Left To Die

That wasn’t a claim for pity. Rather, it was a position of strength, especially as an investigator, to be an outsider looking in. The outsider always brought a new perspective that locals might not possess. Her life, her upbringing—Germany to France to the US—gave her insight that others didn’t hold. Each place she lived had its own boon, a gift of experience that it bequeathed her. And yet, whenever she contemplated such things, a slow ache often developed in her chest, not quite unlike anxiety. Perhaps it was closer to loneliness.

She thought vaguely of her mother. But then shook her head, dislodging the thought.

“Have we had any hits yet?” she said, quickly, clearing her throat and speaking more firmly. Robert was still staring out the window. He gave the slightest shrug of his suited shoulders. “I have not heard anything.”

“What case are you working on?”

“Nothing new. They have me in an advisory role only.”

The way he said it gave Adele pause. There was an edge to his voice that she didn’t quite understand.

She stared at the back of her mentor’s head, watching him, studying his silhouette framed against the window. “Oh?”

He shrugged again and turned toward her; the droplets stippling the window framed him in a sort of liquid halo.

It’s good to have you back,” said Robert. “I’ll leave you to your work. But you know where I am. My number is the same. If ever you need anything—”

“I know. I really do. And I’m grateful. Extremely grateful.”

He flashed one of his rare smiles, which revealed two missing teeth in the front left side of his mouth. For a man who cared so much about appearances, the missing teeth were often jarring to people. Adele had never quite learned the story behind them, but she knew better than to ask.

As she watched him go, she wondered vaguely what he’d meant by “advisory role.” She knew the agency liked to hire young talent. But the thought that anyone would try to edge Robert, of all people, out of his job was ludicrous.

As he stood in the doorway and hesitated, he turned back, scratched his chin, and, in a thoughtful voice, said, “Forgive me if I’m wrong, but you said this murderer, this killer, didn’t choose his victims based on any particular traits. Nothing except for their age.”

Adele nodded, listening intently.

Robert wasn’t looking at her anymore, and instead seemed to be studying the carpet on the floor with a frown creasing his face. “If someone doesn’t kill because of qualities the victims possess, would it be fair to assume he kills because of qualities of his own?”

“I’ve thought similarly,” said Adele.

“This red-haired man; he’s young enough to still have red hair.”

Adele glanced up at her partner, refusing to glance toward his own dark hair. She chuckled softly. “I do think there are methods nowadays that prevent the bane of gray. Plus, it could be a wig.”

Robert stiffened and shook his head slightly, running his hand through his own hair again, but then he relaxed once more and said, “But not red. A killer who is aging wouldn’t dye their hair red, would they? It’s too conspicuous. And if a wig, why choose red?”

Adele looked at him for a moment, then nodded slowly. “It does draw the eye… So you think his hair is naturally red? Red enough for him to be young; that’s what you’re saying?”

Robert gave another short jerk of his head. “Young enough to retain the color of his hair, self-obsessed enough to kill people based on qualities he possesses.”

“He fled to France,” Adele continued, speaking softly. Memories, past brainstorming sessions, much like this flitted through her mind. She and Robert often discussed cases, following one’s lead with thoughts of their own, building momentum with back and forth.

A slow prickling chill of exhilaration made itself known as goosebumps across the back of her arms.

She said, “The ages have always been interesting to me. Why would someone flee if they were so obsessed with time? He had a routine; he killed on schedule. Every two weeks. For someone so obsessed with time—and, if like you say, still young, then one might think he’s obsessed with their ages for a reason.”

“Fled,” said her old mentor. “You seem certain of that word.”