CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
Ella eyed the rotten old house with a look of contempt. There’d been a theme in this case; all of her suspects so far had lived in squalor, and Jesse Perry’s was the worst of all. After fully reading his casefile on the journey, Ella discovered that Jesse’s assault took place almost two years ago. His wife required amputation of a single leg – her left leg, the same one this killer had removed in every victim – but had passed away during surgery. He’d then waited three months, returned to the hospital, and attacked the overseeing surgeon.
Jesse Perry probably once imagined this isolated house as his forever home, but he’d let it decay to the point of disrepair. Nature had reclaimed the exterior, piles of bricks lay on the front lawn, and the windows were so crusted with dirt that Ella couldn’t see beyond the filthy glass.
“We’re going in,” she said. “Remember, this man is dangerous and calculating. There’s a chance he might be expecting us, so tread carefully.”
Paige loaded her gun and jumped out without saying a word. Ella had no problem with that. Focus and determination were the backbone of this job.
At Jesse’s front door, Ella listened in the hope that probable cause might present itself. It didn’t, so she knocked and waited.
Something rumbled on the other side. Thuds against the door, clinking metal, the unmistakable sound of cutlery toppling over.
Then a man opened the door. Shirtless, beard down to his elbows, eyes as yellow as crows’ feet.
“What?” he slurred.
“Are you Jesse Perry?” Ella asked. She knew the answer. She just needed to assess his capacity for lying.
“Yeah.”
“I’m Agent Dark and this is Agent Ellis. We’re with the FBI. Could we please come in?”
Jesse walked away, leaving the door wide open.
An open door was an invitation.
She and Paige entered a kitchen strewn with garbage, empty boxes, old furniture. The mess formed a single narrow pathway that led through into the living room.
“He’s drunk as hell,” Paige whispered.
“Good,” Ella said. This wasn’t going how she expected, but was someone like this capable of calculated killing? He didn’t look the type, but a lot of sociopaths used alcohol to numb the sensations they felt after committing murder. Contrary to popular belief, some sociopaths did indeed feel remorse for what they did.
Jesse slumped into a single brown chair, slotting into the groove seamlessly. Ella decided to stand. She didn’t want any part of her body to touch the filth in here.
“Mr. Perry, are you intoxicated?”
Jesse wiped some slobber with his arm. “Yup.”
“You don’t seem very concerned that two FBI agents are in your house,” Paige said.
“Why would I?” Jesse said, picking up a half-empty bottle beside his chair. The only light in the room came from the giant TV, also caked in dust. “Yeah, I punched a bitch. I did my time. What else you wanna know?”
Getting right to the point, Ella thought. “Why did you do it?” she asked.
“Felt like it.”
“That’s it?”
Jesse took a huge gulp, clearing a good inch of liquor. “She took away the only thing I loved. Bitch made a mistake and cost me everything. She deserved everything she got.”
Ella glanced from wall to wall. “And you spiraled into… this?”
“Yup. Stopped giving a shit. Happy?”
“No. Are you?” Ella asked. She knew the comment would get under his skin.
Jesse leaped from his seat, bottle in hand. “Do I look happy?” He came eye to eye with her, his liquor breath making her heave. She could definitely see this man being driven to murder.