Erik's POV

It was no use.

The smoldering remains of the seemingly insignificant suburban house yielded no immediate clues as to its demise or the demise of the alleged arson victim. I stepped out of the SUV with as placid an expression as I could manage and tried to deflect the wails of sirens and the throbbing lights that seemed harsh in the early morning light. The local police force was desperately trying to section off the area from the on looking crowds, concerned as to what may have caused their neighbor's death. Almost immediately, a stalky, pasty, balding man stumbled up to me with a flustered appearance, and without a second glance I knew this must have been the chief of police, and to that end he began to bombard me with questions.

"What do you think you are doing? This is my crime scene, and this is a closed investigation! Who are you? Who is your supervisor? Sir, I'll need you to get off the premises immediately!" he blurted out; blissfully unaware of the nature of with whom he was speaking. It was only after he prattled off his speech that he took in the appearance of the man before him. Sure, my demeanor was one of intimidation, but combined with the full face mask? It was enough to make a grown man run, and it had before.

With my grip still on the car door, I slammed it roughly enough for the officer to flinch and reached into my pocket, grabbing the badge and holding it at arm's length for the blustery man to see.

"My name is Laurent. I am with the CIA," I explained, throwing a bit of arrogance into my voice for full effect. The officer paled.

"Th-the CIA?" he gulped. "I was told that this was a p-private—"

"And it is," I offered, cutting him off before he could blanch any further. "It just is not yours or your men's, so I would like the premises cleared for my ops team to take over."

Having nothing more to say, I brushed past the still stuttering chief and motioned for the rest of the crew to drive in. Three other SUV's swerved past the blockades.

"You didn't have to scare that poor man to death, Erik," came a voice from the other side of the car I had just exited. Jacoby, my second-in-command, shut the passenger door with a grumble and trudged to my side. The uppity British man was hard to please, especially after being dragged from sleep to the other side of the city for an arson investigation. Normally my unit did not take care of such drivel that the local police could handle, but the circumstances were too coincidental to be true, and I dared not hope it was a lead. I found myself thankful that it was local, for sometimes I was called away for weeks at a time across oceans.

I didn't reply, instead pressing my ring finger to my earpiece, triggering the com system. "I want everything and everyone cleared out. Drill team, start pushing back the blockades. No one gets through unless I give the word. Operations, I want a full-scale chemical rundown of the house; find out what started the flame and why. Jacoby will be with me; we will begin examination of the victim and start compiling a list of suspects. Hopefully we can find a trail while it's still hot."

"Fine, ignore me," Jacoby complained. I simply flicked my wrist in his direction, ordering him to follow me into the ruins of the house. In the back of my mind I knew he would get me back for this, but I wasn't about to tell him that he was the only specialist I knew in dealing with this specific case. I would never willingly speak praise about the irritating "friend" of mine, and heaven forbid I do it to his face.

I stepped through the doorframe carefully, seeing the operations agents already mowing the whole floor over to find any substance that could indicate the fuel for the fire. Broken remains of furniture lay scattered, support beams were charred, and smoke damage was visible everywhere. It scorched every wall, every cabinet; every article that could have caught on fire did.

"This doesn't make sense," I thought aloud. "The fire only burned for, what, a half an hour before fire crews arrived and extinguished it?"

Jacoby glanced down at the filed report in his hand, scanning the information. A few moments later he lifted his head and nodded in confirmation. "The amount of damaged done to the house suggests that more than one area was lit when the flames first started."

"It sounds like our little cold case criminal, does it not?" I said dryly. If Jacoby had responded, I had not been paying attention, for the com came to life and the voice of a spec agent crackled through.

"Sir, the body has been found. Second floor, right wing."

Hastily I swerved around the dozens of people milling about, being careful not to touch the walls that may give way at any second.

I made my way up the flight of stairs and turned to the right to inspect what they had found. The body was definitely that of a woman, but beyond that, identification would have to require a DNA sample test. If the rest of the house had been singed, this woman had been scorched. Angry red and black burns covered her entire body, with little clumps of charcoal-colored hair still clinging to her scalp. Any evidence of clothing was reduced to ash. The position the body was lying in was very strange and her shriveled hand seemed to be pointing towards the door at the end of the hall, hanging ajar. Leaving Jacoby behind to further inspect the victim, I gingerly stepped towards the door. Even though I half-knew what to expect, I still reeled back from the sight. The room was stripped and bore the same damage that covered the rest of the house like scabs, except for red writing on the wall, written over the charred remains. Step after step I took closer to the message, hardly believing that this particular criminal was still at large. Dead end after dead end I scraped bare trying to figure out who was causing this string of murders. For ten years I had tracked the man responsible for so much carnage. My fists clenched tightly with a rage I knew so familiarly as I leaned forward and dabbed my fingers into the red paint, still wet, though I did not know how that was possible. At least, until I caught a whiff of the odor it so pungently gave off, the substance I'd still believed to be paint.

It was blood.

"Erik," I heard Jacoby call as he strode into the room, scribbling on a pad of paper furiously in his unreadable script. "There are incisions in the woman's wrists, suggesting that she was drained of her vitals before the fire occurred. I am having the body sent to the lab for more conclusive tests, but I…" he gasped suddenly before murmuring, "Oh my God…"

"Yes," I pried the word out of my throat, where the anger and frustration were blocking anything else from reaching the surface. I swallowed it down as best I could. "It seems I have already come to that conclusion."

There, on the wall, written in that poor woman's blood, was the same message that had haunted my nightmares for ten long years.

"Your obedient servant," the wall mocked, as it if were staring directly into the past of the man I knew it was meant for.

Clearing my throat and pushing the unwanted memories down as far as I could, I ordered Jacoby to get pictures taken of the site and samples taken of the blood to make sure it was actually the woman's. I pushed past him rapidly and stalked down the stairs and out of the forsaken house. I spun around and stared blankly at the ruins. This woman probably had a good life, a family, friends, and a job. She would never get that back because of me.

I shoved the unsolicited thoughts away by focusing on the tasks that needed to be done and pressed my finger to the com. "I want ends tied and wheels up in ten. Operations, rally to HQ and get me those lab results as of yesterday." There was nothing I wanted more than to be rid of this monstrous serial killer. Jacoby nipped at my heels like a lost dog and I knew he wouldn't quit the area so easily after the discovery we had just stumbled upon.

"Erik," he insisted, tromping after me even though I increased my speed just to put distance between us. "Erik, please," he heaved again. Could he not tell that I had no wish to take part in this conversation? "Erik!" he shouted this time, placing a hand on my shoulder. I froze at the touch and threw his arm away from me, watching the man reel back from the sudden movement. He held my gaze stubbornly. No one ever touched me without malicious intent and it was purely reflex; I hated being condoned in that manner.

"Jacoby, it is not wise," I seethed, "to continue to berate me about this subject. Am I making myself entirely clear?"

Fortunately, the man swallowed hard and nodded. After finally receiving the reaction I desired, I yanked the car door open and started the engine. My newly timid partner climbed into the passenger side and was silent the entire drive back to the headquarters, not that I took much notice, as my thoughts were fogging up my mind like a sandstorm.

I stormed through the halls on the way to the briefing room, carrying three files in the crook of one arm and a large black coffee in the other, silently wishing for a stronger beverage instead. As much as I was dreading this debriefing conference I knew that I needed to get agents trailing our ghost as soon as humanly possible.

I threw open the door only to hear Richards, my commanding officer, yelling, "This is not acceptable! We need to get this guy in custody, or so help me you will all be out of a job!"

"Excellent observations," I said, breaking his train of thought. His hair was frazzled and he looked steamed. I kept my eyes level with his and my body still to counteract his frustration, even though I was rushing through the same emotion myself. "However," I continued, striding into the room and standing at the head of the long metal table, "We cannot find him without these lab reports." I slapped the files onto the desk.

Jacoby, the first chair on my right, was the only one who did not find my stoic behavior unsettling and picked up the file nearest him and began pouring over the pages.

"The victim, identified as Mary Daniels, formerly Daae, was a thirty-one-year-old divorcee working as a teller for the local bank. She had no children and an ex-husband, Cameron Daniels. Living relatives include one sister, a Christine Daae."

"Now," I continued, pacing to and fro across the front of the claustrophobic, windowless room, "I need these people brought in for questioning and their homes searched, and if they don't comply, get warrants."

Richards started, still staring blankly at me. He was about to let more useless drivel flow out of that gaping black hole he called a mouth before I cut him off, not in any mood to bear his incessant bellowing. "Richards, I appreciate your concern for this case," I lied, "But I have the situation under control. This is my case and I am perfectly capable of ordering my team around without your supervision." To make a point that he wasn't worth my time, I took a long sip of the coffee drink still residing in my hand, despite how difficult the task was with my covered face—little sips I could handle without making a spectacle, but the mask definitely limited my movement. The lip of the cup banged the masks edge, but I managed to prevent the beverage from spilling onto the front of my shirt.

I took a glance back at my opponent, who was about to blow a gasket. When he took slow steps out of the room I knew that my insults would not go unpunished but for the moment I had the upper hand. He slammed the door.

Sorelli, the resident chemist, spoke up at that moment and broke the tension, her voice still shaking but her person under control and in work mode. "The source of the fire was quite unusual. My report shows that a trail of kerosene was lead throughout the house, dousing much of the floor. Now, here's the strange part," she paused, flipping through the papers and pulling out a single photograph of the victim's body. "This was identified as the source of the flame."

I pondered her insinuation before questioning her. "The victim's person lit the match, so to speak?" I glanced at Jacoby, who seemed just as confused as I was. "I have it on good authority that the woman was dead before the fire even started."

This revelation struck a nerve throughout the room and everyone shifted visibly and uncomfortably. As much as I hated being out of the loop, an entire room of CIA operatives was infinitely more so.

"That cannot be right," Sorelli countered while frantically flipping through her notes.

"Jacoby, please share your findings from the autopsy report in the file you picked up," I asked, looking at the rattled man. Despite all of his exasperating insensibilities, he was a squeamish bloke.

"Certainly," he stammered. "The victim was found to be drained of her blood supply by two lacerations, one on each wrist." Jacoby loudly cleared his throat and continued, taking out a photograph of the morbid blood message and displaying it. "The blood on the wall was confirmed as Mary's."

I let the information settle over the team before voicing my theories. "Either she was killed, dried, and lit by our ghost, or the lacerations were made after the woman died from the fire. However, the latter theory presents the following issues: how could the body have been drained in the middle of a burning building? And how could the blood have been painted over the scorched wall?"

Jacoby spoke up again, with a bit more courage this time, "The cuts were burned like the rest of the body, not fresh. Also, it would be hard to drain the fluid unless it had been pumping inside a live body; otherwise the body would need to be placed vertically, and she was not found in the state."

"Yes; the position of the deceased presents another question: did she die in that spot coincidentally pointing towards the message, or was her body placed this way?" I commented, starting my usual habit of pacing across the worn carpet to focus my mind on more meaningful undertakings.

Hadley, one of the operation goons, offered his opinion then. "Our mystery guy would have had to be in the burning building to execute that. Is there any possible route where he could have discreetly exited the building without it coming down on top of him?"

I bit my tongue, fighting the urge to point out that there was very little possibility of him escaping a burning building. "Based on Miss Sorelli's finding about the source, the fire spread within seconds of the fire being lit, and the blood was applied over the smoke damage." Hadley's expression sobered promptly.

Silence finally dominated the room like fog. It was impossible to see through the confusion and I needed to step back and take a different angle before my frustration seeped into my ever-present pool of anger. I ran my fingers through my hair, a sort of involuntary reaction when nervous energy took over. I turned to face the blank slates awaiting orders.

"Get me the sister. We need another angle. Until then, start digging. See what you can find out from the fire department, and see what you can milk out of witnesses that were present during the fire. And get me in touch with the ex-husband. I don't care what it takes," I huffed, forcing my words out in one breath. Every face stood locked with mine, as if they were children expecting a dismissal. I placed my forehead in my palm, feeling every ridge and bump and angry scar. "Go, now. Get it done."

The room cleared out unexpectedly quickly. Jacoby still sat, for some reason I was oblivious to.

"Care to explain what you're still doing in here, Nadir?" I said, some ice spilling into my tone with the use of his first name. I knew it would irritate him.

Jacoby sputtered a bit. "Erik, you're getting a bit too overwhelmed with this." His eyes seemed full of concern, a sight that irked me. I did not like receiving his pity.

"I do not understand," I lied. Of course, I knew what he was referring to but decided against having a conversation about it.

"Erik," Jacoby said exasperatedly. "Do not let your craving for redemption drive you insane."

I scoffed at his blatant response. How dare he confront me about my personal affairs after such a grueling morning we both endured? With a sneer I leaned toward him, mocking, "You think my desire to get a serial killer out of the streets is reversion to the past? Is this not my redemption? Do you believe I am still the low, vile, creature you found me as? You think I want to satisfy my own bloodlust to end his?" my voice raised to a feverish pitch. "This man has a death wish, but I shall see him behind bars before I ever…" the climax of fury I had reached only moments before faltered as the uncensored memories washed over me. I turned away from the man, refusing to allow my eyes discourse with his. "I will never kill for pleasure. Never again," I whispered, my voice cracking. Oh, how I hated appearing weak, but for his sake I would do anything to prevent my rage from causing rash decisions. Even if that meant not strangling him when the idea seemed so terribly wonderful at the moment.

"I never said anything about killing," Jacoby said firmly but gently.

"Well then, rest assured," I said, gathering as much composure as I could muster and turning back to the man. "You will conduct the family interviews. I understand that as soon as I step out that door"—I gestured stiffly to the door—"I am in for words with Richardson."

Saying nothing, just nodding, Jacoby stole out of the room and was already in the process of making calls.

I found myself suddenly grateful for my acquaintance. Never would I dare to tell him such nonsense, but nevertheless the weight-lifting relief was present. The feeling, however comforting, was unfortunately fleeting as I spied the photographs strewn across the table.

If I could not apprehend this murderer, I could never really be free from my mistakes. No one else deserved to die for the torment I both endured and inflicted. This poor woman had had a family. A sister. She probably had known a happy life. All of that ended because of me.

I took a small swig of the caffeinated drink still in my hand. It was going to be a long day.