4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

RICHARD

We drive away from the crime scene, with Izel in the backseat. She is fiddling with the hem of her top and it’s clear she’s avoiding eye contact. Another thing bothers me—the way she flinched when my fingers accidentally brushed against her arm. Her left arm, specifically, the one with that tattoo. I remember noticing it before, the image of a candle. The tattoo drips down to her elbow, covering burns that could’ve only come from something painful, something violent. The inked candle might look like just art to anyone else, but I know better. There’s pain there. Hidden, but not erased.

The scars don’t tell me much. Abusive relationship? I glance at her in the mirror, catching her gaze for a fleeting second. She looks like someone immune to that kind of damage, but I’ve seen enough to know better. Strength can make others feel small, and some people will hurt you just to feel bigger.

Letting her walk into the crime scene earlier wasn’t about being a gentleman; it was about watching her. I’ve got this hunch, this itch at the back of my mind. If she’s involved in any way, she’d be checking things out, scanning the scene for any possible clues she might’ve left behind. But what do I see instead? Nothing.

She was ice-cold. You don’t look at your friend like that. You don’t look at your roommate like that either. The way she was distancing herself, it’s clear as day, they weren’t friends.

I spent some time in her room. Everything was in its place, not a speck of dust out of line. Her books, meticulously arranged by size and genre: her clothes, neatly folded and color-coded in the closet. Even the bed was made with precision, not a wrinkle in sight. It was like she lived in a museum, a place where everything had its designated spot, and nothing could be out of order. That kind of control, that level of detachment—it screams of someone who’s used to compartmentalizing, someone who is used to making most out of small spaces. But that makes no sense since Izel Montclair comes from money, so space shouldn’t be a problem.

Noah leans over and murmurs in my ear, “Got a sketch artist waiting for us, Rick.” I nod, keeping my eyes on Izel.

“Good. Let’s get back, and maybe this sketch will give us something to work with.”

The whole drive back to the office is awkward as hell. Izel’s still messing with the hem of her top, lost in her own thoughts. I can tell she’s battling some heavy demons. What I don’t know is if she’s a victim, a witness, or, hell, maybe even a suspect. I’ve got to get to the bottom of it.

Izel looks up at me. She’s probably wondering what comes next. Well, it’s not going to be a picnic, that’s for sure. We’re going to dig into her life, her secrets, and maybe even her nightmares. But one thing’s for sure, she isn’t walking away from this case without giving up some answers.

I pull into the FBI office parking lot, and we all pile out of the car. Izel doesn’t look too thrilled about being here, but I don’t blame her. Nobody wants to be in a place like this.

Inside, the sketch artist is waiting for us. She sets up her materials with practiced efficiency. “Let’s get started,” she says.

Izel takes a deep breath, clearly struggling to recount what she saw. “Take your time,” I say softly.

The artist looks at Izel expectantly. “Tell me everything you remember about his face,” she instructs. “Start with the basics - hair color, eyes, any distinguishing features.”

“He had dark hair, kind of messy. And his eyes... they were cold, almost black. And there was a scar, here,” she points to her cheek, indicating the spot.

As Izel speaks, the artist’s pencil moves swiftly across the paper, bringing the description to life. We sit there in silence, watching the face of the guy Izel saw near the crime scene take shape.

“His nose was a bit crooked, like it had been broken before. And his jaw... it was strong, but there was something off about his smile.”

After the sketch artist wraps up, I turn to Izel. “Listen, we’ll need you to wait in the waiting room for a bit. We’re going to discuss some things in the office, and then we’ll be back to talk to you.”

“Sure.”

“You want something to eat? A sandwich, maybe?”

Izel shakes her head. “No, I’m not hungry, thanks.”

I grab a can of soda from the vending machine, thinking she might need something to sip on, and hand it to her.

“Well, here’s a soda at least. It’s going to be a while before we’re done here.”

She takes the can with a faint nod and I head into my office, closing the door behind me. I feel as though I'm leaving her in a room full of unanswered questions, but I know it’s for the best right now.

Emily walks in a few minutes later. She gets straight to the point. “What’s the deal with Izel, Rick? Her reaction at the crime scene was... nonchalant, to say the least.”

I lean back in my chair, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I noticed that too. It’s strange. When she saw the victim, there wasn’t a trace of grief or shock, more like she’d stumbled upon a scene in a movie.”

Emily folds her arms. “You think she might be involved?”

“I don’t know. It could be shock but something about her doesn’t add up. She barely reacted to seeing her roommate dead. I’d expect more emotion from a friend. Find out more about Izel, her background, her connections. There’s something she’s not telling us, and I want to know what it is.”

We’re deep into our discussion about Izel when Associate Deputy Director Robert Wilson barges into my office like a raging bull. He slams the door shut and fixes his seething gaze on me.

“Reynolds,” he greets.

I exchange a look with Emily, who gives me a subtle nod. Wilson is fired up, now I’ve seen him mad, but this is a whole new level of pissed.

“Wilson, we’re doing everything we can. It’s a complicated case, and we’re still figuring out what the hell happened.”

Wilson’s face reddens even more, and I can almost see the steam coming out of his ears. “Complicated? We've got a dead body, a crime scene, and a roommate who doesn’t seem to give a damn. You need to speed this shit up.”

“We’re making progress. We’re looking into Izel’s background and working to figure out why she acted so weird at the crime scene. It’s not as simple as it looks.”

Emily chimes in, attempting to placate our infuriated boss. “We’re working around the clock. Give us a little more time, and we’ll get to the bottom of this.”

Wilson doesn’t look convinced. He’s practically seething at this point. “You better. The Director wants results, not excuses.”

“We’re on it, Wilson.”

“The director’s breathing down my neck, and we’re under scrutiny from all directions,” Wilson grumbles, his face contorted with anger. “This case needs to be solved asap. I’ve got the higher-ups on my ass, and it’s not a pretty sight.”

Emily and I both nod, we get it, this is serious. But Wilson’s having none of it.

“Don’t ‘nod’ me. What the fuck is going on with the Izel Montclair situation? Why did you let her into the crime scene? She’s a suspect, right?”

“We’re not sure, sir. Her reaction, it’s off. She didn’t seem to give a shit when she saw her... roommate dead,” Emily says.

Wilson’s eyes narrow, and he leans in, his breath hot and agitated. “Is she a suspect or not?”

“We’re keeping our options open,” I reply.

Wilson slams his fist on the table, his face turning an even deeper shade of red. “Options? We don’t have the luxury of options right now.”

“We’re working on it, sir. We’ve already got the sketch from Izel, and we’ll be looking into her background,” Emily jumps in.

Wilson doesn’t look convinced. “You better solve this, and I mean now. No more fuck-ups, or heads will roll.”

We’re reeling from our dressing-down by Wilson when he drops another bombshell on us. He leans in, his tone low and venomous, and says, “Montclair, she stays on our radar. If she’s a suspect, she’s not leaving our sight. If she’s a victim or a witness, we put her under witness protection, no questions asked.”

We exchange glances, knowing that dealing with witness protection is a whole new level of commitment and resources. Wilson isn’t done, though. “But here’s the thing, Reynolds. If she turns out to not be a victim, the Director’s going to chew us out for wasting all those resources on a potential perp.”

“It’s too early to make a call on her. We can’t just jump to conclusions,” I protest.

Wilson’s icy stare pins me down. “I know. I also know that this is a high-stakes situation, and we can’t afford to be wrong. Montclair could be the key to solving this case or the anchor that drags us down. You need to spend time with her, get her to trust you, and coax out any answers she’s got. The more you’re around her, the more we’ll know.”

I’m about to accept my orders reluctantly when Wilson drops another bombshell. “Reynolds, I want her under your roof. Keep an eye on her at all times.”

I can’t hide my surprise, and I protest loudly, “What? You can’t be serious. You want me to bring her to my house?”

Wilson’s expression doesn’t change. “Did I stutter?”

“It’s against protocol,” I argue.

“Do you think I got to where I am by caring about protocol? Sometimes we have to play hard to get what we need. I don’t give a damn about anything at this point. The only thing that matters is solving this case, no matter what it takes. You’ve got your orders.”

I clench my jaw, my protests falling on deaf ears. This whole situation is getting sicker by the minute, and now it’s about to invade my personal life.

Noah walks into the room, holding the freshly-drawn sketch in his hand. I snatch it from him and lay it out on the table, scrutinizing every line and shadow. This case has gone from messed up to downright crazy.

I’m just getting into the groove, studying every detail when Wilson’s phone rings. He scowls, answers it, and mumbles something about an emergency. He rushes out, leaving us hanging.

I mutter a few choice curses under my breath. Wilson’s never around when we need him. But I can’t waste time whining, so I get back to studying the sketch. Staring at the sketch, I can’t shake the feeling that this guy looks way too young. I profiled him to be in his late fifties to mid-sixties, but according to this drawing, he doesn’t look older than 25, 27 tops. It’s just a bit far-fetched. If the girls are around the same age, this guy could easily charm them, no need to break in and make things more complicated.

I turn to Emily, who’s been working with the database. “Em, run this sketch through our database and see if any match pops up. We need to identify this guy.”

She nods and starts typing away on her computer. I know she’s good at what she does, so I’ve got some hope.

“Also Em,” I call out, “I need a detailed background check on Izel Montclair. Find out everything you can about her, her friends, her activities, anything that seems off.”

I sit back in my chair, running my hands through my hair. The sketch doesn’t match our profile, and now I’ve got an uninvited guest at my house.