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A moment passed with no progress, but Ella could feel another presence on the other side of the flimsy door. A mysterious energy, perhaps some unnamed evolutionary sense, but when she glanced down at the base of the door, she realized it was her subconscious doing its handiwork. A shadow was swaying.
Ella nudged her partner and pointed downward. Ripley caught it.
“Mr. Alden, we know you’re in there.”
“You can’t come in here,” a raspy voice said.
Not an invitation, but confirmation that Thomas Alden was inside. That was good enough. “We’re the FBI. We need to talk with you.”
Heavy breathing, audible through the cheap wood. “I haven’t done anything.”
“So open up,” said Ripley.
“I’m busy. Come back later.”
Ella’s fiery, quicker-tempered alter ego rose to the surface. There was a killer two feet away from her and a rickety door wasn’t going to stand in her way of catching him. “You’ve got five seconds to open this door or I’m smashing it to pieces. Five…”
The shadow below the door froze.
“Four, three…”
Then it vanished to the sound of thundering footsteps. Thomas Alden had scurried away like a coward. There was no need for the rest of the countdown because Ella’s shoulder was already lodged against the door. It splintered to pieces as it exploded from its frame,succumbing to its frailty like a mercy killing. Ella rushed inside, overwhelmed by the disorder and the crippling smell of medical fluid; the scent she associated with autopsy rooms.
“Jesus Christ,” she shouted, shielding her nose with her forearm. “Thomas, come on out. Don’t make this difficult.”
Ripley stepped in but Ella waved her palm. She knew how situations like this played out. Best to go the smart route.
“Hold the fort,” Ella said. “This guy’s mine.”
Ripley gave her the nod, gun in hand, backing away from the doorway and taking sanctuary just out of sight. On the chance Alden backtracked, he’d have Ripley’s boot waiting for him.
Ellascurried throughtheclutteredapartment,dodging boxes, worn furniture, piles of clothes and food containers. Into the kitchen, no sign of the suspect, and in here the nauseating, gasoline-like scent weighed in the air like a thick fog. As she caught sight of two gigantic containers on the kitchen floor, she couldn’t help but make a significant connection between killer and victim. The thought disappeared as quickly as it had begun, because she suddenly heard the scraping sound of a sliding door being forced open.
Ella hurried through to next room in line, senses on high alert, the blend of adrenaline and medical highs creating a state she’d never experienced before. She found herself in a bedroom, equally chaotic, only with a lone figure pushing himself through what appeared to be a lodged door.
His sturdy frame slipped out into a communal outdoor area as Ella rushed to keep up. It was her first glimpse of the man, and while she couldn’t get a detailed look at him, his outline seemed to match the figure from CCTV – at least from twenty feet away.
“Alden,” she called as she reached for her pistol. But the figure turned to the right, out of view. Ella followed the trail, through the same broken door, outside and round a corner where she suddenly found herself in an unexpected meeting with some kind of rusty metal bar. The weapon collided with her mid-section, driving all of the air out of her body in a violent heave. Hunched over, Ella steadied herself on the ground as she watched Alden disappear up a fire escape towards the building’s roof.
She pushed the pain to one side and scrambled to her feet. She reached the fire escape, looked up and saw Alden directly above her. Maneuvering around the steel bars that made up the stairwell, she reached up, grabbed the man’s ankle and tripped him on the stairs with a heavy clang of flesh on metal. Ella used the moment to close the gap between she and Alden, but by the time she got up to the next level the escaper was already on his feet.
The clanging of their footsteps up towards the roof was like a chorus of drum blasts. At the top, Ella finally had a clear view of Thomas Alden, because there was nowhere else for him to run, no corners for him to hide behind. The roof was a square block of concrete, with the only escape being a thirty-foot drop to the ground.
“Give it up, Thomas. It’s over,” Ella said, still wheezing from the attack.
To her shock, the suspect raised his hands in surrender. “Yes it is,” he said.
She edged closer, pistol trained as best she could with her shaky hands. “We’ve got a lot to talk about.”
Thomas said nothing, quietly stepping away, trailing backward in a slow retreat.
“Stop. Don’t move or I’ll shoot,” Ella shouted.
The suspectwore a sly grin, as though he was in on some joke that no one else was privy to.He took a few more steps and said, “You’re gonna have to shoot me then.”
From this vantage point, Ella had a clear view of the hills and mountains in all their glory. The brief distraction brought a flurry of thoughts, old and new, one being the psychological profile of a mission-oriented offender.
Once their missions were complete, they went out in a blaze of glory. A shootout, an explosion, a suicide. Anything with a fatal flourish.
