Retelling her experience this time around, she feels as if the agents are taking her seriously. Maybe a bit too seriously.

Every word gets noted by Simmer's pen, scribbling like a four-year-old. Having been a neat hand-writer all her life, she wonders honestly if he can even read that.

"You said he held a scalpel in his hand, but he didn't hurt you?" McCarthy asks with curious wonder in his eyes.

"No, not physically."

Simmer looks up from his notes for once and his forehead wrinkles even more than before.

"He did insult my journalistic progression," she explains with an absent-minded chew on her cheek.

"Right, I take he isn't a fan of the articles you write?"

"Not the latest ones."

More scribbling.

"And you did not see his face?"

Memories of the expressionless mask shoot through her thoughts. For a split second, Zoe's imagination takes her on a rodeo, forming the eyes she has never actually seen. Dark as night.

"I didn't even hear his voice, Agent McCarthy," she says, taking a deep breath to cool her mind's chatter.

"Right, he was using some kind of device?"

"Yes."

"A voice modification device?"

"I wouldn't know what else it could have been. The tones were very low and mechanical, but I remember being surprised how clear the speech itself sounded. It wasn't hard to understand what he was saying."

Simmer goes to town on his notebook. A malicious thought crosses Zoe's mind, ushering her to speak more, and faster, and see if the federal agent could keep up.

"What did he say?"

Her amusement is short-lived and swiftly replaced by apprehension. Should she tell the agents about their conversation or the way she has behaved around him? Any other human being would have surely tried to get away or attack him, but not submit without attachment. Somehow, it feels just too private.

"I don't remember exactly. It all went so fast, you know..."

Remembering every single word down to its syllable, she suddenly feels incredibly selfish about lying. What if she could really help the FBI to make him stop? Maybe everything she believes to know about governmental institutions has been corrupted from studying their war crimes and political circus for too long.

"I asked him who he is, but he didn't tell me his name." Not a lie. "Then he went off to rant about my work before he disappeared through that window," she says while her head cocks towards the window, next to the agent's unbelieving faces.

"We will have to look for fingerprints after we are done, but Miss Stromgrad, why did he leave?"

She's been asking that same question ever since.

"Maybe he realised he had the wrong address?"

For the first time, Simmer fully looks up from his notes and his cold eyes bore into hers as if trying to read her soul. They don't believe her.

Heck, she doesn't even believe that.

"I didn't ask him, so I don't know the answer to that question. Will that be enough then?"

She suddenly feels extremely uncomfortable around the men, as if she is the one that has done something wrong.

"One more question, if that is alright, Miss?" McCarthy has returned to his usual, chirpy self, obviously feeling very comfortable in the position of the interviewer.

"Sure."

Simmer shifts his scrutinizing gaze from her back to his scribbles.

"What about the painting? The police file states, the intruder showed a certain interest in it?"

By the mention of the painting, she gets up. It would be easier to just show them. Having answered the same questions to the police already, she is starting to feel as if this might all just be a waste of time.

"Follow me." And they do.

Zoe unlocks the door to her office. The disregarded canvas still lays face-down in the middle of her carpet. Right where she has thrown it after she has returned from the market. It has felt oddly satisfying. Her personal message to the Key Killer, even if he would never know.

McCarthy pulls a pair of blue gloves out of his coat and over his hands, before carefully turning the painting around. On it, everything is as she remembers. A blur of a man in all shades of matte black and the killer's looming message, crossing over the portrait's chest.

"And the man used his finger to draw the word?" he mumbles whilst studying the art in his hand, the other resting thoughtfully at his cleanly shaven chin.

"Yes, but he didn't take the gloves off," she responds, wondering if the agent has already figured out which person the art represents.

"We will have to keep the painting, Miss. Search it for fingerprints, DNA, conduct calligraphy analysis, sample the paint, and so on... It will be returned to you, but between us, that might take a while. I hope you understand."

Zoe only shrugs impassively,

"Keep it for all I care."

About to leave the room, she stops dead in her tracks and her heart rate picks up.

"Agent McCarthy, I'm curious though," slender hands pull the large cardigan closer to her body as she leans in the frame, observing the men's every move inside her office, "why would you require a sample of the paint?"

Both heads shoot in her direction as if she has hit a sore spot. So much for FBI agent's being trained to be unreadable and all that.

It is Simmer who responds first,

"We should sit down for that, Miss Stromgrad."

______

Tapping her short-clipped nails impatiently against her knee in silence, they wait for Agent Simmer to return from the car. Holding a beige folder in hand, he finally does.

"Miss Stromgrad, the content of this file isn't exactly nice to look at and..." McCarthy tries to warn the young woman, but she interrupts him, not wanting to wait any longer.

"Yes, yes. I know. I'll add it to the list of things to bring up to a psychiatrist." If I ever see one, she adds in thoughts.

Agent Simmer sighs deeply and hands her the folder. He doesn't look happy at all. Almost seems as if he is feeling sorry for her. It doesn't stop Zoe from opening the cover and scanning over the data, though.

The first image portrays the inside of a clean-cut and fairly modern office. A pompous walnut desk occupies the majority of the snug room. Someone with short, silver hair sits inside the large office chair facing the computer screen on the table. The leathered back of the chair faces the photographer as if trying to hide a secret. A dark liquid can be made out, flowing thickly from desk and chair into a big puddle on the Persian rug beneath. A pair of limp feet can be seen hanging lifelessly from the seat and into the substance collected on the ground.

"A concerned neighbour found Mrs Roberts just short past four in the morning. He saw her tranquillized dog on the back porch and the open door, so he entered to make sure everything was alright. He sounded very distressed when he called 911 to report having found her body, but unfortunately, he suffered from a heart attack straight after and died in her living room before help could arrive." Zoe locks eyes with Simmer as she soaks in the information given. "You're a bunch younger than Mr Henderson, but I wanna make sure you're prepared for the next one. We wouldn't show this to you if not absolutely necessary."

The men must have no idea how much she has researched the past cases. She doesn't even hesitate to turn the page. But what she sees still knocks all air out of her lungs.

"Shit."

Her reaction is anything but polite but she couldn't care less. This photograph has been taken from the opposite side of the room, showcasing everything that has been hidden from view before.

"Oh fuck."

Zoe's grey eyes don't know what to focus on first. The gaping hole inside Evelyn Robert's right chest or the black, gooey liquid that seems to cascade out and down her mouth like a waterfall in the Amazon. It would look tranquil, if not for the expression of utter terror on Evelyn's face.

"What is that shit? Is it tar?" she curses without looking up once, engrossed in the printed scene.

Without being noticed by Zoe, the men look at another. None of them wants to break the news to her. Instead, the cowards remain quiet and wait for her to turn to the next page. So she does. But this time it is not followed by curses.

This time, Zoe remains eerily silent.

The last photograph is a close up of the upper body's missing flesh, but it's so much more than just that. The woman's chest has been carved out with such precision, even parts of her ribcage have been sawn away in order to present her heart in all its glory. Every cut is made with purpose and intention, and absolute control. But the most significant detail is the black substance, coating the organ of interest.

Paint.

The colour is as black as a raven but entirely matt, with no sheen and no life. It begins in the middle of the atriums, softly fading out into the heart's naturally brownish red towards its lifeless edges. Fine, sharp lines are filtering through, having been drawn with an eye to detail to presumably represent the arteries beneath the thin layer of skin. An expression of imagination and creative skill, like only a human could. The totality of the Key Killer's visual craft is morbid and fascinating in coexisted unison.

All the ugliness of the world is contained within one artwork, yet obnoxiously beautified. In fact, the painted sculpture of organic tissue is so mesmerizing that Zoe finds a deep part of herself in appreciation for its sadistic beauty and raw emotional power.

Pushing the artist within underneath the surface, Zoe tries to figure out how to react with the analyzing eyes of the agents trained on her. But its too late by now. They've observed her reaction with undivided attention and it annoys Zoe immensely. With a flutter, the printed paper falls to the ground and her expression grows bitterly serious.

"Why are you showing me this?"

Agent Simmer seems to have had enough of playing pretend because he lifts up from the couch and begins to pace around her back. Entirely ignoring the warning looks of his younger protege.

"Truth is, Zoe, this monster has done some real shit. Trust me, I do not use these words lightly. The images you just looked at are a childrens-book in comparison to the first three murders. I understand that must be unimaginable to you after having just seen such horrible depiction."

Well, if he is going to play with open cards, so will she.

"I've seen photographs of the crime scenes of his second and third victim. Though I couldn't find anything about his first, the Cardinal," she admits quietly. "Don't bother asking how I got them. It's part of my job and I never release my sources," she adds immediately after with some more pepper. She should be careful what she says around the FBI. Their intentions are not quite clear yet, and she reminds herself that her trust issues with them are for good reasons.

"You won't find anything about the Cardinal, so don't waste your energy. It can be used more efficiently someplace else." Simmer continues to move up and down her living room, whilst McCarthy looks incredibly pissed. His cursing stare is fixated on his surprisingly talkative partner.

"Look, the Key Killer is immensely careful and quite frankly, we are not a step closer to him as back when we first found the Cardinal. No eyewitnesses, no footage, no DNA, just nothing," Simmer's restrained voice begins to show traces of frustration and impatience, "Every week there will be more innocent bodies and more unjustified deaths until he can smell his own flesh sizzling atop the chair. It's warmed up for that piece of shit already. But to get him there, I sincerely want to ask for your pointers."

Having listened attentively, it still takes her a couple of moments to understand.

"Me?"

"It can't be a coincidence. The Key Killer drowned a retired journalist with the, outwardly, same paint he drew the message in your painting with, only two nights before. And a not so reassuring one at that. The crime on Mrs Roberts connects with the first three murders, bearing his stamp, the same fucking key and symbolic handicraft. Do you want to know where the colleagues found it this time?"

McCarthy literally jumps off the couch by his partner's words. His eyes are raging, but his exterior appears collected, "Simmer, that is enough! Miss Stromgrad, I am so-"

"He stuffed it up her vaginal canal."

"Anthony!"

"She's in denial. She needs to wake up, McCarthy."

"If the Director finds out about this he'll have our heads!"

"Just mine."

The one-sided quarrel between the two men fades into background noise. Zoe hasn't even blinked yet. The image of Evelyn Robert's murder making sense to her now. It has before, but maybe Agent Simmer is right. She's been in denial. The Key Killer is playing a game, a dangerous one at that.

Quietening a journalist's voice by drowning her in the very own darkness which manifests and grows in the purity of her heart. It sounds all too familiar. But where does the key's positioning fit into this? What is he trying to express?

She begins to feel nauseous with her mind taking her to a dark and emotionally draining place. Her new image of the Key Killer morphs dramatically into something much more sinister than it has been before.

"Miss Stromgard? Miss??"

Someone is calling her name, but she doesn't want to return to reality. She wants to stay in this bubble of unfeeling voidness.

"Zoe?"

Her eyelids blink. Once. Twice. Then she focusses on the concerned faces belonging to the FBI.

"Sorry about that. I needed a moment."

Simmer clears his throat before he gently continues his moment of truth, this time without McCarthy's interruption. The agent has seen the change within the woman after Simmer has opened her eyes to the totality of the serial killer's intentions. He should have trusted his partner.

"According to our profiler, the killer is highly intelligent, methodical and organized. His work screams of emotion, but there's no passion in the act of killing itself. You're no accident. A puzzle-piece is what you are. Besides, you're the only person that has been in his presence and still breathes. It might not seem much to you, but any kind of observation, no matter how trivial, can bring us closer to stop the killer. You seem to be a smart and able kid, Zoe. Help us out here."

Zoe swallows dryly. He's got a point. Loads, to be fair.

"I will do what I can."