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‘Thank you,’ Ellasaid. She paused at the threshold, preparing herself to enter the sanctum whereRebekah Holden's life had met its violent end. Her hand rested briefly on thedoorknob, grounding herself in the reality of the task at hand. This room heldanswers, and she would find them.
She stepped insidewith Mia close behind. The first light of dawn filtered through the blinds. Shemoved quietly, her shoes making no sound on the plush carpet that Rebekah hadchosen to soften the clinical sterility of her workspace.
As Ella approached thecenter of the room, she paused, tilting her head in a silent nod toward theplace where Rebekah's body had been found. It was an act of professionalcourtesy, a moment of acknowledgment for another life unjustly snuffed out. Hereyes then returned to their task, absorbing every detail – the placement ofchairs as if frozen mid–conversation, the desk with its neatly stacked papersnow askew, and the bookshelves behind it, their contents spilled onto thefloor.
‘Strange kind ofoverkill,’ Ripley said.
The disorder spokevolumes. There was no blood, no visceral sign of the struggle that had takenplace, but the violence was evident in the disarray. A heavy psychology tomelay open, its pages crumpled; framed certificates that once hung proudly on thewall now leaned haphazardly against the baseboard, their glass shattered. Thiswas not the aftermath of a robbery; this chaos was personal, a physicalmanifestation of the killer's inner turmoil.
‘You’re not kidding,’said Ella.
‘Look at this,’ Miasaid. She pointed to the books, scattered like fallen soldiers. ‘It’s like hewas searching for something – or destroying everything out of spite.’
‘Or both,’ Ellamurmured, kneeling to examine a flung paperweight, its usual home on the desknow occupied by a fluttering piece of paper caught in the draft from the airvents. The paperweight was nondescript, utilitarian – unlikely to be the objectof a search. She set it back down gently.
‘A messy strangulationeffort?’ Ripley asked. ‘Or is this something else?’
‘Rage,’ Ella said,standing up and facing Mia. ‘Pure, unbridled rage. Whoever did this didn't justwant to kill Rebekah; they wanted to obliterate any semblance of control shehad in this space.’ Ella's hand swept over the scene, indicating the overturnedfurniture, the strewn belongings. ‘This wasn't just an attack on her body; itwas an assault on her profession, her authority.’
Mia nodded, her lipspressed tight. ‘But why? What drives someone to this level of frenzy?’
Ella walked around thedesk, trailing her fingers along the smooth wood before stopping at aphotograph turned face down. She picked it up, revealing a smiling RebekahHolden surrounded by a group of friends.
‘Something brokeinside him,’ Ella said softly, replacing the photo. ‘Maybe he felt powerless,trapped by his own mind, and she represented the last thread of hope. When thathope didn't deliver...’ She let the sentence hang, the implication clear.
‘Then his hope turnedto despair, and despair to anger.’ Mia's words filled the silence gap. ‘Angerhe couldn't contain.’
‘Exactly.’ Ellasurveyed the room once more, a picture forming in her mind of a man teeteringon the edge of sanity, pushed over by words meant to heal. She exhaled slowly,her breath steaming slightly in the coolness of the room. ‘We'll need to digdeeper into her sessions, her notes. There might be a clue as to who thisperson is, what set him off.’
‘That’s anotherangle,’ Ripley said. ‘This could have been a sabotage effort. Destroy anytraces of him, any notes that might reveal who he really was.’
‘Sabotage,’ echoedElla, though part of her clung to the hope that in the midst of such chaos, thekiller had overlooked something – a small misstep in his frenetic attempt toerase his presence.
The clacking of Mia’sheels against the hardwood floor punctuated the hush of the ransacked office.Ella remained still, her gaze shifting from one corner to another, absorbingevery detail as if the objects themselves would whisper their secrets. The airwas heavy with the scent of paper and ink, a tang of metal underlying it –perhaps the faintest residue of fear that had once filled the room.
‘Could she have saidsomething to trigger him?’ Mia's voice sliced through Ella’s focus, demanding areturn to the present. She turned slightly to face her partner, noting thefurrowed brow and the way Mia’s hand hovered over her notepad, ready to jot downany revelation.
Ella contemplated thequestion, her mind casting back to the sessions she knew so well, the delicatedance between therapist and patient.
‘It's possible,’ sheadmitted. ‘In this profession, words are tools – they can build up or teardown.’ Her fingers traced the edge of a mahogany desk flipped on its side, thesmooth varnish marred by the violence inflicted upon it.
‘Two therapists dead,’Mia mused, glancing around the room with a detective's practiced eye. ‘Murderedtwo days apart. A pattern is emerging; he's looking for something. He wantsvalidation, to be told he's fine. But when they push, offer guidance, he snaps.’
‘An answer they can'tgive because it doesn't exist,’ Ella added quietly.
Taking a deep breath,Ella let Mia’s theory wash over her. It fit – the profile she was building, theactions of a man who saw confrontation where there was none. He soughtabsolution from those trained to provide understanding, not exoneration.
‘His rage...’ Ellacontinued, her thoughts trailing. She glanced at the torn psychology books,their pages scattered like the disjointed thoughts of a disturbed mind. ‘It'spersonal, directed. Unleashed in a place meant for safety and healing.’
‘Exactly,’ Mia said asshe scribbled in her notepad. ‘We're dealing with someone whose anger hasbreached the bounds of control. To him, these therapists aren't lifelines,they're judges. And their verdict drives him into a frenzy.’
As Ella soaked inMia's analysis, something clicked within her – a piece of the psychopathicpuzzle snapping into place. Stepping back, she scanned the office once more,the lack of technological eyes striking her afresh. No cameras, no silentwitness to the carnage. The killer had known that – had chosen this spaceintentionally.
‘Visibility,’ shemurmured, almost to herself. ‘He wants to be seen, heard, in the most twistedways possible.’ Ella’s hands clenched involuntarily. There were no electronicgazes here, but the absence spoke volumes. They were dealing with a murdererwho craved attention.
‘We got ourselves abull,’ Ripley said.
In behavioralprofiling slang, a bull was a rage-driven murderer. These types of serialkillers failed to digest the insults life threw them, thus allowing the rage tobuild over time. Eventually, triggers cause the individual to seed red and losethemselves in it. Ella thought of historical murderers who fit the pattern;Carl Panzram, Todd Kohlhepp, Joel Rifkin.
