Heat. Oppressive, suffocating heat. A sweltering summer afternoon. The sun bears down relentlessly on the restless city below. I tug at the collar of my shirt, craning my neck as I make my way briskly toward the Grand Elysian, an elegant hotel in the heart of the city.
I received a call from the police station—another crime scene. This time, the victim is a forty-four-year-old woman. A businesswoman, judging by her refined attire. Or perhaps an office worker, or even a secretary. She is missing both eyes.
I read her name on the tag pinned to her blue jacket.
Natalie Jones.
Her body lies motionless on a chair at the center of the room, her head slumped forward against her chest. Her wrists and ankles are bound tightly—tight enough to leave deep red and purple bruises on her skin. Blood stains her face, trailing down across her chest, now still.
A gag covers her mouth, no doubt used to stifle her cries.
Her right hand is half-clenched, as if guarding something precious. I pry it open, and just as expected, another stamp reveals itself.
A dove.
For a brief moment, I try to make sense of it. Places the killer is emotionally tied to, perhaps? Clues pointing toward future victims? Or something deeper still—something intimate, almost… metaphysical.
My gaze catches a small puncture mark on her neck. A syringe. Most likely she was sedated before being restrained. I inspect the rest of the room. Nothing out of place. No signs of struggle. Everything appears… ordinary. Which only reinforces my suspicion.
He must have taken her by surprise. Never gave her a chance to react. Like a predator ambushing its prey. Unsatisfied, I keep searching—and then I find it.
The murder weapon.
A pitiful little spoon, clean of blood, lying in the trash… along with a pair of eyes. I grimace faintly, lingering on the scene, then slip on a pair of gloves to collect the evidence. One question remains.
How did he get inside the room?
Perhaps he knew her. They may have entered together. Or maybe she forgot to lock the door, and he seized the opportunity. Or… someone with easy access.
A hotel employee. A waiter. A member of staff.
I search the room and the body one last time, then take the elevator down to the lobby to question the staff.
Nothing. No one saw anything. No one heard anything.
Except one man.
A cleaner claims he was struck at the neck and knocked out in the staff room. A part of me feels a surge of excitement—not for what happened to the poor man, of course—but because, for the first time, I feel closer to the truth.
“Unfortunately, I don’t remember what he looked like,” he says, defeated.
“I just remember someone walking in… and then attacking me out of nowhere.”
That brief spark of hope is extinguished just as quickly.
“Not even his height? Hair color? His clothes…?” I press, already knowing I’m reaching.
“Uh… maybe around five foot seven? I can’t be sure. Oh—and he was wearing a brown vest… I think.”
I pull out my worn leather notebook and jot down the details, then ask him to show me the staff room.
Everything looks normal. In order.
Still, I check the lockers—one by one.
Some uniforms are missing.
“Oh, Josh, Patricia, and the others are wearing theirs—that’s why,” the cleaner explains. Then he pauses, staring at one empty locker, confused. I turn toward him.
“Gabriel didn’t come in today. Said he was taking the day off. Strange that his uniform is gone…” he mutters, scratching his head.
Or maybe the killer took it, I think. Disguised himself as staff to avoid suspicion.To reach her room on the third floor.
“And then slipped out down the iron staircase… through the balcony.”
“How can you be so sure?” he asks skeptically.
“Well, since no one saw or heard anything, the most likely explanations are that he either blended in—or took the easier way out. The exterior stairs.”
We leave the staff room and return to the front desk.
“Well, if there’s nothing else, I believe I’m done here,” I say, slipping my notebook away.
“Thank you for your cooperation. You’ve been very helpful.”
We shake hands and part ways.
Outside, the oppressive heat hasn’t eased.,I walk over to my sapphire-colored Ford Model, slide behind the wheel, and start the engine, heading back toward the precinct.
Once there, I greet a few colleagues and make my way to my office. I shrug off my jacket in one smooth motion, tossing it onto the armchair, then adjust my cuffs as I cross the room and light a cigarette. The window is open and a soft breeze brushes against my cheekbones. I stand there for a moment, staring out. Then a knock.
Betty—my secretary—steps in, offering me a cup of coffee. I accept without hesitation and thank her. I move toward the board behind my desk. A tangled web of red string, photographs, documents, newspaper clippings, maps, and notes covers the wall. Chaos. Pure chaos. And yet… there’s order in it.
This time, unlike before, the stamps take center stage. I cross my arms, cigarette between my fingers, thoughts spiraling— Then I notice something. The victims’ ages.
There’s a pattern. Five-year intervals.
I exhale a thin stream of smoke.
Natalie Jones—forty-four.12Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ70pa0CpUY0
Theodore Moore—thirty-nine.12Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjjRhFp4uM1
Marlene Peacock—thirty-four.
Five years. Every time.
Only Rose Myers—nineteen—breaks the pattern. Fifteen years between her and Marlene. An anomaly. Maybe I’m seeing something that isn’t there. Still… I can’t ignore it. If the pattern holds, there are two missing pieces.
Twenty-four.12Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsYwBtkxCzQ
Twenty-nine.
I push the thought away, hoping I can close the case before that bastard claims another life. At that moment, Betty knocks lightly and hands me a steaming cup of black coffee before quietly leaving. I stub out my cigarette and take a sip—too quickly. Regret it instantly. A faint grimace crosses my face as I blow gently across the surface. My eyes return to the board. Four stamps so far. One for each victim.
A dove. A park. A train. The sea.
Is he trying to tell me something? Only time will tell.
For now, I have just two suspects.
Bob Murphy—forty-three. Railroad worker. Former inmate. Served two years for domestic violence.
Seth Morales—thirty-eight. History professor. Former inmate. Served five years for involvement in a cult.
Violence and method. Our killer has both. Neither of them does.
Outside, the sun dips below the horizon, making way for the rising moon and the fading light of dusk. My body and mind begin to feel the weight of the day. I need rest. The bed is calling.
Tomorrow, I continue. A new day. New answers.
I slip my jacket back on, turn off the lights, close the window, and lock the office behind me. The moon watches silently overhead.
ns216.73.217.115da2
and then Add to home screen.