The Counter Born (#Wattys2016)

Chapter Fifteen

Often I don't expect people to do things I'm positive they wouldn't. Often they surprise me, and often they never cease to amaze. Dropping off paperwork was not Jen's first choice in spending her Friday night. So I could say I was surprised. And I was amazed when the doorbell went 'ding'. Oliver and I were finishing cleaning up dinner. I was washing the dishes, and he was wiping off the crumb infested island.

"Believe me. I don't want to be here, but captain insisted I give this to you," Jen says after I humbly invite her in. Now it's her? Isn't it easier to just not have friends? You have me.

"You don't exist," I growl out. Jen forms a puzzled expression. "Sorry. That wasn't concerning you." I open the folder, flipping through countless photographs stapled together in a pamphlet. They're all a bit blurry and unclear although there is one hooded figure that could be the grim reaper without his cute little garden hoe. I loved those stories that I read as a child: dark, intriguing, mysterious. Most children would've put it down after the first sentence. Yet I'm not like most children, am I?

"Landon! Are you going to say anything?" Jen complains.

"Oh. Sorry," I apologize again. "Is that–?"

"Our serial killer? Yeah. The first pictures we have of him. Security cameras on the Dwight estate got some footage, but we were unable to detect facial features. He's too cautious about his identity being revealed. Anyways, from what we can see, captain said that maid wasn't mistaken about his description. We're on track, and we need to keep it that way." I give her a dumbfounded look.

"Jen, we don't even know this man's name to begin tracking him. We don't have information on his cell phone, credit card transactions, or plates either. Nothing. We're Seattle P.D. detectives for god's sake. We're the best in Washington state! Maybe I'm mistaken about that." Jen combs her fingers through her knotted strands of honey hair.

"You aren't, but we're honestly doing the best that we can."

"So are we," Oliver confides from across the room, which isn't from a very long distance at all. He waves merrily, a rose pigment rising in his warm cheeks. Jen crosses her arms loosely while gaping back at me. "Really? No hello?"

"What is the child doing here?" Jen asks impatiently, a mother arguing with her divorced husband. "He's not even supposed to know about this case. Or any future cases!" I smile innocently, but I know that she's right. I swear that woman is a classic novel. You don't like hearing what is written, but it overcomes any worthless thin paperback written to the point of illiteracy. Sometimes the worthless paperback is Oliver. Actually, most of the time the worthless paperback is Oliver, the lazy bum.

"I kind of thought Oliver could help out?" I cheep. I'm much too unsure with Jen around. Every right suggestion is wrong and every wrong suggestion is wrong. Like a strict teacher she watches my back, and I'm too afraid to even breathe.

"You told him? Landon, I have to report this! Like a responsible adult," Jen says.

"Come on. Help me out here. You know you're a sucker for second chances," I reply. She plops down beside Oliver and fiddles with her car keys, which scrape harshly against the table as grinding nails would.

"I don't like this."

"You don't have to." She glares and tries to stay occupied with her keys. "So . . . do you have any suspects in mind that might be after me?" Jen sighs, her exhaust tank overflowing.

"No, because nobody's after you. You're just scared."

"Yeah," I agree. "I am, because he's going to burn me to death when I'm asleep!" She shakes her head, laughing. "I'm serious! L.A.N. There's going to be three more letters: D.O.N. You have to believe me. We've been friends forever, and would I ever joke about something like this?" Her smile withers away like a decaying cocoon.

"No," Jen mumbles. "I guess you have my attention."

"Good. So if you had an estimate of who the suspect was, then who would you say?" Jen rattles her car keys in her lap uncertainly.

"Oliver," she answers. We stare at her in awe.

"That's absurd," I say.

"Is it really? Think about it. That day when Oliver went berserk and got fired, who did he blame for losing his position?"

"Me," I mutter.

"And when did that happen?" I let out a hushed gasp only I could hear.

"Just before the serial killings." She slaps her hands on her silk covered thighs as though she outsmarted our cluelessness, but I don't want to be clueless. Not like Tom. Tom. Tom. Tom. College books, essays, and courses didn't teach you how to react to a full fledged criminal. Like a kite, there's multiple ways to react to what direction the wind blows it.

The serial killer is the wind. The execution is the kite. We are the people who think we have control, but the kite blew away a long time ago. We're already in the wind's grasp, because all we have are theories. All the killer has are multiple moves in his game, which he can use to strike us down off guard. Strike down our so-called theories.

"You have no proof that I'm doing this. I-It's just a theory," Oliver says. Theory. Theory. Theory. "Besides, do you ever think I'd want to kill Landon over that? Common sense will always be victorious, Jen."

"Still, I think you're the culprit. The only question is, why are you killing innocent people before Landon? If you even are after Landon. He's here right now, so why don't you just do it?" It could be just a clever act on Oliver's part, but I doubt it. Best friends, right? No. No. You have me. Oliver is a ignorant drunk. Accept me as your friend.

"I won't accept it! Get out!" I bark with verity. Oliver turns his head to where I'm standing.

"So you agree with her? You think I'd do something like this? I didn't think I'd ever see the day. We've been a lot better friends for a lot longer. I thought you were loyal." My eyes widen.

"I'll see you at work tomorrow, Landon," Jen says, and sprints to the front door. It lashes closed and her stilettos click against the solid pavement. I turn to face Oliver.

"I don't know what to believe, but I didn't mean–"

"Save it. You're sorry. Am I correct? When you overuse the word, it becomes worthless." Like a paperback novel. That's not what I am, is it? Two hundred pages of balderdash? No. This brain is pure balderdash. This brain is using me! I'm helping you understand, Landon. How are you helping me? What do I need to understand? What you should have before you needed my guidance. You're guidance is poisonous then. And now you're pushing everyone you love away by not listening to me. Then what should I do? What you were meant to do from page one.