Chris Cadra

The Ornithologist

 

 

Did that biker guy have a bird tattoo? she asked herself. She was washing her hands with scalding hot water, looking at herself in the mirror, blinking. She continued to wash her hands even as the water got too hot. Was it an eagle? she wondered. She cut off the water, continuing to look at herself in the mirror. White, mid-twenties, brunette, good-looking. Just like he likes them, she thought. She slapped her cheeks with both hands and reminded herself she was on a date. He was good-looking too. She hadn’t been with anybody in quite a while, the shadow of a long, bungled relationship still hovering about, and she didn’t want to mess this up. 

 

Brandon, she thought. His name is Brandon. She exited the bathroom, and after pushing through a crowd, found a small table with two drinks, Brandon, and an empty seat. She sat down.

 

“Are you ok?” Brandon asked, his voice hardly making it over the noise.

 

“Great!” she lied. 

 

The place was a dive bar. As divey as dive bars get. But for some reason, Brandon had told her, the best local musicians would do anything to get a night there. Rumors were that decades ago one of the British Invasion bands played a week. Another rumor said that Jimi Hendrix played a drunk set and it was here that he first burned his guitar. Yet another rumor placed Jim Morrison on the small, creaky stage. The truth was most likely that the rumors themselves paved the way for the great, local contemporary bands and their desire to play the place. Harry’s. In Brooklyn.

 

“So, you come here often?” she asked as he watched the band tune-up.

 

“Huh? Oh yeah. All the time. The music’s awesome. And the food’s pretty good too.” He turned to her. There was something almost childlike about him as he watched the band, but with his eyes focused on her, he came off as mature, measured. “I was in a band in high school, you know. I gave it up in college, but music’s still important to me.”

 

She looked around. Half the place was already tanked. Some guys in a corner were nodding out. You’d have to consider music pretty damned important to come to a place like this all the time just to hear the music. “You ever hear these guys play?” she asked, gesturing toward the band.

 

“No, actually. They must be new.” He paused. “You want a burger, or something?

 

She didn’t want a burger. She didn’t want to eat at all. Now that she was thinking about it, she wanted to be in her apartment, with the door locked, in her bedroom, with that door locked too, her face in her pillow. “No,” she said, after a long silence. “I’m not hungry.”

 

“If I got a burger, would you nibble on some fries?”

 

“Uh, yeah. I guess.”

 

“Ok. Be right back.” He got up and left her alone. Does he realize what he’s done? Could he be so inconsiderate?

Thoughtless? Maybe, she thought, this place is so familiar to him that leaving her alone was more like leaving her with friends. When they first got there, he said hi to at least half of the place. But with all the murder, she thought. When they dug up the first girl, they found her severed head in her lap.

 

“Twenty minutes,” he said, his voice catching her off guard, as he swung around to retake his seat. He looked at her.

She figured her anxiety must’ve shown, and it must’ve. “You sure you’re ok?” These weren’t just first date jitters, as he’d obviously noticed himself.

 

“I’m sorry. I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

 

“Well, why don’t you drink your drink? Whole point of coming out to a place like this is to relax, right?”

 

Before she could respond, the drummer counted in and the band started up. The music, thankfully, she thought, washed over them and they stopped talking so as to watch and listen to the band.

 

Her friend from work had set them up. She told her that he was a pretty laid-back guy who made decent money and wasn’t a dick about it. One of those rare guys who’s no more or less confident than he should be, who’s more or less content with who he is and what he’s got. Amanda caught that vibe the second she saw him. He was a bit nervous, she could tell, but less nervous than her, and no more nervous than anyone on a blind date should be.

 

After the band wrapped up, she turned to him and tried to act normal. “What do you do for work?” she asked.

 

“My work is boring, and if I talked about my work, I’d be boring.” He said this with a smile, but he wasn’t joking. “What about you?”

 

“I suppose I could say the same thing.”

 

“What kind of music do you like?” he asked, and she noticed him light up a bit as he did so. It was nice to see that he might actually be interested in her answer.

 

“I guess my tastes are all over the place, but I’ve been listening to a lot of Joni Mitchell lately.” 

 

“Nice. Cool. I love Joni Mitchell.”

 

“I’d been in a weird place where I’d only listen to Bjork for a while.”

 

“Stick with Joni!” he smiled. He smiled a lot. This guy is pretty charming, she thought. But wasn’t Ted Bundy supposed to be charming? As she turned inward and thought, he caught her slipping away. “Hey, so what’s up?”

 

She looked around at the place.

 

“You said you’ve got a lot on your mind,” he said. “You mind sharing what you meant?”

 

She turned to him, sighed. “This is going to sound ridiculous, I know, but I’m legitimately terrified of the Ornithologist. So there. That’s what’s up.”

 

“The Ornithologist?” He laughed, though she remained solemn.

 

“Yes. The Ornithologist.” 

 

“I’m sorry,” he stopped himself. “I’m sorry. Who or what is the Ornithologist?”

 

“Are you serious?” She was genuinely shocked.

 

“I’m serious. I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

 

“The serial killer. The serial killer who’s been going around Brooklyn killing girls that look like me. How can you live here and not know what I’m talking about?” She was reacting in a way that made it seem almost as if she were offended. As if not knowing about the Ornithologist were an affront to her.

 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t really follow the news. Certainly not such morbid stuff as serial killers.”

 

“But it’s all over the place! Have you not heard about the letter he sent the police? It was front page just a few days ago.” 

 

“Well, obviously I haven’t.”

 

“Hold on.” She reached into her purse and pulled out her phone. “Ok. Real quick,” she said as she punched her phone with a purpose. “Here’s some of the girls who’ve gone missing.” She got up a page featuring photos of missing women and showed him. “One of my coworkers was good friends with this girl here,” she said, pointing out a victim.

 

“You know,” he said, after looking at the images, “I feel like I should lie and say these girls look nothing like you, but to be honest, I definitely do see a sort of resemblance.”

 

She snatched her phone from him and started punching it again. “Ok, so I’m going to read you the letter he sent the police. Maybe then you’ll see why I’m a bit preoccupied, if you will.”

 

He wasn’t very interested in all this serial killer talk, but he could see how intense and focused she’d become, so he leaned back in his chair and hoped his burger would get there soon.

 

“‘Attached to this letter,’” she started, reading from her phone, “‘you’ll find a map showing you exactly where I left my first three little birds.’” She looked up. “They followed through with this map and found the first three victims, by the way.” Waiting for a response and gaining none, she continued. “‘If you publish this letter, I’ll send another map showing you exactly where to find my next three little birds. And if you don’t publish this letter, I’ll make sure you wish you did.’” She paused. “This is where it gets horrifying.”

 

“I’m listening.”

 

“‘Some birds talk, some birds sing, but have you ever heard a bird cry? I can tell you, it’s the most beautiful sound there is. The only problem is that a bird will quit crying until you make it cry again, and eventually, it seems, when you try to get a bird crying again, it quits crying for good. Some of my birds have cried for hours, or even days, but they always stop. And so, maybe you can see already why one bird wasn’t enough, and why even a hundred birds won’t be enough, unless I find that special bird. I want you to publish this because I want all of the little birds out there to prepare themselves, so to speak, to be ready for me, so that maybe one of them will practice crying, will learn to cry ceaselessly, beautifully, so that I can stop killing. I’d like to stop killing, but only if I can awake to the sound of a beautiful bird crying beautifully and go to bed with the sound echoing in my ears. I want a bird that never stops crying. To repeat, I want a bird that never stops crying. I’ve noticed that you haven’t come up with a name for me, but I feel I’ve made a name for myself, so why don’t you call me [signed] The Ornithologist.’” She paused for a moment before putting away her phone and turning to him for a response.

 

As if given a reprieve, he thought, a waitress brought his burger and placed it before him. He looked and the burger and looked at her. “Are you going to split these fries with me?”

 

 

“That band was pretty great. That Led Zeppelin cover kind of sucked though.” They were walking down mostly empty blocks, on their way to Amanda’s place. They both lived in Brooklyn, and her place was close enough to the bar that a nice walk felt more sensical than a cab ride. “You know, there are some songs and bands you just can’t cover. And Led Zeppelin is one of those bands. It’s not the singing, and it’s not the guitar or bass either. It’s the drums. You just can’t match John Bonham. And if one thing’s out of place, it all is.” He stopped talking and looked to her. She looked pale. At least two shades paler than when they’d left the bar. “Hey, what’s up, huh? You scared the Ornithologist is going to get you?” He was joking, but he saw that now was no time for jokes. While he’d been babbling on about music, she was wondering what it was like to live under the Son of Sam. Was it better, worse, or the same as living under the Ornithologist?

 

“Don’t joke about it,” she said softly.

 

“Hey, sorry. You’re really worried, huh?”

 

“I am.” She was walking fast, her head down.

 

“Can we talk about this? Now I’m worried.”

 

“Worried about what?”

 

“About you!” He stopped walking, and when she noticed, she stopped and turned to him.

 

“Why are you worried about me?”

 

“Because you’re, like, obsessed about this serial killer. It’s one thing to be freaked out, you know, but you’re bothered beyond rational bounds. Realistically, you’d have a better chance winning the lottery than bumping into this serial killer, and I don’t think you’ve spent one minute tonight without all this bullshit in the forefront of your head.”

 

“Your right,” she admitted. “I haven’t. And I apologize for being a bad date. But don’t call it bullshit. Girls around here, girls like me, are getting picked up and murdered. Probably raped and tortured too. That’s not bullshit. And if you think I’m freaking out, well… I think I have every right to freak out.” When she finished speaking, she stood staring at him, as if bare, totally vulnerable.

 

After a long moment, he said, “Ok, ok. Maybe you’re right. I’m sorry if I’ve been a dick about all this, and if I’ve minimized what’s going on, or whatever. I just, I don’t know. It sucks.”

 

“How about you finish walking me home and neither of us mentions the Ornithologist again. How would you like that?”

 

“I’d like that.”

 

As they walked along the dark Brooklyn streets, the pair didn’t talk about the Ornithologist, or the missing girls, or serial killers, or anything like that. But without this stuff to talk about, they found themselves without much of anything to talk about. Brandon thought he’d talk about music again, but his earlier attempts to talk about music ended with him delivering monologues and her being spaced out. As they passed the apartment building of a girl who’d been missing for two weeks, Amanda thought she’d point this out, mention it, but she decided to remain mum. 

 

As their first date wound down, the pair remained quiet. In the fifteen minutes it took to get to her apartment, neither said a word.

 

 

When they arrived outside her apartment, she feigned a confidence, but it was obvious she was frail, perhaps more than ever. 

 

“This is it,” she said, standing at the bottom of the walk up.

 

“Nice place,” he said, as cool and calm as if there weren’t a homicidal maniac out there stalking the streets, stalking girls like Amanda, perhaps stalking Amanda, for all she knew.

 

“Thanks,” she said, almost whispered.  

 

He gave her a hug and kissed her on the cheek. And she realized then that she’d actually felt better with Brandon. She wasn’t alone. She didn’t quite feel safe, but she at least felt safer. And she realized, too, that in a moment, he’d be gone.

And she’d be alone. And would she be safe? 

 

“Would you like to hang out for a bit?” she asked. “Maybe listen to some music?”

 

He smiled. “Sounds great, but I have work tomorrow, and by the time I get home, it’ll be pretty late.”

 

“Oh,” was all she could muster.

 

“I had a great time, though. Let’s do it again.” She couldn’t tell if he was being kind and honest or kind and dishonest, but at least he was being kind.

 

“Yeah,” she said. “Definitely.”

 

And with that, he turned and left her.

 

 

Her apartment was on the third floor. A light was out. She wanted to scream. Each step on her way to her apartment was a mountain. Anyone watching her awkwardly climb the steps would think she was blackout drunk. 

 

After three steps, she asked herself, Why three little birds, why only three, or why so many? Engulfed in fear, she found herself hunched over, reaching for each next step with her hand. 

 

Halfway up the stairs, she gathered herself up, drew a deep breath, and ran until she reached the door of her apartment. As she reached for her keys, tears welled in her eyes. Just let me in, let me in, she thought. Having found her keys deep in her purse, she noticed her hands were shaking so bad that it was going to be difficult to unlock her door. Eventually, she managed.

 

The first thing Amanda did upon entering her apartment was shut and lock the door. The second thing she did was sit down at her computer. When she checked out a blog following the Ornithologist and his doings, her mouth dropped open. Another girl missing. Could be unrelated to the Ornithologist, but that seemed highly unlikely. This one looked like the others. She looked like Amanda.

 

The authorities couldn’t offer an estimate regarding the current body count, stated the blog, because they had no idea how long this guy had been active. They had no idea whether he lived in Brooklyn or was simply hunting in Brooklyn.

They had no idea, too, whether Brooklyn was the only place he was active, or had been active. Ted Bundy, she thought, had been all over the place before they caught him. Others too. Israel Keys, who she’d read about just yesterday, didn’t keep to just one locale when it came to his crimes. Altogether, they authorities couldn’t really offer anything on the Ornithologist. Unless they were keeping stuff from the public, which seemed highly unlikely as they’d been asking the public for tips, they were as clueless as Amanda.

 

As she sat frozen at her computer, the tears that had been welling started rolling down Amanda’s cheeks. What was happening to her? Was this all really happening? She felt as though she were in a dream, completely dissociated. Prior to hearing about all the missing girls and the murders, she was normal. Wasn’t she? She’d been having a lot of trouble dealing with her relationship and its dissolution, but she’d come to terms with all that. Hadn’t she? Was the Ornithologist causing this spiral? Was it that she was prepped for a spiral and the Ornithologist simply pushed her over the edge?

 

She sat at her computer for a half-hour, clicking this, clicking that, mostly just staring at the screen, hardly able to move her hand, completely unable to wipe the tears away. When she was finally through with the computer and able to get up, she went directly to her bed and buried her face in a pillow. She wept like she’d never wept before. It all felt so foreign, so strange, so unreal. When she regained her ability to think, she could think only one thing: How will I ever stop crying? How will I ever stop crying?