CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER ONE
Ella Dark raised the Glock Gen 5 pistol, aligned her sight, and squeezed until she felt maximum resistance. Her hand vibrated in the recoil, and then she emptied the chamber in less than two seconds, almost severing the neck of the target dummy.
The FBI offices in Washington, D.C., were a spectacle to behold at any time of the day, but there was something impossibly surreal about them when nightfall came. Even the FBI shooting range, access to which was a major perk of her job, was unusually deserted on this Friday evening. She removed her safety goggles and inspected the rest of the alcoves, seeing only a lone shooter at the other end of the range.
It was mid-November. Seven p.m. came and went, marking Ella’s fourteenth straight hour at HQ. For two weeks, she had been assembling data regarding missing people in the tri-state area of Chicago. Sometimes, she’d spot a link, a pattern, something that could possibly connect a missing child in Wisconsin with an unsolved murder in Michigan. However, her job was merely to report the facts, not to dig into the finer details.
And this, she thought, was the biggest tragedy of all.
Her job was statistical, analytical, but the subject matter took its toll. Every day brought new tragedies and horrors, the details of which Ella was obliged to consume in full. Nighttime shooting sessions offered a constructive way of shedding the burden.
Ella returned her pistol and safety equipment to the elderly man behind the desk and nodded her thanks as she left. She reapplied her thick-rimmed glasses and loosened her ponytail, letting her raven hair fall to her shoulders. The smell of gun smoke lingered at the tips.
She made her way back across the FBI training grounds under a blackened sky which threatened rainfall at any second. A group of young agents jogged past her in an orderly line, several of whom tried to catch her eye, but Ella kept her head down and continued on her way.
Just as she reached the entrance to the main FBI building, she felt a buzzing in her jacket pocket. She pulled out her crumbling Samsung, four years old, ancient by modern standards. One new message.
Jenna: Party at our place tonight. Hurry up back.
Ella breathed a heavy sigh, exhausted by the mere thought of such activities. She brainstormed a quick excuse to be late home, but before she could apply it to the screen, she heard a voice from behind.
“Excuse me, Ella?” it asked. “It is Ella, isn’t it?”
Well-spoken, but with a clear air of authority.
She turned around to find a middle-aged gentleman hurrying to keep up with her. She’d seen his face somewhere before. Not in person, but on email, maybe? Or one of the bulletins dotted around HQ?
“Yes, it is,” she said, her hand still wrapped around the silver door handle leading into the building foyer.
“Hope I didn’t startle you,” he said. “Nice shooting, by the way. I saw you back there.”
Not another guy trying to give me shooting advice
, she thought.
“Thank you.”
“Sorry, I should introduce myself. My name’s William. I work in Behavioral.”
“Oh,” Ella said, “nice to meet you. I’m in Intelligence.”
Ella was a little taken aback. The Behavioral Research and Instruction Unit was the almost-mythical branch of the FBI that dealt with all manner of ultra-violent crime; serial killers, mass murderers, cult leaders, school shooters, domestic terrorists. It housed the psychological profilers and special agents that every crime drama did their best to emulate. She’d worked sporadically with a handful of agents from the department over the years, and talked to a few of them socially, but their doors were always closed to anyone not inside their circle.
“I know,” said William. “Your department has done a lot for us in the past few months. Without your help in the tri-state missing persons project, we wouldn’t have made half the progress we have. I wanted to extend my thanks to the people who do the leg work, especially the dedicated ones. I don’t get the chance to show my face much.”
A wave of gratitude overcame her. Ella felt like she somehow needed to return the gesture, but couldn’t think of anything to say. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.”
“Your work on the Greenville Strangler case was outstanding, too,” William continued. “I know the VCU took the credit, but don’t think we’re not aware of your input.”
Ella wasn’t one for grandstanding but welcomed the acknowledgment. “Just doing my part, sir. If I can help in any way, I will.”
“Excellent,” William said. “Well, I’ll let you get home. I’m sure you have a husband waiting for you.”
Ella shook her head. “No husband, sir. Not really my area.”
A muted ringtone interrupted their conversation. William reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He answered, excused himself, then turned his back to Ella. She couldn’t make out his words, but she noticed his demeanor change significantly. He held his shoulders back and began to tap the heel of his foot against the granite steps. Within ten seconds, William had ended the call.
“Sorry about that. Something’s come up,” he said. “Listen, I’d like to talk more with you when you have time. Maybe Monday? Someone with your drive could be of great use to us.”
A heavy wind came between them, bringing with it a small dose of rainfall. “Of course, sir,” Ella said, not wanting to question him further. “Feel free to shoot me an email or call my extension.”
“Perfect. Sorry to keep you,” William said. “Have a great evening.” He pulled his phone back out and stuck it to his ear. He made his way indoors and up the marble stairway to the second floor of the FBI headquarters.
Ella readjusted her backpack and headed through the foyer, catching a glimpse of a picture of the man who’d just left her presence. On the board which declared all of the FBI’s pivotal directors, she saw a plaque with the name
William Edis.
Beneath that,
Director—Behavioral Research and Instruction Unit.
Outside of her own department, she’d never spoken to a director in person before, least of all one who knew her name. The FBI employed over 35,000 people across the entire United States, a large portion of whom were based out of D.C. Her own team reached into the hundreds, and unless it was a special occasion, she rarely got the chance to talk with people outside of her Intelligence bubble.
Full dark set in overhead. The night would soon be over. Ella headed to her Ford Focus in the multi-story parking lot, contemplating what the remainder of the evening might hold. She threw her bag into the rear then noted a pile of crumbled textbooks behind the passenger seat.
Criminal and Investigative Analysis, The Art of Profiling, Modern Serial Killers & Their M.O.
Ella started up the car and headed on her way, realizing she was going to have to brave the lion’s den at some point this evening. It was a weekly occurrence, being coerced into doing something she didn’t want to by her overly eager roommate, but for once, she wasn’t too concerned, because there was a new light at the end of the road.
Someone with your drive could be of great use to us,
he’d said.
Under other circumstances, it would have been an arduous journey, but the day and the hour made the usually infuriating drive between D.C. and Annadale bearable.
But as Ella reached the halfway point to her house, she decided she wasn’t yet ready to spend her evening idly chatting with people she barely knew. She took a hard left into the deserted parking lot of the Milestone bar.
If there was one thing Ella had learned from a career in law enforcement, it was that every branch had its secret hotspots. A bar that offered free whiskey shots for officers, or a restaurant that halved the bill for anyone with a badge. The Milestone was the FBI equivalent. A lot of agents and admin staff stopped by on the way home for a quick shot to take the edge off.
A heavy odor of smoke hung in the air, adding to the place’s rough-but-vintage charm. During her psychology studies, Ella had learned that modern bars outfitted their interiors entirely with metal and wooden furniture so that the sound inside was amplified, giving the illusion of liveliness. But the Milestone was one of the few bars which still boasted padded chairs and cotton drapes, designed to absorb sound and invoke a homely ambience.
Ella welcomed the lack of bodies inside. She took a seat in a red booth and pulled her laptop out of her bag, using the opportunity to ride out the hours until her roommate inevitably moved her party to a club in town. If Jenna asked where she was, she’d just say her phone died.
The bartender, a graying woman in her fifties, sauntered up to Ella’s table and dropped a jug of tap water. “Anything I can get you?” she asked, a Southern twang hanging loosely off her lips.
“Just coffee, please. Refill.”
“Can do, sweetheart. Burning the midnight oil?”
“Just needed a quiet place to come,” Ella said. “Nowhere better than here.”
“I hear that. Back in two minutes, darling.”
Ella’s laptop pinged alive and automatically connected to the bar’s Wi-Fi connection. She ran her cursor over her background—a scenic forest shot—before landing on a Word document she’d been working on.
A Psychological Analysis of Norman Bates.
Only 700 words long so far, but maybe she’d get the chance to finish it tonight. She read from the last paragraph.
A primary point to establish is that no analysis of a fictional character could ever reflect similar psychopathology if similar crimes to Bates’s were ever to occur in real life. While the seed of which Bates was born was planted by Plainfield murderer Ed Gein in the 1950s, Bates is the fictional manifestation of Gein pushed to his utmost limits, in addition to the fact that Bates must also abide by the laws of linear storytelling. The real-life story of Gein was much more haphazard and followed no such pattern, whereas Bates’s deviancy gradually escalated for the purposes of a convenient narrative. With this said, Bates displays clear behavior of a perpetrator suffering from dissociative identity disorder (DID), colloquially known as multiple personality disorder. The first instance appears—
“Coffee. Hot as you like,” came the voice, interrupting Ella’s flow. The bartender dropped a metal jug and a cup on the table. “Cream and sugar on its way.”
The bartender strolled away and Ella turned back to her laptop. Her thoughts went back to Norman Bates, but a familiar pinging sound brought her back to reality.
That was when she saw it.
Out of sheer habit, she’d opened up her email client when she’d turned on her laptop. In the corner of the screen, a small window popped up.
But it wasn’t from one of her usual contacts.
From: Edis, William.
His message was brief and to the point, with no unnecessary greetings.
Urgent. Call me when you get this.
She did. She closed up her laptop, moved outside to the green-tinted, smoke-filled patio, and called the number on the email. He answered after three rings.
“Mr. Edis?”
“Ella, thank you for calling me back so quickly. I wasn’t sure if you’d get my email.”
“I happened to be online, sir. What can I do for you?”
“You know how you said you’d be happy to help in any way you can?”
“Of course.”
“I’ve got an interesting case. It needs someone with a brain. Someone who can think and analyze. You’d be working with the BRAI. Would you be interested?”
A million thoughts sprung into Ella’s head, overwhelming her to the point of muteness. Why her? Why now? What about her current job in Intelligence?
“Umm,” she began. “I mean, I’d love to. But—”
“Actually,” William interrupted, “I want to give you all the details before you make a decision. Are you free now?”
“Yes, sir. I’m just at the Milestone but I can—”
“No, that’s perfect. I’ll meet you there. I want to talk off the record.”