This room has helped me make sense of everything, but it doesn’t help meunderstand the change I see in Xavier. This version of him, standing before me is unfamiliar.
Colder.
Darker.
“I’ve already sent the details of the sixteenth victim to Aster,” Xavier informs us and Tobias folds his arms with a grave look on his face.
“It’s looking like a dark Christmas this year,” Tobias mumbles.
“And like every other year,” Gabriel speaks up with his usual dose of displeasure, “our searching will be useless unless we’re able to find new leads.”
“So we have nothing on this guy?” I speak up but my eyes are scanning the rows of photos around me, gleaning through them slowly. “After fifteen murders?”
“Whoever it is, is a fucking ghost,” Tobias says.
“Have we considered if he’s working with others?” One photo catches my eye and I tilt my head.
“If he’s a normal man then he’d have to be,” Gabriel offers, “but if he’s not, then we can’t be sure.”
Another photo catches my eye.
“I see.” My response seems far away, because I’m sure I’ve noticed something. “Is there a reason why we’re responsible for finding this guy?” I’m still distracted by the photos, “We’re not exactly in the business of keeping serial killers off the streets, are we? Whose commission is it?”
The room immediately becomes quiet and the air becomes so tense that I’m forced to pull my gaze away from the photos to re-focus on their faces. I’m realizing for the first time, that Reuben is quiet. That he isn't the one at the front of the room, leading the rest of us.
Instead, he's here in the back beside me.
Xavier’s expression is dismal but Reuben is the one to speak, “This is one of our oldest commissions. Now that he’s started his hunt again, finding this guy is our immediate priority.”
I know there’s more to it than that. More they’re not telling me. But it’s not my job to probe them.
My only job is to contribute.
I return my gaze to the photos and my next words are hesitant, “In that case, I think I've found something.”
All eyes snap to me. I don’t have the full picture together yet so I’m doubtful, but at the same time my instincts are ticking.
I’m digging deeper into the photos—scanning, analysing and piecing together fragments of what might be nothing at all—until I’m so immersed in the chaos, I can barely register the rest of the room.
“If we’re starting from nothing, then even fragments could be useful.” My voice feels far away, but I don’t have time for doubts. “Here.” I reach for the closest board and Xavier steps aside as I choose a single photo. The moment he’s out of my periphery I can almost be convinced it’s just me in the room.
Out of the thousand photos lining the walls, this person appears in only three. Fifteen victims and three photos of his face, amongst scores of suspects. I choose these three first, pulling them out from their spots to separate them from the rest and place them higher. But there are still pieces of him across the room. Such small pieces that make him inconceivable.
But he’s there, always. Like a shadow.
Everything is quiet as I pick out the photos. His back. His sleeve. His shoulders. His side. A full-body, seated in a bar but whose face is blocked out by a passing waitress.
In each of the victims’ lives he’s there. A passerby. A wallflower. A side character.
A ghost.
“Him.” The world rushes back to me with the sound of my voice. “On the day of the victims’ deaths he wore the same jacket.” A brown velvety material. Suede.
“He’s a ghost. A wallflower… Except for these three.” I pass my hand along the only three photos that show his face. “These three are taken from his early victims. But after this point, you never see his face again. Why? How?”
I’m speaking out loud but my thoughts are speeding through my head.
“It’s not that he avoids the cameras,” I tilt my head when I finally find my answer. “The cameras avoid him.”
