The Project

On a Monday morning, David finished his first session with a client and stepped out of his consultation room. He found Cristine sitting at her workplace, multiple folders scattered chaotically across her desk. David raised a brow at the sight but didn’t say anything. He went to his desk and sank into his large chair.

He began typing notes from the session, entering observations and details, but found it hard to concentrate. His gaze kept slipping from the computer screen to Cristine, checking what she was so absorbed in. He noticed the blue folders. The unsolved murder cases. He knew them all too well.

What is she trying to find in those?

Curiosity pushed him out of his chair. He stood and walked over to Cristine, stopping beside her desk, the tips of his fingers gliding over a folder tagged: Unsolved. Shooting. Johnson Family. 1965.

David remembered every picture and every detail of that case. He had spent countless hours profiling the murderer, fitting the pieces together. The case was never solved anyway.

“Are you looking for anything in particular?” His voice broke the silence.

David immediately regretted the question. Cristine hadn’t noticed him at all. She jolted and looked up at him, eyes wide.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Richards. I just…” Her voice wavered and faded.

“Don’t worry about it, Cristine.” David mimicked a smile. “I’m actually glad to see you’re curious about these folders.”

“There are so many unsolved cases,” she said, worry threaded through her voice. “All unsolved. All so chillingly brutal.”

“I find them fascinating.” David caught a glimpse of her eyes—fixed on him, waiting for every word. “I enjoy a good mystery. Especially when you have to think like the killer, put yourself in his shoes, understand his reasons, his intentions.”

“That helps you identify the offender?”

“Not necessarily.” David paused and opened the folder containing the family shooting. “This one was never solved, and I don’t think it ever will be.”

“Then what is the point of working on this case, Mr. Richards?” Cristine’s voice rose slightly.

David smiled.

She’s hooked, he thought, and continued. His voice—carefully trained to captivate—worked its magic on her as well. He knew it.

“The point is, cases like these show us how intelligent, cunning, and organized some offenders are.” He tapped the photographs inside the folder. “These people most likely knew their murderer. They let him into their home. They probably even believed he was a good friend.”

“What makes you think so?”

“Look at the photos, Cristine. What do you see?”

“I see a family—husband, wife, and two children. All shot in the head. An execution?” She looked at him.

“Go on.”

“He hated them.”

“Look again,” David said calmly. “What else do you see?”

He waited patiently as Cristine’s fingers hovered over the photographs. Then she tapped one.

“Dinner,” she said suddenly. “They were having dinner. And there are five plates on the table—not four.”

“Good job, Cristine.” David smiled. “What does that tell us?”

“They were going to share a meal with the person who shot them.” She looked up at him, and he immediately recognized the sorrow in her eyes.

“And that means?”

“They knew the killer,” she said quietly. “They trusted him. They welcomed him as a friend.”

“Exactly.” David leaned closer. “You did very well.”

“Thank you, sir, but—” She hesitated.

“What is it?”

“If it’s so obvious that they knew him, why wasn’t he found?”

“That’s a very smart question,” David said. “And that’s exactly what makes this case so interesting.”

“Yes?”

“The police investigated everyone in the family’s circle—relatives, friends, neighbors, colleagues. The problem was that they couldn’t find a reason why anyone would want an entire family dead.”

“And so?”

“And so this was murder for the sake of murder. It’s hard to find who did it when you don’t know why.”

“I see.” Cristine’s gaze drifted back to the photos. David closed the folder.

“Enough for today. The lesson is over.” He smiled. “Tomorrow, we’ll talk about another case. One I’ve been working on for years.”

He watched Cristine gather the folders and return them carefully to the shelf. She looked deep in thought.

I know what you’re thinking about, David thought.

I’ve been living with it all these years.

David spent the night planning and imagining what he would tell Cristine, how she would react, and even the words she would probably say. The moment he closed his eyes, her face—darkened by sadness and worry—appeared. He imagined her shaky hands studying the pictures he would show. He wondered what he would do if she started crying and thought of the best words possible—ones that would make her feel safe.

I can’t rush through her emotions, he told himself as he lay in bed in the dark room. Once again, a candle—this time lavender—filled the air. David inhaled, his eyes still closed. Cristine’s face wouldn’t leave his thoughts.

She seems soft, but she is not stupid. I’ve got to play this carefully.

David breathed out forcefully and sat up in bed. The door to his bedroom was ajar, and the dim candlelight sent gentle rays across the room. On the table next to the candle sat a blue folder. David knew the tag too well: Single Mothers’ Murders. Unsolved. 2000–2012.

He was going to take that folder to work in the morning.