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She finally pulled into the driveway at seven o’clock. Bixby greeted her with his tail smashing against the door. “Hey, pal!” She bent down to give him a hug. Her reading assignment that day had been a lot more disturbing than she’d thought it might be. The idea that there might be between twenty-five and fifty serial killers still walking the earth was unnerving. On second thought, maybe profiling wasn’t the best idea.
She bounded up the stairs to shake off the day. It was good to be home. The aroma of chicken parmesan still lingered in the air. It was a salve for her soul. After washing her face and changing her clothes, she joined her mother in the kitchen.
“Where’s Dad?”
“Playing cards with his buddies.”
“Right. Every Monday and Thursday.” Melanie checked the ovenproof dish that contained her salvation. “Yum. It’s still warm.” She dished out a large portion and pulled off a piece of semolina bread. “Where did you learn to cook like this?” she mumbled as she dipped the bread into the red sauce.
“I’ve always cooked like this,” her mother answered, pouring both of them a glass of Chianti.
Melanie looked at the bottle. “Chianti.” She sighed.
“You always enjoyed a glass. What’s wrong?”
“Serial killers.”
“Oh, you mean Hannibal Lecter?” her mother answered with a bit of amusement.
“Not him specifically. Just his type. You know, cray-cray.” She made a circular motion around the side of her head. “It was the theme of the day.”
“I don’t understand.”
Melanie wondered if it was a good idea to tell her mother about her research. It might alarm her, and repeating what she’d learned would only reinforce Melanie’s uncertainty about her career choice.
Her mother took the seat next to her. “You seem a little distracted.”
Melanie never held anything back, so why start now? She would be careful not to divulge anything that could be considered top secret, but all the cases she’d read about that day were public knowledge. Huge public knowledge.
“I had to do research today on serial killers.”
Her mother looked horrified. “What? Serial killers? What does that have to do with OSI?”
“It’s called profiling, Mom. I had to read about the history of criminal profiling from Jack the Ripper to The Mad Bomber, Ted Bundy, and Son of Sam.” She decided to leave out the part about serial killers still on the loose.
“How gruesome!” Her mother’s mouth was agape.
“True. But I was learning about how to piece together clues. It’s fascinating but, you’re right, can be gruesome.” She savored the mozzarella, which was still gooey.
“Do you mean you are going to have to find serial killers?”
Melanie thought for a moment. “Not necessarily. Profiling isn’t just about murderers. I could be tracking any number of illegal things people do out of obsession.”
“I don’t understand.”
“There are people who simply like to create disruptions.” She took another bite and wiped her chin. “People get off on spreading disinformation, just for kicks.”
“What has the world come to?” her mother asked rhetorically.
“It’s a big, hot mess.” Melanie continued to enjoy her meal in spite of the subject. She was going to have to get used to it if she planned on staying with OSI.
“Well, honey, I hope this kind of thing doesn’t upset you.”
“Not too much.” She raised her glass and clinked it against her mother’s.
* * *
The following day, she reported to the classroom where Airman Gonzalez was waiting. “Good morning, MelDrake,” he said cheerfully.
