Autopsy Of A Mind 15 No Witness

The night before I had come up with wild images to amuse myself, but this was too normal for my taste.

I opened the second door on the corridor and found loose sheets meticulously arranged to surround a small spot of s.p.a.ce, where he must have been sitting and a.n.a.lyzing the material. At the other corner of the room, there was a whiteboard with names and dates on it. Curiosity got the better of me and I stepped in front of it.

The names were of boys ranging from age thirteen to fifteen, all of them having gone missing over the past year and a half. Beneath the information was locations where they were last seen. There were other words scattered across the board which made no sense.

'No witnesses'

'Complex notion of masculinity'

'Bodies?'

I was startled. From what I had gathered from Seth, the cops were suspecting a human trafficking ring functioning in City Y and the authorities only figured it out after a high school student from Town X went missing in the same area. But according to Mr. Butler, these were serial killings. Those conjectures were leaps and bounds from one another.

I heard the door open and turned to look. Out came Mr. Butler, dressed in a fluffy white robe and drowsy eyes. He was dragging his feet and seemed to be walking with his eyes closed, but he avoided the papers perfectly. The rustling sound continued as he made his way down the stairs and mindlessly headed for the kitchen. I followed silently, holding back a snicker. The morning was full of surprises.

He was already slumped over the table inside the kitchen when I reached. A gla.s.s of milk was being warmed in the microwave and the toaster was on timer, too. A jar of b.u.t.ter was placed on the table, which had not been the case when I had been here earlier. Yet, he looked utterly asleep, or at least not in a state to open his eyes. The timer on the toaster went off first and he scurried away and took the slices of bread on a plate. He returned to the table and plopped down. He huffed and started smearing the bread with the b.u.t.ter, eyes still closed. When the microwave turned on he repeated the same process, but this time he cradled the gla.s.s of milk between his palms and sipped it with a little pucker of his lips. He shuddered and drank a little more. When he was done with the gla.s.s, he raised his head a little and squinted at me.

Unable to hold back, I broke into a fit of laughter. He was irritated and pouting, the milk mustache still present above his lips. He seemed to gain some knowledge of his surroundings and rubbed his face on the robe like a sleepy cat.

It was all extremely entertaining.

"You slept late this morning," I stated matter-of-factly, but my amus.e.m.e.nt seeped through. He was more awake, but the glare he gave me was still very low intensity. It was an exceptionally rare opportunity to tease him and win in an argument against him. He did not reply, of course, but the responding groan was enough to tell me that he was very particular about his sleep and couldn't function properly without.

"What happened to your hair?" he asked suddenly. His eyes widened as he gasped in horror. I touched my hair, feeling conscious and smoothed it down further.

I had made a bun in the morning, unusual for me, but it was the best option as there would be a lot of field work involved and I wouldn't want my hair to get in the way or touch my neck and make me feel uncomfortable.

"It's practical and makes me look put-together." He gave me a calculating look.

"You're going to be talking to people on my behalf. You looked nicer with your hair in a ponytail." He dropped his head on the desk but looked up at me. "Don't bother," he said later as I was about retort.

"You shouldn't be commenting on my appearance, it is rude and unprofessional." I would have stuck my tongue out at him if he weren't my boss.

"That is why I hired you, Miss Lewis. I am rude." Yet he didn't mention anything about being unprofessional. How fitting… ignoring the things that get under his skin. The typical psychoa.n.a.lyst who thinks they are the only ones who can figure out what makes the other person tick.

I fully intended to ignore any comments he made, but he seemed to have an uncanny ability to infuriate people. I wonder if his talents extended to all of mankind, in general, or just to a select population.

I sighed and waited for him to get dressed. He was supposed to interview the family of the first victim, a sixteen years old boy who had gone missing a year and a half ago. The mother was a single parent, struggling to provide for her son. I worried about how he would act around a bereaved mother but quickly controlled my thoughts, a.s.suring myself that even if he isn't polite, he would not be senseless and I would be there to buffer the blow.

.

The ride on his car was surprisingly comfortable as he did not speak much. I looked down at the notepad on my lap and went over the words he had scribbled on the whiteboard, trying to make sense of it. In the end, curiosity got the best of me.

"Mr. Butler, why do you think this is a serial murder case? The police are sure that it is a trafficking business."

It seemed like the safest question to ask. He eyes flickered towards me and he gave a smile, the meaning of which I could not decipher in such a short period of time. In retrospect, I realize that it was satisfaction and a tinge of smugness playing on his lips.

"Human trafficking usually targets younger children and women because they are easier to handle and transport. Boys of the same age are physically more difficult to transport and more conspicuous, therefore, are not usually targets of this trade." I opened my mouth to object, but he gave me a stern look asking me not to interrupt. "Now, though rare, such cases do occur, but I have further evidence. Look at the dates on which these kids were last seen."

I looked down at the paper and did the calculation in my head. As the conjectures began to make sense, Mr. Butler explained them.

"The time span between each disappearance slowly decreases. It may look chaotic at first, but on closer inspection, you will realize how the gaps keep shortening but an only select number of people are being abducted, all single instances. In a trafficking ring, transportation has a method and even though the routes change, timings rarely do. The patterns for these cases are different." I just sat there, eyes wide open, staring at him.

"Don't be impressed so easily, this is common sense. At least you caught on when I laid it out for you," he shrugged as he returned to driving silently again. But my curiosity was piqued and I needed to have the answers.

"Why does the lack of witnesses play an important role?" I asked again. This time he did not turn to look at me. He had expected the question.

"No one saw these boys being dragged away even though they were abducted in broad daylight." He began, but I had already figured it out.

"Boys their age would make a fuss and even if they were drugged people would notice them being taken away if it was in crowded locations as the last sightings show. Then, the killer lured them away from these places and took him to his place of killing." Sebastian nodded.

"There's hope for you," he said suddenly as I mulled over the newly gained information. "After we talk to the parents I will make a profile of the criminal. You'll have to call the police department and arrange for a conference where I will reveal the profile and discuss the location where the bodies will be found."

'Bodies.'