"Fine, but how are you the expert on her crimes?"
That's a fair question. From what I'm told, most people wouldn't have submerged themselves in every detail of every murder their mother committed.
Nope.
They would have been in denial or been too distraught to delve into the dark mind of a killer.
Me? I might have been only sixteen when she was caught, but I immediately needed to understand. Why, how, the woman who tucked me into bed and read me bedtime stories turned out to be such a monster.
"When I did my masters and Ph.D. in forensic anthropology and criminal psychopathology, I used my mother as my case study. I visited her in prison and played on the mother and daughter bond to get information out of her. She had no idea, of course, that I was using her."
It hurts to think of the deception I applied to get her to talk to me, but hey, the woman was lying to me most of my life. You know, sneaking around to kill people instead of going to PTA meetings.
Ugh.
If only that were true. She never missed one single teacher conference. And she was at every single science fair I ever entered, cheering me on as I beat out the other kids for first place.
She was a good mother. That's why it was so shocking when her secret life exploded. It was the last thing I expected.
After I found out who my mother really was, I had to do something to make right what she had done. I threw myself into my studies to offer some kind of peace to the families that mine had destroyed.
"That..." Agent Thrussell clears his throat and runs a hand through his hair, ruining his beautiful pompadour-stylized hair. "Yeah, that's... Well, let's just say I'm impressed. Now I need you to help me find her."
His tough-guy veneer slips very slightly, and there is a pleading in his eyes.
I get the fear.
We have to get her back behind bars. With hundreds of confirmed kills, my mother is way too dangerous to be out in the world.
3
T-Bone
I pause and take stock of what I've learned about this woman in the past fifteen minutes.
First, when I walked in, she was definitely talking to the bones on her worktable while the most disturbing music played in the background. How Mila can enjoy music that is head pounding with no way to understand the lyrics is beyond me. This doesn't exactly make her odd, just... peculiar. Perhaps that is a kinder word to describe her. Second, she is not what I expected.
Agent Starling's reputation and her work in forensic anthropology is very much at odds with what I’d expected. She is one of the most respected people in the field, but she looks entirely too young to have garnered so much experience in the field. I've read some of her papers. She's smart as hell, and I always appreciated how she seemed to understand the psychology of killers.
Now I know why.
She was raised by one.
I shake my head, running a hand across my beard.
I was expecting a clinician. Perhaps an older woman wearing scrubs or a power suit. Definitely not a tiny woman blessed with curves for days, sharp blue eyes, and waist-length hair dyed fire engine red. It can't be a natural color, but it works with her very pale skin and her black attire.
Not that I want to judge her for the way she's dressed, but her tastes definitely mesh well with her history. She's the daughter of the most monstrous person in recent history. A female serial killer.
And here Mila is, wearing a shirt that reads I'd be more interested in you if you were dead. The humor is shocking, but I suppose forensic anthropologists need their dark humor to survive, just like police officers.
"What can I do to help you find my mother?" She crosses her arms and watches me closely. She is definitely sizing me up like I was just doing to her.
I like feeling her eyes roam over me. That's inconvenient. We have a killer to find. Her mother, for fuck's sake. It's not the time to notice that she has the most alluring beauty mark at the corner of her right eye.
I take a deep breath, ignoring her sweet smell of orange blossoms. It does nothing to help me center my thoughts on the task at hand. I hate feeling destabilized. It irks me, like an itch I can’t quite scratch.
"I need to know where she would most likely hide." I finally manage to answer her question.
It's difficult to look away from her. Her deep crimson lipstick is a little bit distracting. I'm here on a mission, goddamn it. I have to track Markov down before she kills again. I won't have any bodies on my conscience. Not when I'm the incident coordinator chosen to apprehend Markov before the public is made aware of her escape. I can't let the pretty woman standing there, attitude rolling off of her, distract me.
"You know Markov better than anyone," I explain, getting back some of my composure as I step away from her. "I didn't realize how true that was until just now. We need to find her."
"I completely agree. But before we figure out how to track her down, I also need to think about the announcements you’re putting out in the media, which of course you have to do because people are in danger. But I also have to mitigate the attention it shines on me.”
I try to interrupt her, but she seems to be on a roll.
“When she was arrested, my life became a circus. I had to hide for months to keep my identity secret. I'd rather not have to go into hiding again."
"No media." Her shoulders tighten at my words. It's not the reaction I was expecting. I had anticipated that she would be relieved that the
