Even during a therapy session, he speaks as if through several bulletproof glasses, sits in a closed position, often retreats into an internal monologue and falls silent – despite the request and insistence of Dr. Gasztold to voice his thoughts out loud, because this is what therapy is intended for.
Lukas Gasztold had recently become his psychiatrist, not long after Special Agent Gatti had joined the Criminal Investigative Division, leaving his teaching position at the FBI Academy. The intense work and stress had caused Will to suffer from anxiety attacks, he became increasingly withdrawn, and he had to be reminded to disidentify himself from the visions, not to judge them, and not to try to understand them with his rational mind.
The criminal’s mind is in agony, his logic is distorted, beyond the comprehension of a healthy person. William Gatti had a unique ability to interpret evidence, reconstructing a picture of what happened, but the danger was hidden in the first-person perspective … He felt too keenly, took on too much.
Only few people understood Will’s talent and the price he paid to catch serial killers for Jack Howard. ‘Think like a criminal’ was not just the motto of the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit, the only surefire way to catch a bad guy, but also a very real situation that Will Gatti found himself in, a state he experienced time and time again.
He was afraid that he himself would become a criminal, that a part of him had already been lost, poisoned – so much were the clothes he tried on for the sake of work oppressed him. He began to break, to twist, his moral bonds were shaken, black and white had already become gray in different shades … He was confused, he was restless.
Jack pressed Will with duty, responsibility, the risk to innocent lives, the opportunity to save potential victims, to do justice – despite the obvious problems with Special Agent Gatti’s mental state. Howard told Will he could leave at any time and return to the Academy – if he suddenly felt ill – but then he showered him with images of the dire consequences of another criminal roaming free.
Faithful dogs search for truffles, in rain and snow, in heat and cold, trampling the forest floor with their paws, digging the loose earth with their noses, squealing over the find, and Jack Howard collects the harvest.
Will froze, turned away, took off his glasses and began rubbing his face with his hands.
“I can’t,” he muttered. “I have to wait for the others, otherwise I’ll turn everything upside down here.”
There was a rush of footsteps in the hall, and both men turned their heads impatiently, but Agent Serret appeared at the threshold of the dining room, ushered in by the police on duty – not the forensics team.
“How long have you been here?” Allex asked.
“Not long,” Will muttered sullenly.
“For long,” Gasztold said at the same time.
“I see. And what is here?”
Will was about to respond with a sardonic sneer, but changed his mind. He gave a brief account of the victim – nothing new, the same thirty-something blonde with breast implants, mother and wife – as Agent Serret approached.
When Allex saw the blood-stained face, he gasped.
“But this is—”
The girl with the cart! The same one who ran over him in the store, knocked over the shelves of chips! He couldn’t get them mixed up – despite the fact that they were all made in the same factory by plastic surgeons and beauty industry specialists – he had a good memory for faces.
“I saw her at the local grocery store on Reservoir Street, not far away,” Allex explained, under the gaze of two pairs of eyes, “the day I was conducting interviews with clients from Dr. Gasztold’s notes. Nothing out of the ordinary, she was simply buying groceries …”
She simply lived – and does not any longer.
She was killed more than twelve hours ago, the shocked husband, who found the body in the morning, called the police upon his return. There was no doubt, the crime was the work of the Heartthrob – he continues to kill.
The first time was two months ago; the second and third, after a ten-day pause – with a week’s break; the fourth after a month’s pause; the fifth after two weeks and one day … There was no pattern in the dates, and everything required preparation and a plan, he couldn’t just go and start a spontaneous massacre.
Where did he get the keys, how did he disable the alarm with a code to get into the home before the victim? Was he an enemy of the murdered wives’ husbands, did he have personal motives? The interviews yielded no results.
They spent a few more hours at the crime scene and were at the FBI lab in the evening. Will Gatti, gloomy as a storm cloud, walked around in circles near the board with diagrams and photos, and Dr. Gasztold stayed in Baltimore and promised to look for an answer to why the Heartthrob eats hearts.
Late that night, only Serret, who was already feeling sick from the photos on social media of the victims and their spouses, and Cruz, who was examining the wound where the criminal had picked at it with his bare hands, remained at work.
His stomach growled unpleasantly, the sound in the silence was loud and mournful, matching his mood. Allex propped his chin on his hand, scrolled through the feed of posts, periodically drawing a graph of dependencies, with connections between the victims, several cafés, bars, events, a nail salon, and a gym in their area, which were tagged in the images. Everyone was subscribed to everyone, they knew each other by nicknames, but had no idea how the neighbor across the street really lived … They all had colorful photos, bright clothes, cute children and caring – if a husband can be caring without being interested in his wife’s affairs – spouses.
The first victim was a florist, the second was a clothing designer, the third painted and exhibited in private galleries, the fourth sang jazz, and the fifth—
Allex never got to the fifth one, a photographer of half-naked models in lingerie, because he accidentally saw a familiar golden-haired image in a joint photo of a jazz singer.
Wilhelmina Gustavsson smiled charmingly, she was wearing a white pantsuit, a massive sparkling necklace around her neck, her arm lightly hugging the fourth victim … The release of some album by some musician, a party and a buffet, many guests.
Allex, without thinking twice, went to the page of the golden-haired artiste, glued to the screen, forgetting about hunger and sleepy eyes.
Wilhelmina Gustavsson in the recording studio, Wilhelmina Gustavsson on holiday in the Indian Ocean, Wilhelmina Gustavsson celebrating Father’s Day with her stepfather, guardian, whatever … The last one made Allex laugh nervously, the post looked more like irony than truth – because in the photo de Lavender’s fresh and youthful face did not at all resemble the father.
The exciting life of a successful artiste, an artificial facade … Allex understood perfectly why Miss Gustavsson – like her colleagues – creates a certain image on her pages, posts only what will be considered cool and enviable. Photos of the golden-haired Miss Gustavsson literally screamed that everything is great with her, and she is very happy – even if they were reserved, balanced, with literate phrases of each caption, thoughtful meaning down to the smallest detail.
Or maybe she doesn’t run her pages herself … She didn’t have, for example, photos of pets, children covered in chocolate, vlogs about planting a tree in the park, or buying a new bag.
Miss Gustavsson was beautiful, even if she had an unusual, androgynous, alien appearance, an elongated, textured face that always smiled equally softly. In the music videos, excerpts of which Allex began to watch, covering his mouth, frozen in an uncomfortable position on a chair, Wilhelmina Gustavsson was different …
She was alive, diverse, passionate, furious, tender, in flashes of neon