"Could you imagine what they would think of me?! How it would even look for the bureau to have gone above and beyond to hire a killer's son?! There's shame to the Odenkirk name, but I refuse to taint the Montgomery name like that." I let out a deep breath before sliding my back down the door and eventually sitting on the floor. "I don't know what to do. This is all I've ever worked towards. I never planned for this to not work out."
"We take it one day at a time." Doctor Brooks reassures me, sitting herself next to me on the ground. "If we spent all our days worrying about the next few days, we'd all be constantly miserable and anxious. You spiraled and let it all out, so now what?"
"Regain my composure." I sigh, always knowing what pattern I fall into. "It's my biggest shame. I don't want people to think I'm anything like him."
"You're not. You prove it time and time again that you're a good person, Jackson. You were a child that trusted his parent because that's what we're blindly led to do. This constant blaming yourself needs to end somewhere. If you're going to dive into everything, then consider everything. Not just the negative. If they find out about your past, what's worst case scenario?"
"They fire me and society casts me out even more." I immediately reply.
"Now best case scenario."
"I can't think of one." I say after a few moments of silence with just the small water fountain running in the background.
"It's an untreated wound that will always hurt unless you finally start to heal it. Let's say they do find out your history, who's to say it wouldn't bring some good? You always say how you wish you could learn all the unidentifiable victims names to honor them. They could open an investigation and get closure for everyone, including you." Her voice remains soft, yet simultaneously stern.
"Yeah, maybe." I say, fiddling with my fingers. "I hope they're paying you enough to deal with me."
"I've seen you grow up into a respectable young man, Jackson. It's always a pleasure to see your growth over the years." Doctor Brook smiles.
►"Rain in Numbers" by Beach House
Thursday night transitioning into Friday morning felt like a broken clock counting to infinity. Rain and thunder accompanied my wandering thoughts all night into the morning while Fletcher peacefully slept at the foot of my bed. For once, I'm not awoken in a sea of my own sweat because my mind likes to torment me with imagery that feels too gruesome to be real. I find myself staring at the ceiling, getting lost in the sound of the heavy rain droplets as my thoughts start to recall past memories. Some days, I had difficulty remembering any bit of my childhood. But tonight wasn't one of those blurry days. One vivid memory stands out.
It was some time in late Spring where the San Francisco breeze was relaxing once the sun set. Couldn't have been older than about four or five. I remember wearing denim overalls with permanent paint stains that wouldn't wash out from when I helped him paint the walls to cover his delirious ramblings and drawings. We were sat in a half empty parking lot where he was in the driver's seat and I was in the passenger side enjoying a Popsicle. Words are hard to recall, but I remember him whispering nonsense under his breath and monitoring the automatic doors of the grocery market. Once he saw somebody that caught his eye, he'd send me out there under the premise we were playing hide and seek. My birth father never played many games with me, so I never turned down the chance. Fuck, things are foggy to remember again. There was a woman who helped me try and find my birth father. They're talking. Then we're home and she's crying. I'm not allowed to talk to her, but I did because she was so sad. Why was she so sad? Did I ask her that? Was that why he got angry at me and locked me in the time out crawl space? I never saw her after that. I'd never see any of them again, then we'd go out to the mountains to pile dirt on big holes. Routine. I remember I stopped asking questions after the third or fourth time. I stood further away, drawing onto the dirt with a twig I'd find laying around. Why can't I fucking remember much of those mountain trips?
Before I could get frustrated over distorted memories, my alarm begins to blare promptly five on the dot. Within a second or two, I turn it off as to not wake Fletcher, but so much for that. He jumps off the bed, yawning with a big stretch before running over to my bed side to greet me.
"Always a good boy." I smile, petting his cheeks with my palms the way he loved.
NARRATOR POV
Exercising always helped calm Jackson's anxiety, especially with the amount building up all week for this particular day. As he starts walking up the stairwell to get to the office, he simultaneously begins breathing exercise to calm his nerves. Deep inhale in. Hold for a bit, then a long exhale. Repeat. It never got rid of his nerves, but it did help him enough to be able to physically hide it from other people.
"It's all gonna be okay." He whispers under his breath, finally standing at the entrance door.
He pulls it open, taking in the now familiar atmosphere. The sound of multiple phones ringing mixed with chatter and running printers distracted him for a moment. His eyes scan the room, looking for the one unfamiliar face he has yet to meet. As he takes a few steps in, Griffin approaches him.
"Good morning, Jax." He says with a greeting smile, going through manila folders in his hands.
"I prefer Jackson, sir." Jackson uncomfortably replies, darting his eyes at the ground to avoid eye contact.
"Jackson." Griffin corrects himself, still keeping a welcoming aura about him. "You've got orientation in about ten minutes. It'll be in the lecture hall, all the way down to the left. Note taking is optional, but encouraged. You're free to ask anything during the lecture, but refrain from unrelated topics. Any questions?" He asks, handing over a folder.
"No, sir." Jackson gives a forced half-smile, grabbing onto the strap of his cross body bag as he takes the folder.
"Good. I'll see you in a few hours." Griffin pats Jackson's back before walking away.
"I got this." Jackson takes one last deep breath, then makes his way down the hall.
NARRATOR POV: VIOLET
While people like Jackson worked nine to fives, Violet was dead asleep in her bed at nine in the morning. Her earphones are still playing music from her self titled sad girl hours music playlist while drool is seeping from her lips. Phone buzzing underneath her pillow, but she's deep asleep to hear the incoming texts.
9:17 AM
From: papa 🐻
"Remember to wake up and take Roki for his walk! I'll be home around noon. 😁"
9:33 AM
From: papa 🐻
"Violet, did you wake up yet? Text or call me. It's raining pretty bad right now. It should die down in a few minutes, but umbrella is in mom's closet."
10:01 AM
Missed call from "papa 🐻"
As the clock nears half past ten, Violet is woken up by a restless ten year old Golden Lab. She screams, falling off the bed as Roki begins licking her face.
"Roki!" She groans, sitting up and grabbing her phone.
As she's seeing the missed call and texts from her father, the downstair doors opens and closes with the sound of dad's keys rattling.
"Shit!" Violet fixes her messy ponytail, straightens her clothes and begins to make her way downstairs.
"Is your phone broken?" Derek asks in an annoyed tone.
"I was in the bath." She lies, "It's nice to get away from technology every now and then."
He approaches her, examining her eyes as she opens them widely with a smile.
"Nice try. I bet that bath tub is dry and," He wipes the inner corner of her right eye with his thumb, "Your eye boogers are still there."
"Sorry." Violet sighs, plopping down on the couch.
"Violet, this can't go on. Waking up past noon and doing nothing. We've been way too easy on you. You need to pull your weight around here." He scolds her, opening the sliding door to let the eager dog out.
"I said I'm sorry!"
"Sorry doesn't cut it anymore. If you don't want to do school, then you need to find some kind of job. Even if it's just a part time at the mall or something. You're never going to find your passion or drive being locked up in your room twenty hours a day. Things need to change with you." He sits down next to her, watching her cross her arms in annoyance. "This is for your own good. You know I don't like yelling at you. But it's also my fault. I've always said yes to you and let you do what you want, so I'm sorry."
Derek always led with his heart. He recognized his own faults and always tried to better himself, especially after Violet was born. Selfish and childish behaviors went out the door almost twenty one years ago. Violet recognized that in her father, so she couldn't spew fighting words because she knew he was right. He was always right.
"Fine." She sighs, "But you better not start charging me rent because I will move out!"
She makes her way back upstairs for a shower, leaving her father confused on the couch.
"Moving out would mean you paying more to live alone!" He rebuttals, laughing to himself.
JACKSON POV: JACKSON
There were about thirteen, give or take, people sat down in different sections of the lecture hall. Most sat in the very first row, sipping their overpriced coffee and typing away at their laptops. I took a look around before deciding to sit in one of the last few rows. I wasn't here to make friendships, much less leave an impression of any kind during a seminar. All I had to do was sit here and listen. Easy enough.
Twenty minutes went by and the lecture hall was up to thirty or so people. I stared at the clock, disliking that this was already running late. I had nowhere to be, but can't people be on time?
"Sorry, I'm late!" A woman scurries in, making her way to the podium onto the small stage platform. "People suddenly don't know how to drive when it's raining! A stop sign is still a stop sign, even if there's water falling from the sky, people!" She rants before being glared at by Rowen, who is standing on the side of the stage.
"I'll save the rest for driver's ed courses. Hi, I'm Stacey Sullivan. I work in the training division of the bureau. We'll be seeing a lot of each other over the course of the next month or so. We're thrilled to see the continuation in wanting to serve and protect being strong. The seminar will be about three hours, with two twenty minute breaks scheduled. Before we begin, I'd like to introduce somebody very important. He's dedicated over twenty six years to the FBI, with amazing credentials under his belt and presidential praise. Please welcome your unit chief, Harrison Barnes."
She steps aside, letting an older man with a tall physique take over. His hair is freshly gray, probably needing a new box dye soon. That, or this job is just that stressful. The applause slowly simmers down as he takes in all the new faces in front of him. For a second, I feel his eyes on me and nervously turn my gaze in a moment of weakness. I was always firm in handshakes and maintaining eye contact in this field, otherwise I was just going to be seen as weak.
"Thank you, Stacey. Good morning, folks. I'm Harrison Barnes and I've been unit chief for the last six years of this fine division. I won't take up much of your time, so you can get started on your seminar. Everyone here in this room is here based on their work ethic and academic excellence, so be proud of yourselves. The next few weeks will be tough, but I look forward to seeing progress for each one of you. Thank you."
He fixes his suit as he walks away, already having two people swarming him with forms and email updates. His demeanor was serious, but I couldn't quite figure him out all the way. Did he have a sense of humor? Was he more of a sergeant? The less I knew about him, the more on edge I felt. I snap out of it, listening attentively as Mrs. Sullivan begins to speak.
Two hours go by with one of two breaks taken. I wrote down almost the entire lecture like everyone else, always being safe rather than sorry. A lot of it was information I already knew, but it still had my undivided attention.
"This is the part where a lot of you will wake up. Serial killer fascination is basically an American past time. As humans, we're naturally curious about everything, even dark themes." She begins. I feel a knot in the back of my throat, combined with my heart beginning to pulsate faster than normal.
"We've got two examples up on the screen. First up, Roger Beck. Anyone familiar with his case?" She asks, walking across the stage with the pointer in her hands.
A sea of hands go up, but I keep mine down despite knowing the ins and outs of the case. She calls on a young woman with braided locs and an eager look on her face.
"He was infamously known as the San Antonio Stalker, with a killing spree going on four years. He had a total of five victims before he was arrested for the attempted kidnapping of a local librarian named Patricia Walters." She answers.
"Correct. I don't like giving these horrendous monsters nicknames, so we'll call him Roger Beck. Mr. Beck had a total of five victims, as you can see on the screen. Right away, what can you tell me?"
Once again, a sea of hands go up. Victimology patterns and murders are all consistent with each other, but I still didn't raise my hand. She picks on another young man, who's itching to answer.
"All his victims shared eerily similar characteristics. They were all in their early thirties, had short, blonde hair and received counseling within the same building."
"Correct. There is most likely always a pattern you have to notice when it comes to viewing victimology. In this case, it was glaringly obvious the type he was after. Well, not at the time since the murders happen not so close in time. Another thing that tends to be consistent in serial murders is modus operandi, or M.O. In this case, it was a sense of power he felt. The cause of death of these five women were all ruled as blunt force trauma to the head. Beck is serving life in prison without the possibility of parole to this day. Case is solved and shut. Unfortunately, not all cases end this way. I'm going to show a mugshot and I want to know how many of you know this man and this puzzling case."
I write down key things from her speech, not participating in raising my hand at all. When I look up, I'm horrified to see not only everyone's hand raised, but a mugshot of my birth father on the large screen. His eyes are as cold, empty and cruel as ever, even in photographs. And I hated myself for even resembling him. It was the very reason I would dye my hair black to get rid of the light brown trait he passed down to me. The very reason I wore sunglasses half the time because I had his exact, dark brown eyes. His were filled with anger while mine drowned in sadness.
"Miller Odenkirk!" Somebody answers, letting the real time hell begin.