The Bullet Theory

by Sonya Jesus

  The police, with a modicum of diligence, will connect the evidence and realize Borshin had staged the scene to resemble a gang shooting by using multiple guns, one of which will most likely tie to the weapon he used in the armed robbery, and the others, to the ones belonging to his family. If my speculation is right, Borshin was smart in a stupid kind of way. In three hours, that gave him seven minutes per shot and plenty of time to enjoy Elijah’s suffering. Given the scene of the crime, no one would have heard Elijah screaming.

  This is what I like to call, Good foundation, poor execution. Psychoanalysis will no doubt shine a light on Borshin’s lack of guilt for his kill.

  Why would it? Eliminating Bitten got him what he wanted. According to his social media, Borshin is married to his ex-girlfriend, who had leaned on him through the heartbreaking time.

  While Bitten Senior, now divorced and estranged from his other children, continually seeks justice for his son. He doesn’t believe Elijah’s friend killed him, so he has spent countless hours spying on the gang he thought did.

  He’s been shot twice and is still relentless.

  IQ3 will no doubt match Borshin to the guns, and then I’ll happily engrave his name and send it off. I’m not quite sure whether Elijah Senior will take revenge into his own hands, take the evidence to the police, or sit with the information, like many before him did.

  Either way, I’m always excited to see what happens when people are given the opportunity of retribution.

  My computer pings with a calendar notification, distracting me from my afternoon endeavors.

  My ten o’clock appointment will be here in the next fifteen minutes. Prior to our first encounter, my patients are required to send all the necessary paperwork, complete with bloodwork, permissions, insurance information, and medical history. Pulling up the file annexed to her name, I prepare for the meeting.

  The first sheet tells me very little about her: female, engaged, age twenty-six, drinks coffee three times a day, and doesn’t smoke.

  The next page tells me a bit more.

  She’s a cop. Interesting. I skim over the details of her specific situation and dial my receptionist, Cara.

  The older woman in her late forties picks up immediately. “Hello, Doctor. What can I do for you?”

  “Morning, Cara. How was your night?”

  “Boring as usual.” She sighs softly, but mostly for comfort—my concern eases her mind. Cara’s family lives seven hours away, and after her divorce, I’m the closest thing she has to a sort of friend. “And your night?”

  “Busy.” I chuckle softly to pique her curiosity.

  “How so?”

  Never fails. “I had a date that ended poorly.” Mostly, I’m asexual, meaning I don’t feel sexually attracted to women or men. Sex, with either gender, is tedious—a chore more than anything else, but I do enjoy the release that comes with an orgasm.

  Luckily, I don’t need a partner to achieve this, and therefore, am not dependent on anyone. A little lie about dating both assuages the people around me and provides a decent alibi.

  “You need to stop finding me-wo—” She stops stuttering for a moment and exhales before continuing, “You’re a handsome man, Dr. Mills. You need to stop using those teenage dating phone apps to meet people who use fake names.”

  Her flustered concern amuses me; I lean back on my executive leather chair and smile. “I assure you, Cara. It is not teenagers I meet.”

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  “I know,” I soothe before she insists on explaining. “One of these days, I’m going to work less and actually make it to happy hour.”

  “I do not understand why you need to run group sessions or work at the university. You make plenty of money here, and you’re turning away patients.”

  I make more money working on the IQ3, but that’s a secret project, and requires security clearance for information. “I don’t do well with idle time, you know that. Now, tell me about my next patient. Why does it say police referral?”

  “Oh, poor thing.” The tone of Cara’s voice dips low and grows hoarse, almost strained as she explains, “Do you remember three months ago? The cop who was shot?”

  “No,” I answer, honestly.

  “They didn’t give it much attention because it was around the time that girl’s body washed up on the shore, you remember? Oh, what’s her name? Her mother is one of our patients … Mitchell!” she shouts.

  Ah. Yes. Test Subject number forty-seven. That one is almost done too. She’s checked off as a revenge-seeker, and will no doubt produce a body. So far, with over fifty bullets delivered, the death rate of the study is just over fifteen percent. Due to the early assessment and what I refer to as “open tests”, this preliminary number is not statistically relevant. Albeit it’s nature, I find the otherwise useless calculation telling and allows me to accommodate my schedule accordingly. Of the ten people sitting on a bullet, at least one of them will act. The question at this point is when.

  “So sad … Anyway, Ms. Devero was pregnant before being shot.” The woman who knows everything about everyone, but doesn’t have friends, goes on to explain a variety of different things about those occurrences until someone chimes in on the other line. “Got to go, Doc.”

  “When she arrives, please bring her in.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As soon as the call ends, I run a search on Eleanor Devero. Immediately, the headlines from three months ago fill my screen. The one titled “Unborn Baby Murdered on the Streets of New York” catches my attention because a murder conviction can’t be achieved on an unborn person in the city. At least not yet.

  After ten minutes, I know enough about her to be intrigued by my new patient. Despite having ten nearly solved, or solved cases, I had considered taking a break until the media died down a bit.

  Ever since the police had linked past cases and deemed me a serial killer—which I most certainly am not—they have taken every wretched murder and analyzed the evidence, looking for something to tie me to it. Everyone in this damn city seems to be The Bullet Man’s victim until proven otherwise.

  It’s hindering and a tad bit annoying, but cases with mothers are my weakness. Losing mine at such a young age marked me forever, just like losing these people have marked my subjects. If I had been able to identify my mother’s killer, he wouldn’t have killed again. How different my life would’ve been had the killer been caught.

  Knock. Knock.

  She’s here!

  I straighten myself and adjust the mouse pad, aligning it with my keyboard and ensuring it’s parallel to the edge of my desk, before standing up and answering the door.

  Three people stand on the other side. Cara, and I assume by the pictures on the Internet, Eleanor and Kace Dalton, her fiancé.

  “Hello,” I say warmly, as I’ve been trained to do.

  Cara quickly introduces us before handing me a paper file in a green manila folder, signifying they’ve consented to be used in a study as long as their names and details are removed.

  Even better. I use the dossier to point toward the two empty chairs in front of my desk. “Please, take a seat.”

  “Dr. Mills?” Eleanor begins before stepping forward.

  “Please, call me Nolan.”

  She nods and quickly glances at the door, mapping her escape route.

  Her fiancé places a hand on the curve of her back and guides Eleanor to the chair, whispering her name a bit too harshly. When he realizes he’s caught my attention, he addresses me to offer an explanation. “Eleanor doesn’t believe in therapy.”

  My deduction skills had already picked up on that minor detail, but if it makes him feel better to explain, I’ll play along. “Oh?” Once they’re seated, I take a seat as well and pop open the file. “Why not?”

  Eleanor’s eyes hit the roof, and she shuts them before Kace notices.

  Kace, again, answers for her. “We’ve been going through a rough patch since our son, Tyler, died.”


  “Rough patch…” she grumbles sarcastically, as she focuses on anything but him or me.

  “Your son?” Even though I know some of the information, the reports only shared public knowledge.

  “She was shot,” Kace fills me in.

  “No, he was shot.” Her voice remains calm, and her hand is on her neck, holding the locket on her chain and sliding it back and forth. “I’m here because I believe someone shot my son.” Without looking at him, she points over at Kace, who smooths the wrinkle in his forehead. “He’s here because he thinks I’m too fucked up to recover on my own, and he’s right.”

  Kace’s shoulders relax but only midway, as if he expects another part to her statement.

  Eleanor shakes her head free of thoughts and flips her hand in the air, relenting and transferring the conversation over to him, not even bothering to voice her desistance.

  “It’s been particularly difficult for her. She’s alone most of the day, and she’s not working.”

  “Right.” I turn to the page from the captain of her department. “Mandatory, unpaid leave until a psychological evaluation has been performed.” She must have done something particularly foul.

  She forces a smile and uses both hands, palms up, to point at me. “Guess you’re my psychological evaluator or something.”

  Or something… My lips curve to soothe her unease. “I guess I am, and I’m happy to help you, even if that’s just listening to you talk… What exactly got you put on leave? From your impressive resume, you don’t seem like a rule breaker.”

  “People change,” she bites back quickly.

  Kace eyes me curiously, probably assessing me in some sort of alpha-male way. It’s not necessary. Eleanor has symmetrical features, deep-set brown eyes, high cheekbones, and a perfectly curved chin. For all intents in purposes, she’s a beautiful woman, but I’m more concerned with her mind.

  “Fair enough.” I point to one of the details on her file. “I see here you were valedictorian in your Ivy League undergraduate studies and master’s studies. That’s quite impressive, Eleanor.” Establishing a connection always begins with a personal touch. A name, carefully placed here and there, shows acceptance and understanding, allowing a comfort not often achieved on first encounters.

  Her sad eyes lift from the floor to mine and hold my gaze for a second. The compliment must feel foreign to her, because a ghost of a smile traverses her lips before she slams them shut, rolling them between her teeth.

  Unfairly, the size of a woman’s hips and her fertile ability nullify the presence of a brilliant mind. By the information staring back at me, Eleanor is quite brilliant, which intrigues me. It’s not very often a test subject with an above-average IQ comes along.

  “How did you get that?” Kace asks the question that someone of Eleanor’s caliber should be asking.

  “Your captain sent over her file with a note about needing her back and stable.”

  Eleanor scoffs and forces her gaze to the floor again. “Let’s get this over with.”

  “I agree,” I reply before addressing her fiancé. “Kace, would you mind giving me some time with Eleanor? I’d like to talk to her in private before discussing couples therapy. I believe individual sessions would be a good way to start before we proceed with joint sessions.”

  Kace nods and leans toward Eleanor.

  She doesn’t move an inch.

  “I’ll be just outside, okay?”

  She pops a shoulder, and then as if remembering her surroundings, turns to him and places a kiss on his cheek, catching him off guard. “Thanks.”

  “Yeah, uh … sure.” Kace looks up at me with a hopeful eye.

  “Don’t worry, Detective Dalton. She’s in good hands.”

  3

  Shrine

  Eleanor Devero

  “How did your first session go with Dr. Mills?” Kace asks, as he strums the center console, toying with the dial of the radio, unsure of whether to turn up the volume or lower it.

  “Fine,” I answer, but the presence of a brand-new, black notebook on my lap weighs on my mind. “Nolan gave me homework.”

  The volume remains unchanged as he glances at me hesitantly. Any kind of conversation we have ends in distance. Something Dr. Mills suggests remedying.

  Why I’m doing this escapes me, but I open the damn journal and show him my chicken scratch scribbles.

  “Am I supposed to be able to read that?” He cracks a smile and squints his eyes in an overexaggerated way as he moves his head back and forth.

  It’s stupid and adorable, which summons a smile from me.

  And God, it hurts so bad. The curve of my lips sinks my heart deep into my stomach, with a loud thud that reverberates through my whole body and steals the breath from my lungs. I blink rapidly as I glance out the window to hide my waterlogged eyes from Kace.

  “A smile log? Your homework is to smile every day? I kind of like it.” He frees one hand and tilts the book to read. “What’s the other one?”

  Feeling way too vulnerable for such a confined space, I turn toward him and close the notebook. “Never thought it would cost me two hundred bucks to hear a smart-ass tell me my problem is not smiling.”

  “That all he told you?” The traffic light turns green, forcing him to focus on the road instead of at the girl falling apart in his passenger seat.

  “No.” Thankfully, my clipped tone invites no follow-up question.

  Dr. Mills had asked me about my relationship and how things were with Kace. For some reason, I told him we were fine, which led him to question, in a very detailed way, what would happen if I let Kace go?

  Was I ready to wake up alone every morning? To live alone without the hope of seeing him later on in the day? To never hear his voice again, or compare anyone else to the man who first stole my heart? And worse, was I willing to have two gaping holes in my chest with no closure to either of them?

  I wasn’t, but how do I tell the person assessing my stability, I didn’t think I’d live long and letting this man go was merciful. He’s the mess left in the aftermath of my wreck, and I’m not done wrecking my life.

  Kace is my only connection to The Bullet Man, and I need to try and hold on to what we had before I break his heart.

  He’s resilient. If losing his son took less than three months to recover from, then losing me will take much less time.

  Without Kace’s constant presence in my life, the magnetic walls of my heart—that attract happy things, like the hundred firsts and a thousand could-have-beens—will repel them.

  Consequently, I’ll hurt less. It won’t cease my suffering or save me from my fate, but it has to do something. Anything. Because at the moment, I hate living, and not living up to his standards is killing me.

  Nolan wanted me to admit I love Kace. I do, but it’s too confusing to sift through and figure out if the love is a remnant of what we had, or if it’s simply blocked by everything else.

  These days, I’m always falling short of good enough. Not good enough to protect my son and find his killer. Not good enough to keep a job, or a guy, or keep my shit together. Not good enough to cut ties between my heart and my brain, or quarantine my emotions. And I’m definitely not good enough to disentangle the complicated knots of my existence and make sense of life.

  At least not yet.

  I release the air inflating my cheeks and glance over at Kace. Finding Tyler’s murderer trumps anything, and if that means following Nolan’s stupid homework assignments to make Kace feel better about us, I will.

  “I think the doctor is using a country music playlist to inspire our therapy sessions.” Reminders. I scoff. “He wants me to put a sticky note on everything that reminds me of the way things used to be.” I reach into my jean jacket and pull out a yellow pad of paper and hold it up.

  Kace quickly glances over at it before turning right at the intersection. “You can use that at the precinct.”

  “Ugh. Why are we going there?” I’m a mess. My hair looks like I stuck
my finger in the electrical socket, and it could use some hair dye. My eyebrows need to be plucked, and I’m wearing a pair of black yoga pants that I’m sure has a tiny hole in the crotch area. Not exactly work attire.

  “I have to drop in and tell Cap about Dr. Mills’s recommendation. When we talked alone, he said it would be okay for you to slowly work yourself back into the swing of things, without officially being part of the investigation.”

  “Nolan didn’t tell me anything.”

  “Dr. Mills,” Kace emphasizes the name, “said it wouldn’t hurt, and I didn’t argue because I like the idea of having you as my partner.”

  My eyebrows bounce up. “You already have a partner.”

  “You’ll always be my first choice, Elle. Frank will understand. Plus, this is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” I smile softly. It also means Kace and I will be forced to spend time together. After I got kicked out of the precinct, we hadn’t spent a total of ten hours together in the same room, and in one day, we’re close to surpassing that time.

  “Want some coffee before we head over?”

  I perk up to notice he’s already pulling through the drive-thru—the same drive-thru we used to go to every morning before heading over to work. “I always want coffee.”

  “I know.” He comes to a full stop at the exterior lane, and I swing open the door and get out.

  Kace rolls down the window with a massive grin on his face. “What are you doing, Eleanor?”

  The irate woman on the intercom harshly says, “One moment, sir!” Then forgets to take her finger off the button and grumbles, “Damn people, always trying to shave a couple seconds off their day by speeding through shit.”

  I laugh and stick one of the notes, just below the speaker holes, on the flat surface. Then walk up to Kace, who is glaring at the intercom and holding his tongue, and smack one right on his forehead.