Too bothered to be quiet
Aiden's POV
It's too quiet in the house when I get home. There is a dense oppressive quiet that fills the floorboards and lingers like dust in the atmosphere.
Ruthie is not yet home, I guess. I stand in the hallway for a while wondering if she has actually run off with her stuff but opening her bedroom door and seeing everything intact, I sigh in relief.
In any case there's a charge of energy I can't quite identify that makes the silence feel heavier tonight.
My keys fall to the granite counter making an odd clattering sound in the silence. The stubble on my face rasps against my palm as I run my hand over it after taking off my old leather jacket and letting it drop onto the back of a chair.
Since the call about Harold King's passing, my thoughts have been racing.
The unopened bottle serves as a stand-in for an unattainable moment of tranquility as I simply carry it over to the dining table and take a seat.
My laptop's screen is glowing with case files and it's still open from last night. It's partially covered in a disorganized constellation of sticky notes and like an unsolvable puzzle graphic, images from crime scenes are strewn all over it.
Three females. Three fatalities.
Veronica Cheng, Amira Klein, Greta Johnson, all prosperous lawyers. All smart, knowledgeable women who made a living by arguing. They were all killed on the thirteenth day of every month . And in each the delicate skin behind her ear was surgically carved with a single capital letter.
E was the first victim.
T is the second victim.
The third victim is S.
E.T.S
My fingers tapping restlessly against the table I gaze at the pictures. From Veronica Cheng hanging from her balcony to Amira Klein who appears calm and sorrowful on the driver's seat of her car to Greta Johnson who is set up in her own living room almost like a sacrifice.
The letters may be arbitrary, a tic of anxiety. A psychopath's pointless flourish. I understand better though.
I flip to the section I've been obsessively updating in my notebook, its cover creased and coffee-stained. This is the case report for Veronica.
She was a shrewd ruthless defense lawyer who was discovered dead— hanging from the balcony of her penthouse and shockingly without any evidence of forced entry. Her list of wealthy but morally reprehensible clients included a few names that were inexplicably removed from the official file before it reached my desk.
The letter E was carved into her skin behind her right ear. Next was Amira Klein, a corporate attorney known for entangling her rivals in paperwork. She was discovered dead in her Maybach, dead and the engine running, while wearing a silk scarf that matched her robe.
In front of her right ear the letter T was engraved. She was enmeshed in a legal battle on behalf of a pharmaceutical company under suspicion of egregious malpractice. A week after her murder, the precinct's evidence box became empty of her complete case file, a tidy expertly completed task.
And the latest Greta Johnson, a state prosecutor discovered a few weeks ago stabbed twelve times in her neck and chest
The letter S behind her left ear. She represented a man accused of heinous child abuse and she had a contentious victory on her record from two years prior.
She triumphed. The man went free. I feel a sharp unwanted chill. The draft from the window has no bearing on it.
Each of the three lawyers, women, working on cases where a person who was most likely guilty was able to escape punishment. They were all killed on the thirteenth.
I flip through my notes, the timeline staring back at me from the page. On June 13th— Veronica. Amira — July 13th, Greta— August 13th.
Phewwww.
The thirteenth is always the case. The next date is approaching if the murderer plans to commit another crime. I take a look at the inexpensive calendar that a local real estate agent has hung on the kitchen wall.
The red-circled date is September 6 just a few days to the 13th.
This is not a string of separate offenses. It's a ritual. I start to pace as I push back from the chair, my legs scraping the floor. The letters must have some significance.
E T and S. . Are they.. initials, a word’s first letter or a private message? E. T. S.
I pick up a pen and a notepad, write these down and circle them. I reverse the sequence. S.E.T.
E.S.T. T.E.S. It all makes no sense. It's meaningless. Perhaps it's a component of something larger.
He may be adding a new chapter to his grim story with every new victim. That could only indicate that the murderer is still out there. One body at a time he's pointing something out.
I massage my temples as a headache starts to form. Beyond the law and their death date what unites them is that they are of the same gender, the same occupation. Same failure? On my laptop I open Greta's file again. Jimmy was the child she neglected to keep safe.
He was just was eight years old then. He was beaten by his step father and even burnt with an electric iron.
Greta Johnson contended that the evidence was circumstantial. The mother of the boy appeared untrustworthy due to her cross-examination. The matter was dismissed. The man made his way. The child fled two months later and was never seen again.
Amira—the pharmaceutical case too. A mislabeled medication caused the death of a young boy after making him suffer for months, internal bleeding, excessively too. A child prodigy.
In defense of the business, she claimed it was a straightforward pharmacy error. The case was resolved and the company's name was cleared. Veronica— her client list which I had to obtain from an unofficial source comes up once more. Among the names that jump out is Graham Telford
. charged with abusing his adolescent niece suffering from autism .