Page 6 of Can You Take It?

Kneeling down to her level, I offer a soft, reassuring smile. As I lean in closer, I'm enveloped by a scent that’s both unexpected and comforting—a strange combination of lavender and cinnamon. “Ms. Montclair, I am Supervisory Special AgentRichard Reynolds with the FBI. I know this has been an incredibly traumatic experience for you, and I want you to know that I’m here to help. Our primary concern right now is your well-being and safety.”

I pause, giving her a moment to process my presence and words. “I understand that everything might feel overwhelming and confusing right now, but your statement is crucial in helping us piece together what happened here. We need to understand your perspective and experiences so we can not only bring those responsible to justice but also ensure that such a tragedy doesn’t happen again.”

She looks at me with a hardness that’s almost unnerving. She’s not scared, and that’s what strikes me. She isn’t shaking with fear or falling apart like most victims I’ve dealt with—no messy tears or blubbering pleas for help. I’ve seen grown men break down after seeing less than whatever the hell happened here tonight, but not her. She’s cool as ice.

I try again, softer this time, “Izel, I know this is tough, but your statement could be crucial in catching the person responsible.”

She hesitates for a moment, and it’s clear that getting the truth out of her won’t be easy.

“Ma’am, this is important. We need to know what happened here.”

She leans back slightly, regarding me with a raised eyebrow. “And why should I help you, Officer? You’re all the same.”

My irritation grows, but I push it down. We don’t have time for this. “I’m not just an officer. I’m with the FBI, and we’re dealing with a serial killer here.”

She smirks, unimpressed. “A serial killer, huh? You must be a busy guy.”

Yeah, busy. Too busy for me to be wasting time with your bullshit,is what I want to say, but instead...

“Yeah, you could say that,” I reply. “Busy enough that we need to stop him before he adds any more names to his list.”

“And here I thought the FBI had all the answers. Guess you’re more desperate than you look.”

I take a slow, deep breath. Patience, Richard. Stay focused.

“Izel,” I say, hoping to sound less like the bad cop. “I know you don’t trust me. I know you’ve probably dealt with your fair share of cops or feds who treat you like just another witness, just another person in the way. But this is different. There’s a killer out there, and you might be the only one who can stop him.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re giving me way too much credit.”

“No, I’m not.” I lean closer. “I’m giving you the exact amount of credit you deserve. Look, a man named Liam saw something. He called 911, and we think you might have information that could help us catch the person responsible.”

Izel finally shows a glimmer of interest. “Liam? He’s just some guy I know. What’s he got to do with this?”

I spot Liam in the background, fidgeting nervously. He’s not exactly eager to be in the spotlight, but he might be our only lead.

“Liam saw the person responsible running from the scene. He could have important information. But we need your account of what happened too.”

Izel’s gaze shifts to Liam for a moment. She takes a deep breath and begins to recount the terrifying events. “Fine. I was walking towards the front door, and I heard a struggle. I went to check, and that’s when I saw him. He had a knife, and he was covered in blood. He attacked me, but I managed to fight him off.”

I can see the fear in her eyes, the pain in her voice. It’s a stark contrast to her previous indifference.

Izel continues, “But it’s like he wanted me to see him, like he wanted me to remember. He whispered something before he left.”

I lean in, my heart racing. “What did he say?”

“He said, ‘The Devil’s playground has just begun.’”

It’s a chilling message, and it sends shivers down my spine. But we might finally have a lead, a glimpse into the twisted mind of the killer.

I turn to Liam, who’s been anxiously watching Izel’s account. “Liam, did you get a look at the guy’s face?”

He stammers, clearly overwhelmed. “I... I didn’t. I just saw him from behind. He was tall and wearing a hooded jacket. That’s all I know.”

“That’s something,” I say, nodding. “Anything else? Height, build, clothing?”

He hesitates, his fingers twitching like he wants to reach for a cigarette or something. “Tall. Maybe six foot. Broad shoulders, but not bulky. He was quick, smooth, like… I don’t know. Like he’d done this before.”

“He has,” I mutter, taking in the information. It’s not much to go on, but it’s something. We have a message and a general description of the unsub. It’s a start.

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