found in her life, we believe that this started as an infatuation gone wrong and through his twisted mind, he thinks Ms. Price rejected him and walked away from their ‘love.’” Hans just has to put the word love in air quotation with a stressed tone on it.
“Detectives,” Isaac chuckles. The room’s temperature literally drops several degrees from the round of goosebumps flaring on my arms.
“May I suggest that you have more than speculations before talking to my client again? Otherwise, I will be suing your department for harassment,” Isaac keeps his smile, and he stands.
My hand gets dragged up, and I’m standing too. I step closer to him when the detectives shoot out of their chair. The loud screeching of metal on the floor makes me cringe as it scratches my eardrums.
That’s equivalent of nails going on a chalkboard.
“Counselor!” Hans barks, “This is serious. We have reasons to believe he is going to kill Ms. Price! She needs to have protection, and she can’t go back to her apartment that The Butcher leases!”
“Do not doubt my ability to protect my client,” Isaac sneers back. The sunny hair and crystal-clear blue eyes send the submissive side in me down a drain of emotions when the domination in his form reeks of anger.
“Come near my client or her apartment; any police presence within one mile of her will guarantee your department a million-dollar lawsuit.”
He holds my hand without any regard of people watching and seeing this unfold as he slams the door open. The officers in the station all stare at us and towards the hand around mine.
As a client and a lawyer, it is highly unprofessional to be holding hands unless we have a relationship: married, fiancé, or lovers. Even family member is still understandable, but the articles that I have read on him says he doesn’t have any romantic relations with anyone and his family is disconnected with him since he went to law school.
People don’t have anything better to do so they go digging into other’s lives for dirt, and I’m proud to say that although there are accusations thrown about him being in the deep pockets of powerful people yet there is no proof that he is.
He still has a clean reputation.
“Are you alright, sweetheart?” he asks me when we stepped out of the police station.
I nod, not because I am alright, but because I don’t know what else I should be feeling so I went with what’s natural to me and that is to agree with whatever he’s saying.
I just had someone tell me that I’m The Butcher’s most likely next target and that Kian probably the killer. I truly have no idea how I should process the information, but Isaac is pulling me to his side to steer me down the street to flag down a taxi.
He gets a taxi in record time during rush hour in a city packed with people who don’t drive, I thought about his car and why he just doesn’t use his own, but then I remember that he had given the keys to Kian.
He pushes me down into the taxi and gives an address that I don’t recognize, but I don’t care when I press my face into his chest as he tucks his arm around my shoulders.
“I missed a lecture,” I mumble out, brain frenzied and off by a couple of feet of intelligence.
“I know, sweetheart,” he presses a kiss to my hair and sighs, “Allow me to make some adjustments, and then we will go home.”
My apartment sounds like a bad idea after the detectives just told me that it'd been broken into and I wouldn’t have known if they hadn’t told me. I’m sure it’s not Kian; he doesn’t need to break in when I personally invite him to stay for dinner with Isaac.
“Is it safe to go home?” I ask as my eyes focus on the blurred cars as the taxi takes us into the heart of downtown where corporate buildings reside in.
“Of course it is, but you are more than welcome to stay with me,” his offer is tempting but I feel bad for taking his personal space; his home is for him only, and I don’t want to take advantage of his kindness when he’s been a very supportive friend for the weeks we have been together.
“It’s okay. I can manage at my apartment.”
I have my burly and grouchy landlord to protect his fortress. I doubt anyone can step foot into his land and not get a choke-hold around their neck. It’s a shame that Kian isn’t a bouncer at a club or a boxer, he probably gets scouted for sports team all the time given the size of his body.
Football, rugby, or even ice hockey suits him.
Ice coffee also sounds good. I need that boost of familiarity to settle the gurgling tension in my tummy.
“Come with me,” Isaac says as he pays the taxi and tells him to keep the change as tip.
I look out of the open car door. The car has stopped in front of the huge building, but I don’t have time to admire the clean glass on each floor as he guides me towards the automatic doors that sense our approach.
A man and a woman greet Isaac with a bow and his name when he steps through the door. The importance of his status fully hits me when everyone that passes him parts way and greets him with so much respect that it makes me feel inadequate.
I never address him in such a way that matches his status, and I feel terrible.
There is even an elevator operator, what the heck?
The button lights up at the top floor, and I’m feeling woozy with the elevator ascending us to the top. He smiles down at me, running a hand through my hair to hush my worries that buzz in my head.
The door opens to reveal a round reception table with three beautiful receptionists. They stand to greet him, and they also greet me with polite smiles.
I lift my hand with a gawky wave.
“Send all the new offers from my clients to the executives. I will not be dealing with them for a while,” his orders are swift and straight to the point.
They barely blink an eye when he moves away; it definitely has happened more than once and maybe on a regular basis where he barks out orders.
I will be scared shitless if he uses that cold voice towards me.
Isaac takes me to his office, and as expected, he has an office that matches his wealth. Everything smells like money, and if I touch, I’ll be in more debt than my school loans.
“Have a seat, sweetheart. I will be back soon,” he pats my hair as he seats me on his office chair.
Comfy and strangely powerful, the chair faces the door, and there is a conference table in his office which looks out of place yet fits right in.
His interior designer must be one talented person.
Isaac kisses my cheek and leaves the room, and I’m left staring at the black screens of his three computers.
I’m not alone for long when a knock comes through the door, and one of the receptionists smiles when she comes in, I stand and gets out from behind his desk.
She keeps the door open, “There is someone looking for you, Ms. Price.”
How she knows my name doesn’t matter. I’m more curious as to who is out in the receptionist lobby.
I step out, and I see a woman that I see almost every day. It’s the coffee shop cashier with a bag and a cup holder with one drink in it.
“Hi, Holly!” she cracks a grin, “I saw you come in and I didn’t get a chance to say hi. I’m here to deliver an order, but someone at the shop got the order wrong so I thought maybe you’d like a free iced coffee?”
I blink at her rapid words, “Um, okay?”
“Good!” she beams and hands me the coffee cup that she takes out of the holder while setting the brown paper bag on the reception counter.
She slides the bag towards me, “Also another mistake from the shop; it’s a pecan muffin.”
She turns and shouts over her shoulder before I can decline, “Bye! See you tomorrow!”
