* * *
EVA
After the task force meeting, which was a subdued affair with not much new reported, I had to concede to my tiredness and return to the apartment, where I promptly took a nap that turned into nearly three hours of deep sleep.
I’m far from rested now, and frankly could sleep for another ten hours, but my baby has woken up and won’t stop moving. The hot cup of tea I’m drinking isn’t doing much to wake me either.
The world outside the window is gray. Even all the snow that was so crisp and pristine white last night is just dirty slush now. Twilight is falling, but it’s still too light for the street lamps and car lights to make any kind of dent in the gloom.
I’ve added the crime scene photos from last night to the wall next to the others. For some reason this last victim stands out more. She’s somehow brighter than the others, but her pose is identical as the rest, so there’s little chance that we’re dealing with a copycat. At least there’s that.
But the fact that he tried to evoke the killings done by The Fairytale Killer in Berlin—the man who started my career and almost ended my life in the process, and whom I thought was now finally just a bad memory—is something I can’t even begin processing yet.
The visits to the monastery and the two psychiatrists that Dino and Sojer made last night revealed nothing. The men had apparently been in all night. But this is based on secondary information. Both Kline and Lap were home alone last night, and though neighbors believe they’d spent the night inside, that’s far from a given. As for the priest, the other Franciscan brothers who live at the monastery believe he didn’t go anywhere last night.
Mark has gone to speak to him, as well as the nun who helps at the youth center. I hope he’ll come back with some good information. As for me, I should be prepping for the interviews I’ve already agreed to give.
But the paralysis of knowing that it might lead to another death is strong. I’ve been trying and failing to jot down ideas and points I wish to make for the past hour.
Maybe Mark is right and we shouldn't engage this killer in the press so as not to give him the attention he clearly so desperately wants. But is that going to make him kill again?
My phone starts ringing, and I practically leap to answer it. Though leap is an exaggeration in my current state.
An unknown-to-me number is flashing on the screen, so I answer by saying my name. It’s probably some ambitious reporter who somehow dug up my phone number.
There’s a pause on the other end of the line and then a female voice I vaguely recognize says, “Ummm, hi, Eva,” and pauses again. The sound of her voice triggered a memory in me, something from a very long time ago that I no longer have a good grasp on.
“It’s Hana… Hana Pate… I don’t know if you remember me,” she adds when I don’t say anything, and the memory finally clicks into place.
Hana and I did an internship at Reuters together a very long time ago. Almost twenty years ago, the summer I finished high school, to be exact. We completely lost touch after that.
“Yes, of course I remember you,” I say. “How are you?”
I almost asked her why she’s calling, but managed not to be that rude right off the bat.
“I think you know why… well, sort of.” She giggles quietly. “I’m a journalist too, I don’t know if you know.”
She pauses again, and this time, I fill it with, “No, I didn’t know. Sorry.”
She giggles nervously again. “Yes, I returned home after our internship, got my degree and then landed a pretty good job at Delo that turned into a career. I’m a chief crime writer. Like you.”
I feel more than a little bad that I didn’t know that, but then again, I had so little contact with anyone back home since I only focused on writing for international papers.
“How come I’m only just hearing from you now?” I ask, very kindly, and chuckling to take even more of the sting out.
It’s odd she’s only calling today, given that the story of this killer broke two days ago. It’s also odd she hasn’t contacted me during any of the task force’s previous cases.
“I’ve been on an extended leave these past couple of years… still am, actually… long story… burnout and whatnot… but I’m looking to make a comeback,” she says, and pauses to take a deep breath.
“Something very odd happened… I think I might have gotten a letter from this killer you’re looking for.”
I sit up straight and almost spill the cup of tea I’m holding all over my legs in the process. “What kind of letter?”
“It’s odd, I can show it to you if you want,” she says. “But I want to run with the story. It’s high time I got back into working again.”
She punctuates the sentence with another giggle. There’s a slight disconnect in the way she’s speaking to me… it’s as though no time has passed and we’re still totally abreast of each other’s lives.
“Did you show it to the police?” I ask.