“Do you mind if I start?”
“No, of course not, do ask,” the interlocutor responded calmly.
Slender-fingered hands were setting out cups and saucers, the guest was watching. Miss Gustavsson was sitting on the pouf straight and even, as if at attention, perfectly fitting into the setting, like another outlandish thing; Allex could not find a comfortable position, crossed his feet, then bent his leg, the second one at the knee began to twitch spontaneously, betraying his restless nature.
They were like order and chaos, in one room, united by one task – for Allex’s luck, not for long.
“Some of Dr. Gasztold’s records were stolen from his office,” Agent Serret said, “with personal information about his patients. I can’t give you all the details, but the important thing is that the contents of these records, the reasons for the incident, or the identity of the thief may be connected to the investigation of another, very serious crime.”
“What is it?”
Miss Gustavsson held the lid of the teapot, lifting the spout gracefully over the cup, the stream flowing and ringing, bubbling into a growing puddle at the bottom of the bowl. Her eyelashes fluttered, and her gray-blue eyes stared at Allex without looking away.
The knee stopped twitching, Agent Serret smiled conspiratorially, leaned slightly towards the table, examining the pale, textured face.
“Have you heard of the Heartthrob?”
Everyone has heard of him … Those who read newspapers, watch the news, listen to tattle – but Allex, in order not to go crazy from fatigue and boredom, for the first time all day caught the long-awaited chance to relieve tension and fool around.
Miss Gustavsson feigned innocence, blinking her beautiful eyes – but she asked not out of naivety or even idle curiosity … It was an invitation to dialogue.
“Yes,” she replied, her golden head tilting slightly to one side, and Miss Gustavsson returned the teapot to its place.
“So you understand how serious this is,” Allex said. “Four victims found, how many more could there be …”
Wilhelmina Gustavsson took the cup in her hands, the guest repeated after her. Afterwards, Allex asked her the usual questions – what she had been doing on the day of the theft, what in her confidential conversations, recorded by Dr. Gasztold, could be connected with cannibalism, misogyny, ritual sacrifices, people who had spoken or acted suspiciously or strangely …
Allex didn’t notice how time flew by, how the tea ran out, how the questions ran out. Miss Gustavsson looked at him openly, answered calmly, smiled at his jokes – at both of them – and at the end of the conversation asked how many of the psychiatrist’s notes had fallen into the wrong hands.
Agent Serret did not give an exact number, but explained that a small amount confirms the investigation’s assumption that the notebooks chosen were not random – in Dr. Gasztold’s office there are data from several dozen of his patients, past and present, over many years of work. Of course, like every doctor, he encrypts his notes … But the intruder probably knew about it.
Allex put the cup on the table, his stomach howled with the drawn-out cry of a hungry dog, the howl was clearly audible in the pause that hung between the lines.
“I have to go,” the young man said, his eyes wide and smiling, not hiding the incident. “Thank you for your help, Miss Gustavsson.”
He took the clipboard under his arm and rose from the couch, the young woman followed suit.
When Allex came out onto the stoop, having already said goodbye and given her a business card – in case Wilhelmina Gustavsson remembered anything – she called out to him from the door.
“Agent Serret!”
Allex turned around, raised his leg over the step, and the evening wind ruffled his shock of chestnut hair in a cold gust.
“It may be a strange question, but … why do people kill, deliberately commit murder – in situations when there is another choice?”
Agent Serret’s foot returned to the stoop, his young face with a scattering of freckles took on at first a surprised, then a thoughtful and even a little sad expression.
Allex answered honestly.
“For some, murder is the only way to feel control – over a situation, over a person, over anything. The reason is always despair. And broken logic – when in the picture of the world, it is considered completely normal to rip out a person’s heart and eat it.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Allex nodded, watching as the door slowly closed and the golden-haired head disappeared into the dollhouse.
He ran down the stairs easily, the wind was getting under his open jacket, his stomach was still growling and demanding dinner, but for some reason his soul was calm and even joyful.
Among the empty-headed rich, there are some who are not hopeless … Miss Gustavsson turned out to be a reward for a hard day of stupid interviews, sidelong glances, and pointless running around to the addresses of Dr. Gasztold’s clients.
It was a pity that they would hardly see each other again. With her, it was … Allex tried to find the right word in his internal monologue. Nice …
He understood perfectly well, he had only watched a beautiful picture – like on TV – with perfectly smooth faces, ironed blouses and shirts to match their eyes, delicious tea, and casual conversation. It was time to get back to prosaic reality – where there was poverty, pain, ugliness, death, and murder.
Allex was glad that not everyone needed to know how crazy the world could be in destroying itself. He loved his job – and accepted its various aspects, from tedious communication with witnesses to operational detention, with shootouts and batch.
2. Swallows Without Chewing
“He does it with his bare hands,” Allex said, his mouth full, pointing to the pictures on the board. “He opens the chest with a hunting knife, removing the sternum, without using any special tools – not like a surgeon, but like a pathologist.”
“Like a self-taught man,” Will nodded. “He separates cartilage and muscle to get to the insides, casually, without caring about aesthetics.”
There was indeed little aesthetics in the works of the Heartthrob. The murder and desecration of the body were rather a chaotic act, impatient and crude, haphazardly.
“He is neither a doctor nor a butcher …”
Crumbs fell to the floor, Allex greedily bit into the sandwich, rustling the paper, squinted, looking at the photo, leaned a little closer.
“He got hold of a manual on autopsies and just took what he needed without going into detail,” Will continued. “He has a hard time learning, even reading.”
“Delay in development?”
Special Agent Will Gatti thought for a moment, pursed his lips.
“More like attention deficit hyperactivity disorder.”
Allex hemmed and started chewing again. He didn’t say that his restlessness, his inability to sit still, typical ADHD, were perceived as mental retardation or educational neglect …
“Serret, every time I see you, you’re always guttling!” came from behind them.
“I’m always hungry,” Serret shrugged without turning around. “Can’t help it.”
Beverly Cruz, a forensic scientist in the Criminal