Confessions of a Murderess

Suspicions

Hello, my name is Ellis Norman. I am investigating the deaths that have occurred in the last few months in the state of Virginia. If you are reading this message, it's because you have some information about a man named Fredie. Please leave your message in the inbox or call my personal number as soon as you can.

I tried to establish some connection between the name Fredie and Quinn Solo, but the only things I found in the Google search tabs were dozens of mentions of the killer himself and an article about Anthony Quinn, a psychotic king who ruled Prussia many years ago. Concerning the letter, I was hesitant that the investigations might take a different direction from what I had planned. It didn't go to the encryption department. In fact, they didn't even bother to look at it.

Hello, Agent Norman. I've been here before and left without writing anything. I'm still afraid of everything that happened. Who knows if the killer might be watching us. But I don't want to carry the guilt of appearing suspicious for the rest of my life. I need to do this for Kimberly. I will leave some images of our conversations on the thread. If the police can't confirm the truth of the facts, I'll send my phone by mail.

Leise Avlis.

To be honest, opening a private forum on the FBI website was the most efficient way I found to conclude the reports of the other victims. By tweaking some algorithms and adding a bit of digital marketing, people searching for the "Red Rose Bandit" began to intertwine in our network. In just a week, eighteen people anonymously signed up. They gave their testimonies, some of condolences, others of reproach. There were messages directed at Alice, Stacy, Rebecca, Katherine, Sasha, Poly... all killed in a bloody and brutal manner. I saw details about dates, times, habits, and even preferences of each one of them. Maybe there were false testimonies included too, from idiots wanting to show off, but they could serve to track a potential killer.

As night fell, the only person who emerged from anonymity decided to call me. Leise's hoarse voice echoed through the walls of her house. The deliberate rhythm betrayed her sadness for her friend's death. Her testimony differed from the others I had heard so far. We talked for an hour. I ensured the confidentiality of her name. In exchange, she shared what she knew.

— Miss Norman, I've never seen Fredie. But Kimberly sent me a message saying he visited her apartment on August 10th.

— August 10th? — I asked. — Are you sure?

— Yes. The date is on my cellphone. I haven't deleted any of our conversations. You can see it in the attachment.

— You mentioned that you distanced yourself from Kimberly. What was the reason?

— Her parents were going through a divorce. We ended up growing apart. — Leise answered. — Now that I think about it, I don't understand why Lucy filed for divorce. She and Mr. Charles seemed to get along well.

— Do you know anyone who might have seen Fredie? Someone to whom Kimberly might have confided about her secret relationship?

— It's possible that...

— Mr. Charles?

— I'm not sure. — The girl thought for a moment before responding. — Mr. Charles worked during the day. He didn't spend much time in the apartment, but... no, I'm not sure.

In September 2001, a few weeks after the Twin Towers attacks, Khalid Sheikh's photo appeared in a small morning newspaper clipping. His escape coincided with my first trip to Boston. We crossed paths on the airport runway. After a few minutes, Khalid brushed past me, leaving behind the mark of his c*****e.

Nearly two and a half decades after that event, music blared loudly in Boston. Conversations centered around football, money, and primarily women. Drunken men stumbled on the dance floor. In the pub nearest to the station, pool games and beer livened up the night. The vendor, a man with a thin mustache and long hair, served the customers. When I entered the establishment, I was no longer Jacqueline. That night, my only disguises were the lies of Ellis.

— It's not common for beautiful women to come to this pub," a man at the main counter flirted, "what does the redhead desire? I can get you a good dose of whiskey if you want."

— I didn't come to drink — I showed my badge. The armed officers kept their distance. The whistles immediately ceased. So did the whispers. The expressions on everyone's faces around the tables changed.

— What do you want, miss? — the vendor asked me.

— Are you Charles Lancaster? I'm Agent Norman from the FBI. I'm overseeing the case of your daughter, Kimberly.

— Is this an interrogation?

— It might be interrogation — I said — after all, the Rox police asked you to stay in Portsmouth to assist with the investigations.

— I'm no longer interested in this case. I'm working. The pub is busy. I have things to do.

— Not complying with a court order gives me the right to arrest you as the prime suspect.

Charles stared at me, hesitated, then relented and decided to suspend his activities. Some booed at that decision, while the more curious ones discreetly looked at the cars parked outside, trying to see through the tinted windows.

— Mr. Charles, what do you know about the progress of the investigations? — I asked.

— I know that Kimberly is dead. That's all I need to know — he muttered.

— It doesn't sound like something a father would normally say. If the killer is caught, wouldn't your pain lessen a bit?

— And did the police find him?

— There are talks that Lucy might have killed Kimberly. — I said — then, out of guilt, she committed suicide.

— That's not true — Charles said. — It's absurd.

Lying is the service of a special agent. Sometimes we have to tell lies to survive, to gather information, using them as distractions. It's not an honorable act, I confess.

— Mr. Charles, some witnesses said that Kimberly grew much closer to you. They say Lucy hated Kimberly. Can you confirm that your late wife didn't kill her own daughter?

— Lucy was the person who loved Kimberly the most in this world. There's nothing greater than a mother's true love. Furthermore, Lucy was out of Portsmouth when Kimberly's remains were found.

When we lie in pursuit of a greater truth, does that make us evil? I don't feel bad about hurting people who are bad. However, there's one thing I know. When we study lies, we become much better at recognizing liars. Can you read my thoughts now, as I read yours, Mr. Charles?

— What you're saying is correct. Mrs. Lucy was indeed out of Portsmouth when Kimberly disappeared. The authorities confirmed it.

— So why all this runaround, Miss Norman?

— Well, not all witnesses tell the truth.

If we can't escape from ourselves, there's no point in lying to try to forget a recent past. Perhaps ask yourself: why did I let Kimberly die? Why didn't I stay with her? What kind of father am I? Do I deserve to be called a father?

— You were with Kimberly during Mrs. Lucy's absence, I presume. This includes before, during, and after August 10th.

— August 10th? — Charles started sweating.

— A colleague of Kimberly's contacted us and sent photos of the messages she received from her daughter on this date. In one of these messages, Kimberly said that a man named Fredie visited the apartment where you both lived, precisely on August 10th. Mr. Charles, did you meet Fredie?

— I've never heard of any Fredie. I never knew that Kimberly was in a relationship with this man.

— Did Mrs. Lucy know about the existence of Fredie?

— After the divorce, it's common for husband and wife not to be as confidants — he evaded the question.

— What were you doing on August 10th, a week before your daughter disappeared, Mr. Charles?

— How should I know? How am I supposed to remember something that happened so long ago? I don't know what I was doing on August 10th. Do you know?

His answers seem too obvious.

— I'll repeat the question. Did you or did you not see this man? — I showed my phone to him. Charles adjusted his glasses and stared at the touch screen. Observing each point of light, he seemed surprised and stunned at the same time, discovering that I had a photo of him and Adam together in the same location.

— I didn't... — he stammered.

— Was it at the funeral?

— How did you get this?

— He was there, at Kimberly's funeral, right? He was the one who placed flowers on her coffin.