Total Victim Theory (2 page)

But there's no answer.

Just more rustling. And now footsteps.

“Hello,” I say, louder this time.

Again, no response.

A door upstairs closes and the shower turns on.

Ten or fifteen seconds elapse—then, more footsteps. This time coming down the stairs.

My heart begins to race. But before I can do anything, a pair of shoes, followed by legs, torso, shoulders and, finally, a head, comes into view. These body parts accrue into the sleepy but friendly-looking individual who now stands before me on the stairs.

“Hi there,” the guy says, wiping the lenses of his glasses on a green Izod and slipping them on. “I’m Chris. Sorry this is a little awkward, but I’m a friend of your roommate’s. You must be Nicki?” He smiles and extends a meaty paw.

“You got it,” I say, taking his hand.

He’s tall and lean and he carries a backpack over his shoulder like a student. But he’s older than student age. Maybe twenty-seven. He has large, dark eyes that convey a surprising measure of
warmth and sincerity, even staring out, as they do, through thick-rimmed, Buddy Holly-style glasses.

“Jessica just hopped in the shower. She has a staff meeting at the bar in a little while. So I figured I'd head out,” he says.

This guy’s cute, I have to admit, now that I've fully taken him in—maybe too cute for his own good. But what’s with those glasses? Is he a hipster? He looks way too buff to be countercultural. And is he just a one-night-stand making a quick getaway or a new beau destined to reappear at random intervals? While the Venn diagram of my and Jessica’s potential mates has very little overlap, Buddy Holly here may have just squeezed his way into that slim intersection.

Not that I’d ever be one to scam on my roommate’s boyfriend. That would be below the belt. No pun intended.

“So, how do you know Jessica?” I ask.

“We met at a concert last Thursday. The Killers.”

“Oh man! I love them,” I say, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically. “But didn't they break up like fifteen years ago?”

He smiles like he feels bad for me. “They got back together.”

Knowledge of music has never been my strong suit. “Damn,” I say. “I wish I would have known. I could have come back early.”

“Early from where?” he asks.

“Texas. The panhandle of Texas. That’s where my family lives. Which is to say, I’d never go there voluntarily.”

“I’ve heard amazing things about Amarillo,” he says.

I look at him for a moment, unsure whether he’s joking.

“Are you into animal husbandry?” I ask.

“No,” he says. “I don’t think animals should be allowed to get married.”

I cast a mock scowl in his direction. The dude's either a dunce or a master of deadpan. “Do you feel the same way about homosexuals?” I ask.

“I don’t think they should marry animals either.”

I grin, reluctantly.

“Let me guess— you're a cultural studies major?” he says.

“I’m a graduate student in psychology,” I say, a statement which is, in point-of-fact, inaccurate, being that I’m an undergraduate theater major. However, given the absurd context of the encounter, I figure I’ll ham it up a bit for the entertainment value.

“Wow, psychology,” he says, tilting his head to one side. “What do you want to do with that?”

“I think it would be cool to work for the FBI, like, as a profiler.”

“Interesting. Getting inside the criminal mind. . . . But don’t you think you might have to be a little twisted to do that?”

“What makes you think I’m not?” I say, the comment sounding flirtier than intended.

He steps down off the stairs and looks me over. “Twisted people don’t usually have such nice smiles. I’m sorry, but I doubt you’ve got what it takes.”

“But someone can smile and smile and be a villain,” I say, quoting a line from
Hamlet
, one of my favorite plays since high school.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” he asks.

I roll my eyes. Hipsters are always too busy trying to look smart to have time to read anything. “If you knew anything about psychology, you’d know that the most successful criminals are often the most charming.”

“Like smooth criminals. Is that what you are?”

“I’m just saying, you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.” A good metaphor since this guy has probably never opened one.

“
I’ve been hit by, I’ve been hit by, a smooth criminal,
” he intones.

Well at least he can quote Michael Jackson. Although “Dirty Diana” would be the more apt reference, considering how I’m acting.

Suddenly, he seems closer to me than he was before. I’m aware of the scent of his body. “Who are you? I mean, what are you? I mean, what do you do?”

“I’m a TA,” he says.

“What department are you in?” I ask.

“Women’s studies,” he replies, arching an eyebrow.

“Is that a line? Are you, like, a pickup artist or something?”

“Wait a minute now. I thought you were the one hitting on me—while your roommate’s in the shower no less. I’m the victim here.”

We tilt our heads conspiratorially upwards, listening to the sound of the shower.

“I did not hit on you. For once I'd like to meet a cute guy who's
not cocky.”

“Are you suggesting I have a ‘big head’?” He actually winks at me when he says this.

I blush and turn away.

“Sorry. No pun intended,” he says.

I bite my lip and look back at him. My hand brushes against his. “Look, Chris, you seem like a nice guy, but double-entendres are as far as I want to go with my roommate’s “friend” or significant whatever. I didn’t sleep a wink last night, and I think I might not be on my best behavior.”

He sighs and for just a second takes my hand in his. “Lack of sleep,” he says, “is no excuse for sexually harassing someone.”

I swallow, audibly. I think my heart's beating harder than it was before. Feeling really conflicted here. My lips purse as I look him over. “On the other hand, things change all the time. You could give me your number for future reference.”

His eyes linger on me for a moment. Finally, he says “I’ll do even better than that,” and he starts unzipping a compartment of his backpack. He takes out a pen and notepad and starts writing something. “I’m going to give you my e-mail address and a top secret message. But you have to promise you won’t read it till I’m gone or the secret will be spoiled forever.” He hands me the folded paper.

“Promise,” I say, taking it. A pause. “Well, I hope we meet again—under less awkward circumstances.”

“I’ll make sure we do.”

He’s really close now. His face just inches from mine.

I retreat a half step, which I guess means I lose the staring contest. “Now I’ve got a secret for you, Chris,” I say.

“What’s that?”

“I’ve always been a sucker for guys with glasses.” I take the glasses off his face and look into his eyes.

He doesn't even budge. “Try them on,” he says, as if he’s daring me. “It might give you a new perspective on things.”

I take my glasses off and slide his on.

After a moment, it dawns on me what’s wrong with this picture. Holy shit—what a weird coincidence. “There’s no prescription in the lenses,” I say, hiding my own glasses behind my back.

“That’s right,” he says, an odd smile forming on his lips.

We’re silent for a moment. He’s looking hard into my eyes. Like he knows. But surely there's no way he could. “Why do you wear fake glasses?” I finally ask.

His smile slowly broadens, till I can see his teeth. “Because the false face must hide what the false heart knows.”

The line’s from
Macbeth
. So he caught my reference earlier and played dumb. I feel a shiver run down my spine.

For a moment, it's like we're frozen in place. As if neither of us is allowed to move even the smallest part of ourselves.

“Parting is such sweet sorrow,” he says with a sudden burst of congeniality. Then he makes a quick, gentlemanly bow and abruptly turns to go.

A second later, the door closes behind him. I stand there for a moment, thinking about what just happened. It's confusing. Maybe I'm a little creeped out and a little ashamed of myself. But mostly I'm just giddy. It dawns on me that I'm smiling.

Just now I realize his glasses are still perched on my nose. Crap. I step forward, open the door, and shout his name. But everything's still and silent. He's already gone.

I slide the Buddy Hollys off my nose and look at them. Why was he wearing these anyway? And why did he insist on showing them to me? No—I'm being stupid. He's not psychic. And he's not a weirdo. At least not in the same way I am. He's a goofball and leaving the glasses was just an excuse to see me again. End of story.

I slip his into my pocket, slide my own glasses back on, and start to climb the stairs.

From above, the sound of running water.

Kind of a long shower.

Also, it’s a bit odd, now that I think about it, that Jess got into the shower before Chris left. Why didn’t she walk him out first? Is she that comfortable with him that she gave him the run of the house after only a few days? She must be head-over-heels. But then again, who wouldn’t be?

Reaching the top of the stairs, I see that the door to the bathroom is cracked half an inch or so. “Jess. It’s me. I’m back. Hey, I met Chris on his way out,” I shout through the gap.

No answer. Only the sound of water.

“Hey, Jess, can you hear me? Did you fall asleep in there?”

Nothing but the constant drumming.

Suddenly, my heart begins to race and a flurry of disquieting thoughts descend upon me. “Jessica,” I shout, my voice cracking.

I unfold the piece of paper in my hand.

“There is no one named Chris” is all it says.

I push the door slowly open.

I want to scream Jessica’s name over the sound of the drumming water. But no scream comes.

“Jessica,” I say, my voice falling to a whisper.

The door stands open.

The bathroom floor glistens a soft, diluted red.

Propped up naked in the bathtub, arms tied together with yellow rope, hands severed at the wrists, is my roommate, Jessica.

Her eyes are open wide.

They stare directly at me, as clear and blue as if she were alive.

3

El Paso

I just got off the phone with Detective Silva of the Juárez PD. Earlier today they found a new crime scene. This one's deep in the desert. As far as they can tell, it's
him
. The one they call “Ropes.” The MO matches up for the most part, though there are a few discrepancies—the bodies weren't buried the way they usually are, and there's never been this many at once before. You rarely see these guys change their patterns, so I was a bit skeptical at first. But Silva's sure it's him and Silva would know.

It's been fourteen hours since a local villager stumbled on the scene. I've been assured it's still just the way they found it. They haven't moved a thing. A few butterflies are flitting around my stomach. This will be my first time to see Ropes' handiwork in person—if, indeed, it turns out to be his.

Already on my way, fastening on my shoulder holster and feeling the weight of the revolver under my arm. I put on my navy blazer and pat my breast pocket to double check that my badge is there. If the traffic at the checkpoint is light, I can probably be at the scene in less than an hour.

My name’s Jake Radley. I'm a special agent in the Border Crimes Unit of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Been in seven years so far, working Border Crimes for two. It's not the most upbeat gig in the world—it would be a lot of people's worst nightmare—but for me it's a perfect fit. You’ll see things in this division you won’t see anywhere else, or you’ll see the same things, but the industrial strength varieties. Narcotics trafficking, human trafficking, gangs, serial murder. And that’s just your first day on
the job. The border is like an experiment into the worst possibilities of the species. How low we can sink. Something about it, maybe the anonymity or the constant flux, attracts wickedness the way decaying garbage attracts roaches and flies.

I was drawn to the border as well (though hopefully for different reasons). Something inside me has been pulling me toward it for as long as I can remember. Like a bird that's guided to some remote point on the other side of the globe by a secret compass buried in its brain. I've realized that a person can have a connection to a place, just as people can to one another. There's a pattern concealed within you, something essential, that you recognize in the world. You might glimpse it in the eyes of a stranger and convince yourself you've known that person your whole life. For me, I feel it in the throbbing energy of a landscape. I don't know how or why, but it’s like the border’s my soul mate.

They say like attracts like. So, what does it say about me that I sought out a place like this? I ask myself that question a lot. Sometimes half-joking, sometimes seriously. Is the border holding a mirror up to something vile inside me? Is there a little box of wickedness buried deep down, in the crawlspace of my mind? I guess there must be. But then again, doesn't a dab of depravity exist in us all? Moments where we look down at our hands and just know that, with the right provocation, they could do truly nasty things. We deny it and hide it away, but every once in a while, there it is. Opening up within us, like a yellow reptile eye.

But, who knows? When you're alone in your own head, you talk yourself into a lot of nonsense. Maybe there's nothing quite that wretched in you or in me either. Maybe this love affair with the border is just because deep down I'm a nice guy and opposites attract. I'm probably just hyper-sensitive about the subject of my morbid disposition. But all the edgy introspection isn't just academic. I don't
know
myself the way others do. I don't know a damn thing about my dark places. You see, I've got this handicap that you don't have. That it would be hard for you to even understand—

But let's save that for later. I've never been one for unsolicited confessions.

I lay a small suitcase out on my bed and pack three changes of clothes. Then I go over to my desk and put two items into my
briefcase. The first is the bulky accordion binder that’s labeled “Ropes.” It's stuffed with victim photos and reports on murders that might be linked to our killer. The second thing I put into my briefcase is
the ledger
.