The Knight, the Beauty, the Beast, the Fool. Eat a Heart – Gain Love

“FBI!” the young man said loudly and clearly, taking documents from his bosom and raising them above his head. “It’s all over, everything’s under control, you can get up from the floor, the police are on their way, the beast is no longer dangerous.”

To prove his point, he slammed the criminal’s raised face back into the floor, slapping him on the back of the head.

The shoppers came to life, a hubbub was heard from all sides, and lamentations and belated hysterics immediately began. As if from afar, from a parallel universe, the approaching wail of police sirens could be heard.

As Wilhelmina, pale and with bulging eyes, approached Agent Serret sitting on the floor on top of a body shaking in violent convulsions, in the pocket of the forest predatory marten’s green jacket the telephone came to life.

“Serret!” he answered, turning to Wilhelmina Gustavsson, at first smiling triumphantly at having caught his prey, but then his face changing abruptly, from the message spoken by the chief’s voice in the receiver. “Jack, I’ll be there soon. A quarter of an hour, roughly. Yes, yes, at Dr. Gasztold’s. No, I’m almost free.”

His gaze involuntarily slid over the figure of the young golden-haired woman, from her fall shoes, the perfectly ironed creases of her pants, up the brim of her unbuttoned coat.

“What a son of a bitch!”

Allex put the phone in his pocket, and jumped up on the robber in frustration.

“You’re yourself the son of a bitch!” the robber responded in a strangled voice.

“No, not you!”

Wilhelmina looked at Agent Serret, he finally realized that he couldn’t just stare.

“Good afternoon, Miss Gustavsson,” he smiled.

He smiled sadly. Wilhelmina was ready to bet, something bad had happened, and he had just been told about it.

“Good afternoon, Agent Serret,” Wilhelmina responded. “Thank you.”

She put into the tone of her voice everything she could not describe in words. There was a lump of horror in her chest, disbelief, anger – from incomprehensible stupidity and senseless bravado – and admiration, at the same time.

“It’s nothing,” he chuckled. “He’s harmless. He can’t even shoot.”

No one paid any attention to the curses of the robber lying face down; in the bustle, the sellers helped the customers come to their senses; two policemen entered through the open doors.

Agent Serret explained what had happened, handed them the body, which was no longer resisting. It turned out, the gun the criminal had was not real – and the pine marten somehow figured it out … The driver, worried about what had happened, was already looming on the entrance, it was time to go back, but Wilhelmina could not move from the spot, she could not leave, it was impossible to just give up curiosity and excitement, and thrill and trepidation that was unusual for her.

The store assistant, the same one with whom Wilhelmina had exchanged glances between the stands, stared at Serret in the same way, but it was difficult to read the thoughts from his stone face – with a scar from a late plastic surgery to correct a cleft lip.

Allex went out into the street with the last customers and Miss Gustavsson, whom the driver immediately led away, almost by the arm, and put into the car. The golden-haired artiste said goodbye reservedly and coldly, but the look of her shining eyes – when Allex was sitting on the floor, on the caught robber, and she was looking down at him – the young man felt on himself distinctly, as if it had burned with a touch.

Allex was a hero for this attention, he didn’t even try to deny it. Taking the heat was a habit that was impossible to eradicate … And he never tried. He had nothing to lose – such was his job …

Broad-shouldered Dylan nodded to him as Allex left the store – he certainly understood, anything could happen at work.

Now a new crime scene awaited him – in the house next door to Dr. Gasztold’s office: the son of a bitch Heartthrob had gobbled someone again!

7. The Blond Beast

[United States, Baltimore, Reservoir Hill][United States, Quantico, FBI Academy]

Will carefully stepped over the bloodstains on the parquet, tried to look at the corpse spread out on the table with an impartial gaze, not getting involved in the abyss of vision, not coming into contact with the pictures emerging in his mind. The feeling of the approaching empathic experience felt as if he was beginning to feel drowsy, he resisted in vain, but fell into a bottomless well, hung in free fall, dissolved, lost himself, and then came up, back into the real world. Upon returning, he gasped for air, tried to shake off other people’s feelings, like his dogs shook off stuck dirt and burrs, but the colors entered his skin, clung to his fur, soaked into his clothes, intoxicated him from the inside, like an uninvited, slow-acting poison.

Waking up from the vision was as painful as the dive, as breathtaking and shattering – as if he was being shaken like a piggy bank of coins, his skin peeled off, a new suit put on, his guts spilling out of his pants. He hated that swing … Returning was the worst of all sensations.

Howard and the forensics – Cruz, Bailey, and Ross – were still on their way, nothing must be touched, and he couldn’t control himself when he was working … Will asked Dr. Gasztold to keep an eye on him, to prevent him from making a mess of the crime scene in a trance – in case he was suddenly sucked into the whirlpool of complicity.

Lukas Gasztold stood by the door, watching the movements of Special Agent Gatti: how he thoughtfully moved the fingers of his slightly spread hands, how he walked along the floor with his tousled head down, how the glasses in the frame, having no prescription, gleamed on his nose. Several layers of shapeless clothing, glasses, perpetual unshavenness, a wary look from under his brows – all to build a defense against unwanted stimuli, to keep his vulnerable soul intact, to cover his exposed nerves, to not let anyone get close.

Even during a therapy session, he speaks as if through several bulletproof glasses, sits in a closed position, often retreats into an internal monologue and falls silent – despite the request and insistence of Dr. Gasztold to voice his thoughts out loud, because this is what therapy is intended for.

Lukas Gasztold had recently become his psychiatrist, not long after Special Agent Gatti had joined the Criminal Investigative Division, leaving his teaching position at the FBI Academy. The intense work and stress had caused Will to suffer from anxiety attacks, he became increasingly withdrawn, and he had to be reminded to disidentify himself from the visions, not to judge them, and not to try to understand them with his rational mind.

The criminal’s mind is in agony, his logic is distorted, beyond the comprehension of a healthy person. William Gatti had a unique ability to interpret evidence, reconstructing a picture of what happened, but the danger was hidden in the first-person perspective … He felt too keenly, took on too much.

Only few people understood Will’s talent and the price he paid to catch serial killers for Jack Howard. ‘Think like a criminal’ was not just the motto of the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit, the only surefire way to catch a bad guy, but also a very real situation that Will Gatti found himself in, a state he experienced time and time again.

He was afraid that he himself would become a criminal, that a part of him had already been lost, poisoned – so much were the clothes he tried on for the sake of work oppressed him. He began to break, to twist, his moral bonds were shaken, black and white had already become gray in different shades … He was confused, he was restless.

Jack pressed Will with duty, responsibility, the risk to innocent lives, the opportunity to save potential victims, to do justice – despite the obvious problems with Special Agent Gatti’s mental state. Howard told Will he could leave at any time and return to the Academy – if he suddenly felt ill – but then he showered him with images of the dire consequences of another criminal roaming free.

Faithful dogs search for truffles, in rain and snow, in heat and cold, trampling the forest floor with their paws, digging the loose earth with their noses, squealing over the find, and Jack Howard collects the harvest.

Will froze, turned away, took off his glasses and began rubbing his face with his hands.

“I can’t,” he muttered. “I have to wait for the others, otherwise I’ll turn everything upside down here.”

There was a rush of footsteps in the hall, and both men turned their heads impatiently, but Agent Serret appeared at the threshold of the dining room, ushered in by the police on duty – not the forensics team.

“How long have you been here?” Allex asked.

“Not long,” Will muttered sullenly.

“For long,” Gasztold said at the same time.

“I see. And what is here?”

Will was about to respond with a sardonic sneer, but changed his mind. He gave a brief account of the victim – nothing new, the same thirty-something blonde with breast implants, mother and wife – as Agent Serret approached.

When Allex saw the blood-stained face, he gasped.

“But this is—”

The girl with the cart! The same one who ran over him in the store, knocked over the shelves of chips! He couldn’t get them mixed up – despite the fact that they were all made in the same factory by plastic surgeons and beauty industry specialists – he had a good memory for faces.

“I saw her at the local grocery store on Reservoir Street, not far away,” Allex explained, under the gaze of two pairs of eyes, “the day I was conducting interviews with clients from Dr. Gasztold’s notes. Nothing out of the ordinary, she was simply buying groceries …”

She simply lived – and does not any longer.

She was killed more than twelve hours ago, the shocked husband, who found the body in the morning, called the police upon his return. There was no doubt, the crime was the work of the Heartthrob – he continues to kill.

The first time was two months ago; the second and third, after a ten-day pause – with a week’s break; the fourth after a month’s pause; the fifth after two weeks and one day … There was no pattern in the dates, and everything required preparation and a plan, he couldn’t just go and start a spontaneous massacre.

Where did he get the keys, how did he disable the alarm with a code to get into the home before the victim? Was he an enemy of the murdered wives’ husbands, did he have personal motives? The interviews yielded no results.

They spent a few more hours at the crime scene and were at the FBI lab in the evening. Will Gatti, gloomy as a storm cloud, walked around in circles near the board with diagrams and photos, and Dr. Gasztold stayed in Baltimore and promised to look for an answer to why the Heartthrob eats hearts.

Late that night, only Serret, who was already feeling sick from the photos on social media of the victims and their spouses, and Cruz, who was examining the wound where the criminal had picked at it with his bare hands, remained at work.

His stomach growled unpleasantly, the sound in the silence was loud and mournful, matching his mood. Allex propped his chin on his hand, scrolled through the feed of posts, periodically drawing a graph of dependencies, with connections between the victims, several cafés, bars, events, a nail salon, and a gym in their area, which were tagged in the images. Everyone was subscribed to everyone, they knew each other by nicknames, but had no idea how the neighbor across the street really lived … They all had colorful photos, bright clothes, cute children and caring – if a husband can be caring without being interested in his wife’s affairs – spouses.

The first victim was a florist, the second was a clothing designer, the third painted and exhibited in private galleries, the fourth sang jazz, and the fifth—

Allex never got to the fifth one, a photographer of half-naked models in lingerie, because he accidentally saw a familiar golden-haired image in a joint photo of a jazz singer.

Wilhelmina Gustavsson smiled charmingly, she was wearing a white pantsuit, a massive sparkling necklace around her neck, her arm lightly hugging the fourth victim … The release of some album by some musician, a party and a buffet, many guests.

Allex, without thinking twice, went to the page of the golden-haired artiste, glued to the screen, forgetting about hunger and sleepy eyes.

Wilhelmina Gustavsson in the recording studio, Wilhelmina Gustavsson on holiday in the Indian Ocean, Wilhelmina Gustavsson celebrating Father’s Day with her stepfather, guardian, whatever … The last one made Allex laugh nervously, the post looked more like irony than truth – because in the photo de Lavender’s fresh and youthful face did not at all resemble the father.

The exciting life of a successful artiste, an artificial facade … Allex understood perfectly why Miss Gustavsson – like her colleagues – creates a certain image on her pages, posts only what will be considered cool and enviable. Photos of the golden-haired Miss Gustavsson literally screamed that everything is great with her, and she is very happy – even if they were reserved, balanced, with literate phrases of each caption, thoughtful meaning down to the smallest detail.

Or maybe she doesn’t run her pages herself … She didn’t have, for example, photos of pets, children covered in chocolate, vlogs about planting a tree in the park, or buying a new bag.

Miss Gustavsson was beautiful, even if she had an unusual, androgynous, alien appearance, an elongated, textured face that always smiled equally softly. In the music videos, excerpts of which Allex began to watch, covering his mouth, frozen in an uncomfortable position on a chair, Wilhelmina Gustavsson was different …

She was alive, diverse, passionate, furious, tender, in flashes of neon light, in black and white sepia, in the image of the bloodthirsty Great Red Dragon, in the role of the lyrical heroine of a love ballad.

She could try on any role, she lived in the role. Her voice, like the singing of a siren, caressed the soul and the ear, Allex forgot where he was, lost track of time.

“I’ve got good news for you,” a voice on the back pulled him out of his dreams.

Allex turned around and paused the clip.

“Our demonic friend has cuts or scratches on his hands, he leaves traces of inflamed epidermis and dermis inside the victim,” Beverly Cruz said.

She wasn’t looking at Serret, but at the freeze-frame of thin-fingered hands covered in black blood holding a knife.

“I double-checked everything,” the woman continued. “With the previous case, I had a suspicion, but I couldn’t confirm it, the reaction was less: he apparently didn’t have such injuries yet.”

“What could it be?”

“Allergies, scratches, scrapes that do not heal and begin to fester, periodically become inflamed. The reason could be anything – from splinters to bitten nails.”

“The latter is more likely,” the young man agreed.

“And what about the beautiful creature?”

Cruz nodded towards the screen, Allex bit his lip.

“This is Gasztold’s patient, an acquaintance of our victims,” Serret answered after a moment.

“Good for the artistes,” Cruz sighed with a smile. “They only have artificial blood, artificial tears, artificial food—”

Serret’s stomach responded to the only word it knew, Beverly Cruz patted her colleague on the shoulder as he sat in the chair.

“Go home. Your blond beast won’t run away from you.”

“Blond beast?”

She was sometimes amazed at his slow-wittedness …

“This is Gustavsson, the Blond Beast. She was even given some kind of award for her acting manifestation of bloody sexuality – though she looks like a golden-haired angel.”

Allex became even more thoughtful, Cruz regretted she had even started a conversation about the object of Agent Serret’s fantasies, at whom he had been staring lustfully for a quarter of an hour, without looking away.

“I won’t let you spend the night here, just go!”

If he didn’t listen, she would kick the chair out from under him. The young man nodded, a forced smile appearing on his tired face. He didn’t even have the strength to joke or respond to her jibes.

When Allex reached under the table to grab his backpack and put his laptop there, the backpack was gone. The events of the day flashed before his eyes, from end to beginning … The last time he remembered the backpack was in the store, how he put his things at the shelving and went to catch the robber.

It turns out he left it in the store!

This was not the first time Agent Serret had lost things – that was why he preferred not to carry any bags or backpacks, stuffing the necessary items into the pockets of his jacket and jeans – fortunately, he did not have so many clothes to move things from place to place.

He’d have to go to Baltimore tomorrow. He hoped his backpack would be where he’d left it – and he’d be able to talk to the workers.

Allex took five photographs of blonde women from the board, put them in the inside pocket of his jacket, and grabbed the laptop under his arm.

The Blond Beast, then. For some reason, there was a beaming idiot’s smile on his face.

8. Invisible Man

[United States, Baltimore, Reservoir Hill]

Chrome crossbars lined the space at right angles, artificial white light bulbs were reflected in the mirrors, the air, despite the air conditioning and ventilation, was filled with a suspension of salty sweat and deodorant. The clanking of the barbell on the stand, the occasional shouts of men lifting weights, the measured steps of women in tight suits on the treadmill, rhythmic music filling the gym with sound … Special Agent William Gatti looked inside from the hallway, but did not go in – since he knew perfectly well that his inappropriate appearance would immediately attract unwanted attention.

He had already spoken to the manager at the counter, waiting for him to download and print out the list of clients who had been to the gym in the mornings – like the victims’ husbands – and it turned out, they were the vast majority. The epiphany had come to Will a few hours ago, after he had discussed the news with Serret on the drive to Baltimore.

How can one get the keys to the apartment and then return them without anyone noticing the loss? A locker room in a gym, with unreliable drawers, with the ability to get into other people’s things without question.

The catch was, the morning is the most popular time for training. As the manager said, the gym is empty only at night – and even then, some night-dweller decides to pump iron alone …

Will didn’t want to just walk around and stare at the visitors, he needed cover. He didn’t look like a bodybuilder, even though he was well-built – thanks to genetics and exercise, to help him cope with the flow of uninvited thoughts – for in nondescript clothes, glasses, and disheveled hair, he would give himself away immediately.

Tomorrow they’ll send Serret … He seems to be irreplaceable where imagination and charisma are needed; if he’s combed and dressed in the appropriate clothes, he could easily pass for a young blogger who wants to keep fit.

Allex was underestimated because of his slight frame, but Will saw him as a real killing machine – who just needed to be fed regularly. At first, Allex Serret seemed too active, noisy, irrepressible, he emitted unutilized energy, being near him was like standing next to a boiling cauldron ready to explode.

Then Will adapted, got used to it surprisingly quickly, saw the positive sides in Allex’s proactivity … Allex got many things at a glance that Will had not dared to say out loud until recently, his foolishness was truly funny.

Dr. Lukas Gasztold – with his insight and calm – and Allex Serret – with the eternal pantomime on his freckled face – were the first people he let close.

Will kept his distance from Gasztold, deliberately addressed him as ‘Dr. Gasztold,’ and observed the therapist-patient subordination. Will rarely acknowledged the wisdom of the other person, rarely accepted someone else’s opinion, he was used to the fact that despite their experience and intelligence, people were simply unable to understand him – and give the right advice or comment. With Dr. Gasztold, everything was different: he was always one step ahead, had answers to any questions, never expressed a single value judgment, was cautious, like a predator on soft paws, in which the blades of his claws were hidden.

Dr. Gasztold was a true professional – and Will valued their relationship at work above all else, in the format it was so far. Will knew very well how projections and transferences worked, especially with psychiatrists, especially with people like him, who were deep down hungry for companionship and friendship.

It was easy to be friends with Serret, he was open, looked into the eyes without embarrassment, with a smile, sometimes said out loud what should have been kept behind one’s teeth. He was not afraid to seem ridiculous or funny, he was straightforward in his likes and dislikes, often getting punched in the face for it – literally and figuratively.

And at the same time, Allex was as naive as a child, often taking everything literally. He seriously explained Cruz’s nagging as her hostility, while Will could clearly see how she looked at him, licking her lips, how they both enjoyed a strange game of mutual biting, rolling on the floor, grappling like yard cats.

Allex was a clown – and he accepted the role as a mask, embodied it to the fullest extent. Will sometimes envied him – because he himself did not know who he was, doubted any of his qualities, considering them only an attached characteristic of someone whose thoughts and feelings he ‘caught’ – from the abundance of external stimuli that excited the imagination, his working tool.

Dr. Gasztold claimed that man is incapable of experiencing what is not in him … However, it also followed that the terrifying visions, blood, dismembered corpses, the stench of dead bodies, and the erection from the visions were part of him. Dr. Gasztold claimed that there is no God, no devil, no black, no white, no absolute, no truth – there is only subjective perception, individual history, a set of values that ones use to orient themselves in space.

Will agreed … But he resisted. He had held the line for too long, the fortress had been under siege for too long, his strength was running out. He was afraid of losing what was left of himself and dissolving into the abyss, into madness, into a maze of disparate images ground up in a meat grinder.

It was easy to take over joy, happiness, euphoria, and peace, to accept them and appropriate them for oneself; and it was so difficult to admit that the abomination of this world is in every living being, including in himself.

While Special Agent Gatti was engaged in philosophical reflection at the reception desk of an elite gym on Whitelock Street, Allex Serret was chatting with a senior grocery store assistant.

Overweight, smiling, but tough Miriam Hill shrugged her shoulders, looking at photos of blondes with full lips. They also looked the same to her …

“I remember every single one, but I never look closely, I don’t even try to look for differences,” she said, simultaneously watching the interns’ work from afar, like an omnipresent mother cat. “Every day, a couple of hundred people, I’d go crazy if I paid attention to them!”

So far, the general information has been of little use. The customer traffic is small but constant, mostly local rich kids, less often random ones like Allex, delivery men, nannies, service workers who will be confused by the prices and the menacing look of the security guard.

There have only been two robberies in the several years that Ms. Hill has been working, and the last one was yesterday, with an epic heroic act by the young FBI agent.

“Blame the seasonal exacerbation,” the woman chuckled, “for psychos it’s like a chain reaction. Now even we’re panicking, everyone’s afraid of the serial ladykiller – as if he needs us!”

“Who does he need then?”

“Like you don’t know yourself!” Miriam Hill’s black eyes widened. “Wealthy heartless bitches in Gucci and Givenchy! He eats their hearts because they don’t have a heart, they don’t need one!”

Is it really that simple? Envy, anger – for their comfortable existence and beauty?

“If you think about it that way, the killer is a woman,” Allex hemmed.