Double Vision

by Colby Marshall

  Dodd smirked. “What, like he said, ‘Hey, that god-awful kid over there just picked her nose, rubbed the booger on the white shoes she was wearing after Labor Day, then passed gas while chomping loudly on her gum as she stands blocking the entrance to the escalator. Why don’t you go kill her on this day of threes . . .’”

  Jenna rolled her eyes. “Something like that. But point is, if the most-likely-the-Triple-Shooter-UNSUB didn’t have a target at the store in addition to the target of UNSUB B, yes, UNSUB B could’ve planted the seeds to suggest his own target so that the UNSUB would believe UNSUB B’s target was simply his all along. If that happened, UNSUB B could’ve just let the very-clearly-the-Triple-Shooter-UNSUB kill the target any time, any place, no instructions necessary,” Jenna said.

  Dodd nodded. “The MO would’ve looked slightly different upon investigation since up to then the Triple Shooter had only killed adults. But single, female victims and similar rituals would probably be plenty proof it was just another sad victim of the Triple Shooter, not too many extra questions asked.”

  “Exactly!” Jenna replied. “But that’s not how it was done, so the Triple Shooter must’ve had a target, too. And if he did, then two bodies would’ve been left in the attack, a shocking change of MO sure to draw attention. So UNSUB B needed something else . . .”

  Fuchsia flashed in as she said the words, the color she’d realized meant “misleading” in her color dictionary one day when she was around eight or nine. Her dad had been planning to take Charley and her to the go-cart tracks that afternoon but said they had to clean their rooms first. But while Dad had run to the pharmacy to buy some bug repellant for them, Jenna had gotten distracted by a show on TV. Lucky for her, about halfway through the program, Claudia had come into the living room to start dusting and told her she’d picked up Jenna’s room, but that if it ever looked like a tornado had ripped through again, it’d be Jenna’s business. Later, while putting on her shoes to go to the go-cart tracks, her dad had asked if she’d cleaned her room. “Spick-and-span,” she’d said, feeling only slightly guilty. After all, it hadn’t been a lie. Just a little cleverly worded was all. Misrepresentation, at most.

  “I’m guessing the drastic shift in the MO was UNSUB B’s—the manipulating UNSUB’s—brilliant idea. He somehow uses the alignment of threes to talk the Triple Shooter into attacking—”

  “The UNSUB,” Dodd cut in.

  “He somehow uses the alignment of threes to talk the UNSUB into attacking a place at a time when his own target will be there, but he’s smart enough to know the ideal way for this plan to go down without leading back to him—something he’s clearly desperate to do considering he’s already manipulating another killer into committing his murder for him—is to make it look like a crazy, isolated incident perpetrated by a gunman no police would be familiar with. UNSUB B knows that if the Triple Shooter goes in and kills just two targets—the Triple-Shooter-like UNSUB’s and UNSUB B’s—that two things will happen. First, the Triple Shooter, assuming he’s our UNSUB, is connected to another body. Already a diversion in MO enough to spark questions about a famous serial killer suddenly changing habits that might lead to theories of another person’s involvement. And second, when those questions crop up, UNSUB B knows he is connected to the Triple Shooter. It might be a close affiliation, might be vague, but he’s far safer and less likely to be caught if he’s never linked to a serial killer who is probably crazy, a factor that means being linked to a serial killer that, at some juncture, will probably be caught. I’m guessing UNSUB B told the first UNSUB during planning to just go in and run amok as long as he got the jobs done, and I’d bet, in the UNSUB’s number-obsessed mind, he just ended up taking down seven bodies because the number was a soothing one because of whatever it is about the numbers he’s fixated on.”

  “You’re on the same page as me. Somehow UNSUB B knew the first UNSUB, whom we believe to be the Triple Shooter, and convinced him to be at the grocery store for whatever reason. UNSUB B somehow knew our presumed-to-be-the-Triple UNSUB’s next target already, or—”

  “Or he set him up at the grocery store without a target,” Jenna blurted. The thought was a brand new one, and she wasn’t sure of it by any means. More just trying it on for size.

  “How so?”

  “The date, time. Maybe UNSUB B knew his target would be at the grocery store, so somehow influenced the Triple based on the date and times lining up in threes. There’s a seven we haven’t found yet, other than the number of victims, but maybe it was enough to draw the Triple to the spot if the manipulator was clever enough and knew what to say. The Triple is paranoid. It probably wouldn’t have been hard, given that lineup of threes,” Jenna said.

  The beginnings of a headache throbbed behind her eyes. They were still missing something. For every piece of this thing that made sense, one stubborn detail wouldn’t fall into place. It was like Molly Keegan’s Rubik’s Cube. If Jenna had tried to fiddle with that thing, the same thing would happen that always did when she got one of them in her hands: she’d be able to line up all but one square within a row, but when she’d try to correct it, even more would be thrown out of whack.

  “That’s a theory,” Dodd said. “But no matter how you slice it, unless we get a new lead, to find UNSUB B, we still need to know who the first UNSUB, allegedly the Triple Shooter, is. We can’t figure out who the hell knew the Triple Shooter well enough to manipulate him without knowing him first.”

  If only Dodd wasn’t as right as he was. The Triple Shooter was the key to the second UNSUB, who was the key to the Triple Shooter. It was the most annoying sort of case, and right now they were chasing their tails. “Though if we find UNSUB B’s target, we might have a chance of figuring out who wanted them dead. Even if Eldred Beasley wasn’t UNSUB B’s big show, I do think he has some knowledge UNSUB B doesn’t want us to have.”

  Jenna glanced toward Victor, who was talking with the coroner. Pesha Josephy had been loaded into a body bag and was about to be on her way to the ME’s office. With any luck, the autopsy would magically show someone’s DNA besides her married “friend’s” latest deposit.

  She nodded toward Mr. Power Tie Boyfriend, who still sat on the couch, now tapping his fingers nervously on the side table. His leg bounced in time with the whir of the ceiling fan. “Anything new from lover boy?”

  Dodd shook his head. “Swears he didn’t see anyone different, notice anyone keeping an eye on them, or anything like that. I’m inclined to believe him, too. People having affairs are pretty reliable when it comes to noticing whether or not someone’s watching too close. You know what they say about paranoia, and there are all those great private eye, share-the-awful-pain-of-your-two-timing-spouse-with-the-world reality shows now to remind cheaters to keep their guard up.”

  “True,” Jenna replied. “That’s another weird thing, though. Up to now, we’ve been sure the Triple Shooter was punishing people for things the Furies in his head were telling him needed avenging. Even if UNSUB B’s target—Molly—wasn’t the presumed-to-be-the-Triple-Shooter-UNSUB’s target, in order for UNSUB B to sic the Fury-hearing freak on her, UNSUB B would’ve had to have at least made the Triple Shooter think she deserved to be punished by the Furies, too, right? What does a six-year-old do that’s up there with adultery and kicking over a homeless guy’s life savings?”

  “You ever seen The Exorcist?” Dodd asked, smirking.

  “I’m not joking here, Dodd. This kid . . . you’ve met her. She’s pleasant, smart. Do we seriously think she’s done anything UNSUB B could use to convince the Triple Shooter that she invoked the wrath of some Greek goddesses of vengeance?”

  He shrugged. “So are you thinking our profile is off base? That we need to go back to square one?”

  Jenna closed her eyes, letting the purple color that had connected all of the things only moments before wash over her again, hoping something new would surface. It didn’t.


  “No. I’m just saying that even though I’m sure about this, it feels like jamming that one puzzle piece you have left into the only open slot, trying to force it in because you don’t want to admit that somewhere in there, you’ve got another piece jammed in, too,” Jenna said.

  “Deep,” Dodd replied.

  Jenna’s phone buzzed.

  We dropped by Carmine. Eldred needed some clothes. We’re headed back to the house now. We’ll see you there.

  Jenna typed a quick thanks back to Yancy, deciding this wasn’t the time to lash out at him for not answering his phone when he was staying with people who were apparently on a murderer’s to-do list. That was a job for in person.

  “Got Eldred waiting. If this is what he keeps trying to remember and we can jog that for him, maybe he can clue us in to even more.”

  Her phone buzzed again. She opened the text from Yancy.

  Do me a favor: go get Oboe.

  Despite her irritation at Yancy for having freaked her out by not answering, she smiled. “We better get a move on. We’ve gotta make a stop on the way.”

  42

  The woman looked familiar to Eldred, but even when she said her name, he wasn’t sure where he knew her from. For that matter, he didn’t know the young man staying at Nancy’s house.

  Wait. Yes, he did. But only because they rhymed. Nancy and Yancy.

  Dr. Jenna Ramey said they’d met before, but clearly she was mistaking him for someone else. He forgot a thing or two occasionally, but not a name and not so quickly as she claimed.

  He sat across from her at the dining room table, unable to stop thinking of how much he missed his little two-person table in his apartment at the home. They’d gone over, him and Nancy and the young man, but he wasn’t sure why. Maybe they just wanted a change of scenery. Been cooped up in the house all day, after all. He visited Nancy a lot, even stayed overnight sometimes, but he did like the cozy little place there. A little place of his own. Sometimes he didn’t like it as much, but today, it wasn’t so bad. But they had rushed him out almost as soon as they’d gotten there, and now they were back in the big dining room, the one too big for him.

  “Mr. Beasley, I need to talk to you about the phone call. The one you made to me a few nights ago. You told me you had remembered something about the shooting that happened at the grocery store,” the woman doctor said.

  “Someone was shot at a grocery store? That’s awful!” Probably one of those gang members. Kids nowadays didn’t have morals. Or maybe someone was upset they lost their job. People could get desperate nowadays, for sure.

  “Mr. Beasley, someone shot some people at the grocery store several days ago while you were there. You called me about something you saw. You called me after you talked to a little girl. Molly was her name. Do you remember Molly?”

  Pictures coursed through Eldred’s head, mental Polaroids his brain occasionally took of things he saw but then filed away without showing him what compartment they’d been placed in. Dark hair, chubby cheeks. Boxes of breakfast cereal. Cheerios scattering over the tile floor. The view of the aisle from where he was hiding behind a display of boxes.

  The little girl diving between the rows.

  “Yes,” he croaked, his throat dry.

  “Mr. Beasley, we need you to tell us anything you can about Molly on the day of the shooting at the grocery store. Where you saw her, things you might’ve seen near her . . .”

  Eldred blinked. The snapshots playing a slideshow in his brain had evaporated, and try as he might to fish for one, hook it, and retrieve it, they had dipped into a sea he couldn’t see the bottom of, sunk just beyond his reach.

  “I don’t know . . .”

  The young woman leaned forward, her elbows propped on the big table. She couldn’t have any idea that even bent forward, she wasn’t close to bridging the expanse between them.

  “Do you remember talking to Molly on the telephone?” she asked.

  Chubby cheeks. Dark hair. Voice soft, but easy, like a flute.

  “Her voice was steady. Direct. She talked like . . .”

  He could hear her even now. She hadn’t spoken with him like so many people did, unsure of him, afraid. She wasn’t annoyed, and she hadn’t made him feel nervous or embarrassed. He hadn’t felt foolish talking at his own speed.

  “Like what, Mr. Beasley?”

  He smiled at the memory, pleased with his brain for releasing it. “Like a grown-up.”

  • • •

  Jenna ran through a series of questions, attempted different imagery and sensory wording to try to elicit thoughts and memories from Eldred, but she was getting nowhere with new details from him. The only times he seemed at all responsive were when their conversation turned to Molly’s phone call. An idea she didn’t like in the least was beginning to take hold of her, and the more time went by, the more she was sure it was the only answer.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Beasley, I just remembered that I need to make a quick phone call if you don’t mind. Will you excuse me?” Jenna said.

  “Of course,” Eldred replied, staring down at where he was twiddling his thumbs.

  Jenna stood and caught Saleda’s eye, cocking her head toward the front door. Saleda took the cue and moved toward her. She’d been standing in the doorway between the dining room and the living room where CiCi and Yancy sat, just in earshot of Eldred and Jenna’s conversation but out of the way enough not to be a distraction to the Alzheimer’s patient.

  When they were outside, Saleda pulled the door closed. “What’s up?”

  “I think we’re going to have to bring him to Molly or her to him,” Jenna said, hating every single word that came out of her mouth. Not only was Saleda going to loathe the idea, but Jenna didn’t feel too swell about bringing Molly into this any more than she already was, either.

  “May I ask why this is a good idea?”

  “Look, I know Molly’s being a target of this shooting puts her at the center of this nightmare far more than any six-year-old ever should be, so I get why also making her a miniature BAU consultant might not be ideal. But you were listening in there. The only moments he comes even remotely close to a vivid memory is when Molly comes into play, the most definite times being him remembering her voice. Talking to her is what triggered his memory before, after all,” Jenna replied. “I don’t like it any more than you do, but let’s face it. It might be our best shot.”

  Saleda frowned as she leaned against the wall. “Well, there are plenty of studies that suggest children are therapeutic for the elderly, but even if I were to agree to this, I don’t know how on earth we’d get her family to give it the okay.”

  Jenna let the amber orange she’d come to associate with Liam Tyler crash over her. Molly’s stepfather had been cooperative until now, albeit maybe not happily. But still, she could imagine a scenario in which the more Molly continued to be involved in the investigation without a good reason, the more and more protective he’d become. Not that she could blame him. If it were Ayana, she’d want her family and little girl to be allowed to let normalcy reign again, too.

  Would knowing Molly was the target make him more or less likely to lend a hand? It could go either way. He might see the need to find the killer at any cost, or he might throw down the roadblock and refuse to allow her to be involved with the case any longer in fear of putting her in more danger.

  Robin’s egg blue flashed in.

  “Raine. We go to Raine.”

  Saleda raised her eyebrows. “You think it wouldn’t go through Liam first? He kind of runs the show there . . .”

  Didn’t she know it. She rarely spouted her synesthetic relationships to other members of the team, but Liam was definitely the dominant personality in the group. The cool, gentle blue she had just realized she saw in conjunction with Molly’s mother attested to Raine’s meek temperament, as Jenna nearly always saw submissiv
e individuals in cooler tones, often blues. The colors were never something she could explain to anyone entirely, and while she could discern certain characteristics and feelings from them, other parts of the existence of a color surrounding a person or feeling were somewhat incidental. The feelings she got from the colors came from a base part of her gut instinct, and that was something no one she knew seemed to ever understand. Yancy had come closest, but even he might not entirely get it.

  It was that sort of feeling—the one she got from the robin’s egg blue of Raine Tyler—that made her feel sure that while Raine let Liam call the shots in almost all cases, in this case she would handle it with discretion. The blue wasn’t like some others Jenna had associated with submissives in the past; those submissive blues held positions closer to violet on the color spectrum. She often associated shades of those blues with tenderness, compliance, devotion.

  And while Raine’s color fell in that family, it swung further toward the greens on the scale. Greens tended to be more calculating. It was a distinction she’d have trouble conveying to others, because any time she put forth observations like this, people she was explaining to tended to then put colors into that box going forward. There was no hard and fast rule that said someone who showed as a shade of green would be calculating or those closer to the violet spectrum wouldn’t be. It was simply like anything else in profiling: certain behaviors, demographics, and environmental factors gave the team a good spot to start guessing, since they were often indicative of specific personality types. Raine might be a teary, docile type most of the time, but Jenna hadn’t forgotten the way she had taken the phone from Liam that first day, told them to come over. She was a follower, but the shade of blue confirmed for Jenna that the woman could think for herself. Especially when her mother’s death was involved.

  “It might get back to him,” Jenna conceded, “but if it does, trust me. She’ll hold her own.”