Lies We Bury(36)
I return her forced smile, then step inside the elevator. Whether it’s pregnancy hormones or something else, the way Lily seemed so broken when Bianca was in the room was disheartening. Overprotective sister or not, I don’t like it, and I have to wonder whose idea it was to move home—maybe one of them wanted to return and the other didn’t, and that’s what’s causing tension. Or the fact that they’re about to welcome a baby into their lives. Or maybe I’m just on edge about everything, about this year.
Outside the building, I take off toward the boulevard. A dog barks from a patio restaurant to my right, and I recognize two of the greatest words in modern English visible in the bagel shop window: Free Wi-Fi.
Finding a seat at a raised counter overlooking foot traffic through the window, I order a coffee and unwrap my second muffin. Shia and I agreed to meet in another hour, and I could use this free time to research whoever is behind these murders.
Using my phone’s browser, I type in the phrase serial killers. Truthfully, I should have done this yesterday or the day before, but I’ve been so distracted with reunions and remembering things about my childhood—finding myself humming songs that I used to sing with my sisters that I haven’t thought of in years, imagining footsteps coming from outside my bathroom door while I’m showering, waking up recalling the bland taste of spaghetti and red sauce with no salt or pepper—that I haven’t made the time.
The internet doesn’t disappoint. According to a website called Serial Killer Basics, modern murderers are likely to be white males, in their midthirties, with a penchant for violence and two or more kills. Statistically, that’s the most common profile in metropolitan areas, although institutional biases may have led criminologists to overlook serial killers of other ethnicities. So my killer could be anyone. Great.
Whoever is behind the appearance of these two dead bodies—be it Topher Cho, Gia Silva, or someone else—they are linked to the author of the note I received. That person seems intent on drawing a connection between my childhood and these present-day deaths. Although Chet might fit the physical bill of a serial killer, the only death I know he made happen was Bethel’s when he refused to take her to the hospital when she was hemorrhaging after giving birth.
Tabbing over to the Portland Post’s web page, I find the latest update on the Four Alarm victim, the dancer. According to the medical examiner, she died from fatal force to her head and not the gunshot subsequently fired—confirming the speculation I overheard in the brewery. The bruises she sustained are consistent with being forcibly abducted and restrained. No sign of sexual assault.
If Petey the Penguin was actually code for Pierre Arktiq, mass murderer, what does the braided bracelet mean? I haven’t received a new message from the killer since leaving The Stakehouse, unless I count that reporter’s sneak attack.
Immediately after I drove away, I felt a wave of regret at throwing her phone onto the freeway. Not only because the phone may have landed on a moving car and hurt someone but because I just proved them all right. I’m no better than Chet when he would snap and begin beating Rosemary. The anger issues I’ve worked haphazardly to subdue, the rage that percolates beneath my skin and marks me as Chet’s perverse offspring, align exactly with what people think of me—that I’m damaged. A wild animal. Not to be trusted. I proved them all correct in that moment.
What else would this killer do? What will his next action be? Is he going to attack someone at an arts-and-crafts store, where people engage in activities like the bracelet-or rug-making Rosemary made us do our last day? The connection between flimsy thread jewelry we braided and this latest dead body should be clearer, but I can’t recall why a bracelet might be important. I need to understand him better. His choices. His victims.
I remember the shoes on the most recent body—loafers whose soles were worn smooth. The ghost of the cooler’s chilled temperature burns my nostrils, and my stomach clenches against a sudden urge to vomit. Accessing my camera’s recent photos on my cloud server, I pull up images of the victim’s face. In the moment, I couldn’t bring myself to examine him without the protection of my camera lens. Now, and in the safety of the bagel shop’s warmth, I can fully confront the details.
A naturally long face appears rounded at a slackened jaw. Pale pink lips are open, revealing the tip of a dark-red tongue within. Reddish-brown whiskers dot his mouth and chin in uneven patches sprinkled with gray. This man was likely in his midforties, maybe early fifties.
A rush of cool air enters the bagel shop as a woman opens the door and crosses to the counter. A child, somewhere behind me, asks her parent for more schmear, and I hunch over my screen, keenly aware I’m gazing at a cadaver in public. I type reverse image search into a new browser tab, then upload a photo of the man.
The results are all insurance related. This victim, Gavin Nilsson, was an insurance agent, and pretty successful, earning a Salesperson of the Year award last year. The prize was a trip to London. Happy images of him in front of Buckingham Palace cover the insurance company’s “Events” page. I return to the search results and click on an art website. He also painted landscapes of the Pacific Northwest. From the looks of his tableau of the Columbia River Gorge, he was talented. I scroll through lush green mountaintops and towering waterfalls, wishing I could draw more than stick figures.
Do the police know all of this about him? What does he have in common with the stripper found in Four Alarm’s basement? I search Eloise Harris art, but the web results lead to an octogenarian living in Berlin. How does any of this relate to me?