Burning House

𝘾𝙃𝘼𝙋𝙏𝙀𝙍 𝙄

𝙊𝙉𝙀

The Manson House
Portland, Oregon
November 6, 2006

Jason Gideon sat on the couch in the Manson's living room. Paintings, clearly done by the same hand, hung on the beige walls. The artist was most likely a woman. This was suggested by the delicate brushstrokes, the predominance of pastel colors, and the presence of a strong emotional component. If Spencer were here, he would say that these observations are subjective and not supported by statistics. But profiling was far from an exact science, too. The thought of Spencer made Jason smile. Lately, it seemed to him that he had not one but two children, and it was a pleasant feeling. If only Jason could communicate with his own son Stephen as effortlessly as he did with Spencer...

"Tea or coffee?" a voice came from the kitchen. It belonged to Elora, a woman in her thirties, elegant, with wavy blonde shoulder-length hair and blue eyes highlighted by natural makeup. She lived here with her brother Andrew, whom Jason was looking for. Both Mansons were single, just like a good half of Americans. That must be why they lived together.

"Coffee," Jason finally replied. Returning to the living room, Elora sat down across from him and placed a tray with two steaming cups on the coffee table between them. "You have a very beautiful home. Especially the paintings. Did you paint them?"

"Thank you. And yes, they came from my brush. But how did you guess?" Elora asked more out of politeness than curiosity. Considering her brother's analytical skills, she must have been used to such things.

But Jason explained anyway,

"A callus on the middle finger of your right hand and short nails—the latter is not necessarily for a writer, so I concluded that you are most likely an artist. Also, you smell of solvent: you recently thinned oil paints or cleaned your tools. Or both."

"Impressive," Elora smiled.

"It's my job as a profiler. Besides, I'm an art enthusiast."

At that moment, they heard the front door open. Andrew had returned from his morning run. Jason set his cup back on the tray and turned his head.

"¡Elora, estoy en casa!" A tall, well-built man with tousled sandy-colored hair and the same blue eyes as Elora's appeared in the archway leading to the living room. But the mustache was something new. Andrew was dressed in a gray hoodie and dark blue sweatpants. Seeing Jason, he froze in his tracks: the guest was uninvited and unwelcome.

Jason approached him and extended his hand,

"Hello, Manson. I'm Agent Gideon."

"The Pedro del Castillo case," Andrew replied, shaking hands and regaining control of his emotions. "Miami, 1996."

"Yes, we have met," Jason nodded with a smile. "Only then I was the head of the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit, and you were a homicide detective with the Miami Police Department."

"Now I'm also an FBI agent," Andrew remarked. His career advancement owed much to David 'Dave' Rossi, a friend of Jason's. Ten years ago, Dave had been impressed by Andrew's resolve and wrote him a recommendation letter for the FBI Academy. A year after that, Dave took early retirement and had since been writing books and giving lectures. "Elora, could you go upstairs?"

But Elora smiled and shook her head,

"I have a meeting with friends soon. I'll leave you to it. It was nice to meet you, Agent Gideon."

As soon as the front door closed behind her, Andrew noticeably relaxed.

"I tried to find you at the local FBI office, but they told me you were on vacation," Jason spoke again. They walked into the kitchen, and Andrew poured himself a glass of water.