Brian Freeman - The Voice Inside

He watched conflicting emotions take over her face. She retreated inside herself briefly, like a turtle inside a shell, but then she pulled herself out and began talking again.

“Being involved in a violent crime changes you,” Eden went on. “I struggled for a long time to figure out who I was. A writer? A victim? I didn’t know. Then I read about Natasha, and I found out about the two earlier victims, and the whole case had a strange draw for me. Here was a serial killer, still unknown, still in the midst of his crimes. I could be a part of it. I decided to follow the case and learn everything I could about it.”

Frost saw more than a journalist’s curiosity in her face. This was personal to her.

“Do you mind if I make an observation?” he said.

“Go ahead.”

“This doesn’t sound like a healthy obsession for someone like you.”

“Very few of my obsessions are healthy,” she joked. “And I have a lot of them.”

“I mean, you had your throat cut, Eden. You nearly died. Not that you need me to remind you of that. Is it really smart to be diving into a case about a serial killer who cuts women’s throats?”

“My shrink said the same thing,” she told him. “He said I felt guilty that I lived and these women didn’t. He told me to quit the project. Go write about happier stuff, like global warming or opioid addictions.”

“But that didn’t stop you?”

“No. You’re right, it was my obsession, healthy or not. I couldn’t let go. I began to research the victims. One thing you’ll learn about me, Frost — I really, really do my homework. I talked to everybody, and not just the people around here. I flew to Minnesota to meet Natasha’s brother. I flew to Texas to find Rae Hart’s parents. I knew the women in this case better than the police did.”

“So why didn’t you finish the book?” he asked.

“Like I said, life got in the way. When my father got sick, I left the country. I still did some magazine work, but I had to put the book project on hold. Then last year, when I moved back, I found out that the crimes had been solved and that the killer, Rudy Cutter, was in prison. So I started working on the book again.”

“And what do you want from me?” he asked.

“I want to help you put Rudy Cutter back in jail.”

“Why would you do that?”

“I interviewed Cutter in prison several times. I told you, I do my homework. I know what kind of man he is, because I’ve met men like him before. Up close. He scares me.”

“He should,” Frost said. “But you’re a writer. You’re not the police. How do you expect to help?”

“I heard the judge say that the police have to start over and pretend the original investigation never happened. I’ve done dozens of interviews. I can make all of my research available to you.”

“Why give it to me?” he asked. “I told you I won’t be leading the investigation.”

“Yes, but you’re the brother of one of the victims. Cutter manipulated you into helping him. You’re not going to let that go. I know you’ll be behind the scenes, feeding the case. That’s where I want to be. With you. You’re the most interesting man in this story right now.”

“Ah. The story.”

Eden shrugged. “I won’t lie to you. I’m a writer working on a book. That’s my priority. I thought the book was almost done until this whole new angle came up. Now the case is wide open again and even more shocking than it was before. I want to help you get Cutter, and in return, I hope you’ll let me be a part of whatever you do. That’s how it works for me, Frost. I learned about being a writer from my brother. You have to embed yourself with the subject to tell a story. You can’t be an outsider. So let me go inside with you.”

He felt the sensuality of her offer. He didn’t think it was an accident that she used sexual language in how she talked to him. She had a frankness about her intentions that made an interview feel like a seduction. She was manipulating him, and if he called her on it, he didn’t think she’d apologize. As a writer and a woman, she was used to getting her way.

“Is this really about Cutter?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“It feels like a personal crusade. Is this just a way to get revenge for what those boys did to you?”

“That’s between me and my shrink. Does it really matter to you?”

“I guess not.”

“Then let’s work together.”

“You first,” he said.

Eden smiled again. It was the smile of someone who knew she was winning. “What do you want?”

“Everything. All your notes. Your interviews. Your draft manuscript.”

“Do I need to get you to sign a nondisclosure agreement?” she asked with a flirty little smirk.

“I’m not a writer.”

“All right. I’ll give you everything I have. And that’s a big leap of faith for me. What do I get in return?”

“I’ll have to think about it.”

“That sounds pretty one-sided,” Eden said, pouting.

“For now.”

“Well, you drive a hard bargain, but I’m in. I’ll print off copies of my work tonight, and you can pick them up at my place tomorrow.”

“You work fast,” Frost said.

“We need to work fast. We don’t have much time. I told you, I know Rudy Cutter. You don’t think he’s done, do you?”

Frost thought to himself, Tick tock.

“No, Cutter’s not done,” he replied. “He’s going to kill again. And it’s already November.”

Rudy Cutter enjoyed his first beer as a free man, and it went straight to his head. He and his brother, Phil, sat at a corner table squirreled away in a Mission District bar, where he could watch the crowd. It was his old neighborhood, his old hangout. Twenty-somethings filled the floor shoulder to shoulder and spilled out into the street. The music was loud, the drinkers were loud, and the bar glowed under a dozen television screens mounted high on the walls. The Warriors were playing the Bucks.

To the people who didn’t know him, Rudy was anonymous. He wanted it that way. He wore a white Warriors cap low on his forehead and sunglasses despite the darkness of the bar. Even so, he knew he was being watched. Two men at a nearby table kept looking over their shoulders at him. Two more near the door filmed him surreptitiously from their phones.

“Cops,” he murmured to his brother.

Phil’s gaze flicked casually around the bar. “They’re itching for any excuse to bust you again.”

“Yeah, they’ll send somebody over to start a fight soon so they can take me in. Count on it.”

He turned his attention back to his beer. Phil was already on his second.

Rudy’s brother was only a year younger, but Phil had gone downhill during the time Rudy had spent inside and was so skinny now that his bones showed through his skin. Phil’s hair was black but thinning. He drank hard and smoked hard, and it showed in his sallow, sunken face. He had a rumbling voice and raspy cough. He was gruff with everyone, a curmudgeon who’d never married. They’d lived together for a long time. After Hope. After Wren. It had been a bland existence for both of them, two lifetimes whittled away watching sports and drinking in places like this.

“Listen, about the house,” Phil said. “Neighbors aren’t crazy about all the police and reporters hanging around.”

Rudy rubbed his chin. He needed a shave, and he needed a shower. “You want me to stay away?”

“Just keep a low profile when you come by. Wait until dark. Use the back.”

“Okay.”

His brother lowered his voice. “Are you going to need an alibi for anything?”

“I’ll let you know.”

“I got some money for you,” Phil added. “A couple thousand bucks. That should buy you time.”