2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

RICHARD

I’m staring at the grim board plastered with pictures of our latest victim, Olivia Davis. It’s a chilling reminder of the evil that looms in the corners of our city.

I’m busy studying the crime scene photos when Luna and Noah walk in. Luna’s a sharp detective, and Noah’s a tech genius, making them an invaluable part of my team. They’re here for our daily discussion on the case that’s been haunting us.

“Hey, Profiler,” Luna greets me. The nickname doesn’t bother me; it’s been attached to my role in these investigations for years.

I nod at her, and we dive into the gruesome details. The way Olivia’s body was placed in a ritualistic form is chillingly similar to the previous murders, and the blood splatter is scattered all over, signifying a deeply personal kill.

All hail the devil is scrawled across the walls in Olivia’s blood, a message as cryptic as it is disturbing. As I take a sip of my drink, Luna and Noah chime in with their opinions.

“Rick, this looks like the work of a meticulous psychopath. The ritualistic elements and the message on the wall scream that this person is unhinged,” Luna says.

“The blood splatter patterns suggest a violent struggle. It’s almost as if the victim fought back, and the unsub took pleasure in it,” Noah adds.

I lean back in my chair. “This is a power play, no doubt about it. The unsub wants us to feel their control over the situation.”

We continue to toss around our theories like a game of darts, Luna and Noah each adding their own perspective to the grisly puzzle.

“I think this unsub might have a fascination with the occult. ‘All hail the devil’ written on the walls, the ritualistic murder—it all suggests someone deep into that shit.”

Noah nods in agreement, “Yeah, and the victim’s age falls within the previous pattern.”

I take another sip of my drink, letting their ideas wash over me. “You’re right, it’s not entirely random. The victims, all aged 23 to 26, they’re specifically chosen for a reason.”

Just as I’m about to elaborate, Emily, another profiler on the team, joins in. She’s visibly frustrated. “This case is driving me crazy, guys. We can’t seem to pin this fucker down.”

“I get it, Em. We’re all feeling the pressure. But the more we talk this through, the closer we get to finding this son of a bitch.”

My phone rings, and as I pick it up, I hear the familiar voice of our dispatcher. “Agent Reynolds, we’ve got another one. The address is 45 Elm Street.”

Without a word, I hang up, and the three of us head out to the scene. I prefer driving my trusty SUV when we’re on a case like this; it gives me a sense of control.

As we pile into the car, Noah starts filling me in. “The victim’s name is Cassie Taylor, twenty-five years old. There’s a witness, too, a guy named Liam who called 911.”

I nod, gripping the steering wheel tight. “Finally, someone or something who’s seen this fucker.”

We speed through the city streets. The thought of finally having a witness, a potential break in this gruesome pattern, fuels our determination to catch this monster once and for all.

We’re racing to the scene when I come to a halt at a red light. While I’m sitting there, working to keep my focus on the case, my eyes drift around.

That’s when I spot a woman in the car next to us, adjusting her bra in a way that emphasizes her cleavage. She flashes me a flirtatious smile, and all I can do is groan. I don’t have time for this shit right now.

But she’s not done. With a sultry tone, she shouts, “Officer, can I get your number?”

“Sure, it’s 911,” I smirk.

The woman’s pout deepens, and she actually pouts like a child denied candy. I shake my head, realizing the wait at this never-ending light isn’t worth it.

So, breaking the rules, I hit the gas and race off, leaving the flirtatious distraction behind. We’ve got a case to solve, and there’s no time for anything else, no matter how tempting it may be.

We finally reach the crime scene. Forensics and crime scene photographers are already hard at work. The crime scene is sectioned off, and the tapes are doing their job—keeping the curious onlookers at bay.

I spot a homicide detective, and we exchange nods before I ask, “What do we have?”

He grimaces, clearly not thrilled with what’s unfolded here. “The guy who called, Liam, isn’t our main witness. He showed up after the attack and was only able to catch a glimpse of the bastard from behind. But we’ve got a girl, a roommate, who was here during the whole thing. She’s the real deal.”

My heart sinks at the revelation. The Ghostface killer has struck again, and this time, he’s left behind more than just a corpse. The roommate’s got a massive slash on her leg, thankfully the medics have taken care of the bleeding.

I make my way towards the survivor, who turns out to be Izel Montclair . She’s smaller than I anticipated, barely 5’3” with a delicate, almost fragile frame. But there’s a certain sharpness about her that cuts right through the frailty of her appearance. Her pale skin has a porcelain-like quality, making the contrast with her dark brown hair even more striking as it falls in soft waves around her shoulders.

Her face... it’s captivating, but not in the conventional sense. There’s a tension in the way her high cheekbones frame her features, like she’s always on guard. Her nose is straight, refined, and her full lips are set in a way that makes it clear she’s not easily swayed. There’s a beauty to her, sure, but it’s the kind of beauty that warns you to tread carefully.

But it’s her eyes that draw me in. Every profiler knows that eyes are windows, but hers… hers are doors I’d be a fool not to want to open. Her mismatched eyes—one dark brown, deep as a midnight forest, the other a crystalline ocean blue. The brown eye feels hidden, a veil of mysteries, while the blue eye shines with intelligence and a challenge. The mix is captivating, like seeing two sides of her soul; one eye that draws me into a past I can’t access and another that challenges me to try.

Izel Montclair might look like the perfect victim to most, but something tells me she's far more than that.

I take a moment to gather my thoughts, ensuring my approach is both professional and empathetic.

Kneeling down to her level, I offer a soft, reassuring smile. As I lean in closer, I'm enveloped by a scent that’s both unexpected and comforting—a strange combination of lavender and cinnamon. “Ms. Montclair, I am Supervisory Special Agent Richard Reynolds with the FBI. I know this has been an incredibly traumatic experience for you, and I want you to know that I’m here to help. Our primary concern right now is your well-being and safety.”

I pause, giving her a moment to process my presence and words. “I understand that everything might feel overwhelming and confusing right now, but your statement is crucial in helping us piece together what happened here. We need to understand your perspective and experiences so we can not only bring those responsible to justice but also ensure that such a tragedy doesn’t happen again.”

She looks at me with a hardness that’s almost unnerving. She’s not scared, and that’s what strikes me. She isn’t shaking with fear or falling apart like most victims I’ve dealt with—no messy tears or blubbering pleas for help. I’ve seen grown men break down after seeing less than whatever the hell happened here tonight, but not her. She’s cool as ice.

I try again, softer this time, “Izel, I know this is tough, but your statement could be crucial in catching the person responsible.”

She hesitates for a moment, and it’s clear that getting the truth out of her won’t be easy.

“Ma’am, this is important. We need to know what happened here.”

She leans back slightly, regarding me with a raised eyebrow. “And why should I help you, Officer? You’re all the same.”

My irritation grows, but I push it down. We don’t have time for this. “I’m not just an officer. I’m with the FBI, and we’re dealing with a serial killer here.”

She smirks, unimpressed. “A serial killer, huh? You must be a busy guy.”

Yeah, busy. Too busy for me to be wasting time with your bullshit, is what I want to say, but instead...

“Yeah, you could say that,” I reply. “Busy enough that we need to stop him before he adds any more names to his list.”

“And here I thought the FBI had all the answers. Guess you’re more desperate than you look.”

I take a slow, deep breath. Patience, Richard. Stay focused.

“Izel,” I say, hoping to sound less like the bad cop. “I know you don’t trust me. I know you’ve probably dealt with your fair share of cops or feds who treat you like just another witness, just another person in the way. But this is different. There’s a killer out there, and you might be the only one who can stop him.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re giving me way too much credit.”

“No, I’m not.” I lean closer. “I’m giving you the exact amount of credit you deserve. Look, a man named Liam saw something. He called 911, and we think you might have information that could help us catch the person responsible.”

Izel finally shows a glimmer of interest. “Liam? He’s just some guy I know. What’s he got to do with this?”

I spot Liam in the background, fidgeting nervously. He’s not exactly eager to be in the spotlight, but he might be our only lead.

“Liam saw the person responsible running from the scene. He could have important information. But we need your account of what happened too.”

Izel’s gaze shifts to Liam for a moment. She takes a deep breath and begins to recount the terrifying events. “Fine. I was walking towards the front door, and I heard a struggle. I went to check, and that’s when I saw him. He had a knife, and he was covered in blood. He attacked me, but I managed to fight him off.”

I can see the fear in her eyes, the pain in her voice. It’s a stark contrast to her previous indifference.

Izel continues, “But it’s like he wanted me to see him, like he wanted me to remember. He whispered something before he left.”

I lean in, my heart racing. “What did he say?”

“He said, ‘The Devil’s playground has just begun.’”

It’s a chilling message, and it sends shivers down my spine. But we might finally have a lead, a glimpse into the twisted mind of the killer.

I turn to Liam, who’s been anxiously watching Izel’s account. “Liam, did you get a look at the guy’s face?”

He stammers, clearly overwhelmed. “I... I didn’t. I just saw him from behind. He was tall and wearing a hooded jacket. That’s all I know.”

“That’s something,” I say, nodding. “Anything else? Height, build, clothing?”

He hesitates, his fingers twitching like he wants to reach for a cigarette or something. “Tall. Maybe six foot. Broad shoulders, but not bulky. He was quick, smooth, like… I don’t know. Like he’d done this before.”

“He has,” I mutter, taking in the information. It’s not much to go on, but it’s something. We have a message and a general description of the unsub. It’s a start.

As I continue talking to Izel, I’m distracted by her disheveled hair, the bite marks on her neck, and her swollen lips. It’s clear that something happened here that goes beyond just being a witness.

“Where were you when this happened?” I ask with a hint of concern.

Her eyes narrow, and she’s quick to reply, “None of your business, Agent Reynolds.”

“We need to know what you were doing. It might help us.”

She doesn’t say anything after that, and I decide not to push her. Instead, I notice Liam watching us from a distance. Turning to him, I ask, “Liam, is she your girlfriend?”

He hesitates, clearly unsure of how to respond. But before he can say anything, Izel beats him to it, “Again, none of your business.”

I’m starting to sense that there’s more to this story than meets the eye. The torn camisole she’s wearing raises a red flag, and I can’t ignore it any longer.

“Did the killer try to force you or assault you in any way?”

Her response catches me off guard. “No, it was consensual with Liam.”

Liam just lets out a breath. But I can see through the lie. There’s something more going on here, something that Izel isn’t willing to share.

I nod, not calling her out on the lie. It’s clear that she’s trying to protect something or someone. This case has taken a bizarre turn, and Izel’s involvement might be the key to unraveling the truth. I know I need to tread carefully, not just for the sake of the investigation but for her well-being as well.

Emily walks onto the scene and scans the room as she assesses the situation.

“Izel, we’re trying to build a profile of Cassie, to understand who she was. Where was she from? Did she have a boyfriend? Any enemies or people who might want to harm her?” Emily questions.

“You just said it’s the serial killer. Why bother with the details of her enemies?”

I step in to explain our approach. “It’s important for us to consider all angles. While it might be the work of the serial killer, we can’t afford to make assumptions. We need to make sure we’re looking for the right guy, and that means exploring every possibility.”

“Cassie was from a small town, just outside the city. She didn’t have a boyfriend, at least not a serious one. She liked the attention, and she had her share of admirers.”

Emily nods, jotting down notes as she goes. “Did she ever mention having problems with anyone? Anyone who might have a grudge against her?”

“I don’t know. She had a few falling-outs with friends here and there, but nothing serious. It’s not like she had any enemies.”

As Izel shares this information, I’m drawn to every detail of her. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to read her. I can’t tell if she’s genuinely shaken up by the incident, or if she’s just apathetic to the whole situation. This is a first for me—my job is to profile people, but with Izel, I’m left guessing.