.
.
.
The air smelled of death.
It was a distinct fragrance, entirely separate from any other, a solemn herald of what lay ahead—it was a scent that had grown much too familiar over the past decade, his nostrils attuned through years of experience. He was no stranger to death's echo—a bitter aroma, heavy upon his senses—but even now, after encountering so many scenes that mirrored the one before him, it never failed to send a pang of nausea curling down his stomach.
Most of his colleagues were not quite so squeamish; in this line of work, a certain resilience was needed, an ability to detach from the world. It was not a field that everyone could emerge from unscathed—some were unable to handle the emotional toll upon their spirit, closing themselves from all feeling in order to remain tethered to sanity—and, while his spirit was strong, it was a habit that he often indulged in.
Numbness was a common malaise among those he worked with—they were often privy to the most chilling aspects of human nature, forced to encounter that darkness on a regular basis, exposed to displays of such horrible carnage that it seemed as if mortal eyes were not meant to witness them—and most people were swift to detach themselves from it, shielding themselves with a cold, clinical stoicism. It was no surprise, given what surrounded them, that they were so desensitized to violence; it was the only way to survive, to prevent being overwhelmed by what they had seen.
They had stared into the abyss for too long, and now, the abyss was peering into them; he had been shaken by that harsh, unforgiving truth, as had so many others.
Death no longer held the power to move him as it once did—now, it was just another body, like objects being arranged on a shelf—and while he still mourned, still felt that twinge of sorrow at the life that had been snuffed out, it felt more perfunctory than emotional. Most of those he encountered were strangers to him, caught by some unjust fate—while he yearned to mourn them as if they were his own kin, he could not afford to allow despair to overcome him, to hinder the work that had to be done.
A few meters ahead, lights flared through the darkness—a swirling cascade of red and blue, flickering like intermittent candles—and he crossed the street at a brisk pace, dreadful anticipation creeping up his spine. With every step, the aroma seemed to grow thicker—hanging in the shadows that surrounded his advancing form, still and heavy, choking the very air around him—but, as before, he weathered the storm. He had been one of the last to arrive on the scene, called from the other side of town; the murder had caught them by surprise, giving the department little time to prepare.
The perimeter had already been sectioned off—rows of yellow tape sealing the alleyway on either side, barring the crime scene from any outside scrutiny—and almost a dozen cars were circled around the adjacent street, their lights scattering on the sidewalk beneath him. It was nearing midnight, silvery rays of moonlight draping across the entrance of the alley, lingering upon the asphalt with an eerie stillness-and for an instant, it was as if he were looking into some surreal portrait, a bleak landscape of shadows.
"Evening, Cavanaugh." As he stepped onto the curb, wading through a throng of bystanders, one of his colleagues moved to greet him—Lorenzo, a rookie to the department. They weren't partners—he hadn't had a partner for quite some time, preferring to drive solo, as his first partnership had not ended well—but they were friends, bonded in the manner that only two people of the same profession could be.
"Calderon." Toby greeted, eyes darting over the man's shoulder, into the depths of the alleyway beyond—if he had any doubts that it was a homicide, they would have been dispelled by the sheer amount of officers that were inspecting the scene. The alleyway was framed by high, jagged walls, a stretch of asphalt that lay between two buildings withered by age; this was definitely one of the poorer sections of town, deep within the outskirts of Rosewood. "Do we have another victim?"
"Yeah. Same pattern as the others." Lorenzo confirmed, voice solemn, tilting his head in the direction of the alley-and Toby felt his spine curl with a horrible shiver, a sense of cold that seemed to resonate through the marrow of his soul. He often dreaded this particular case; a string of murders that had plagued the city for years, following an identical pattern, but unable to be solved. The perpetrator always struck in the evening—a preference that had caused local media stations to dub him The Midnight Killer, a moniker that quickly gained a notorious reputation in the town—and while they had formulated several theories about his identity, none had proved correct.
Whoever the perpetrator was, he did not discriminate in selecting his victims—male or female, young or old, all were targeted with sadistic relish—and the bodies were often posed like dolls, stripped of all clothing. He had been assigned to the case a few months after the murders began, one of the first detectives to theorize a profile on the suspect, and its gruesome nature had taken a heavy toll; it often left him with a bitter taste in his mouth, a palpable filth, as if that darkness had crept into his soul.
Sleep tended to elude him whenever he was forced to study that particular case—despair weighed heavy upon his thoughts, a curtain of blackness that seemed to smother his senses—and he was grateful that the suspect often vanished for months at a time, either to cover his tracks or prepare for his next victim.
"You're probably not going to like this, but Tanner wants you to be one of the leaders of this investigation." Lorenzo's voice disrupted the silence, as if reading his thoughts from the ether-but it was the man's next words that drew him to a sudden halt, surprise jolting down his abdomen. "She just reassigned you to work with Detective Hastings; since you two have been on the case the longest, she said it would be best if you combined your insight."
"If that's what she wants, then I have no problem with it." Toby was careful to keep his voice even, nonchalant, though a tempest of emotions was raging beneath his chest—a tangle of something that even he could not understand, potent as a blazing inferno. It had been over a year since he had been partnered with Detective Hastings—with Spencer, his first and only partner since he entered the department as an officer—and at the time, separation had been in the best interest of their respective families, a final attempt to salvage what had already been broken.
Through the murky, scattered light, he could see her approaching them—a tall figure, poised and purposeful, her features identical to those that dwelled in his memories—and, as Lorenzo stepped away to give them privacy, he couldn't bring himself to advance a single step. His thoughts were pulled towards older memories, towards a time that seemed so long ago-and warmth crept through his blood like a siren's call, unbidden, throwing shivers down the length of his back. That familiar longing, buried but never erased, swept through him with paralyzing intensity—even as it captivated his senses, a feeling he had never quite been able to shed, he hated its very emergence.
Their partnership had not left either of their lives unscathed, not since they—
Don't go there. He banished the thought with a practiced discipline, tightening his focus—it was the only way to quell the other thoughts that were now swelling within him, whirling together like a choppy storm. It's in the past.
Spencer drew to a halt before him, features unreadable, though her eyes held a flicker of warmth—an electricity that seemed to jump between them, still and heavy, thickening the air. Given what the connection they had once shared, a stilted reunion was likely not what either of them were expecting, but their history had grown too convoluted for it to be anything else; there was too much baggage, too many memories.
He held her eyes for only a moment before glancing away, towards the silent darkness that seemed to envelop them—he had never been quite so eager to distract himself, to force his attention to the matter at hand. In the wake of Tanner's decree, it seemed as if such uncomfortable moments were about to become far more commonplace—like with all changes, the only option was to adapt, though it was easier said than done.
"Hello, Toby." When silence greeted her remark, Spencer narrowed the distance between them, her voice dropping to a private whisper. "Let's pretend, at least for a second, that this is new to us. Alright?"
"Sure." It felt awkward, to slip behind a façade of professionalism-but regardless, his voice was clipped, a curt rejoinder. "Have they gotten an ID on the victim?"
"The victim's name is Hanna Marin, a college student from the south side of town." As they turned, walking together into the grim depths of the alleyway, Spencer continued to rattle off more details. "We don't know who called it in; it could be the perpetrator, could be some bystander. It's a little early to know for sure, but it seems to match the Midnight Killer's pattern."
Somewhat absently, Toby nodded, allowing the rest of their jaunt to pass in silence—he knew his mind was unbalanced, thrown into disarray by their abrupt reunion, and it wouldn't do him any good to let it remain scattered. Guilt was crawling through his limbs, like some bitter poison, unquenchable; he deserved every ounce of it, he knew, a torture cemented by his own choice.
Neither of them had intended for it to happen—the torrid affair that had destroyed their respective marriages, forcing them to put an end to their partnership, lest the fallout grow beyond what it already had—but they had chosen their fate, and the ripple of consequences that came with it. The earliest years of their partnership had been quite innocuous—at first strangers, they grew ever closer, a connection nurtured by months spent at each other's side—and, after such a long period of working together, they knew each other better than they knew their own spouses.
They had cultivated an indelible bond, a depth of feeling that surpassed everything he had known before—a strong, intimate friendship that eventually bloomed into passion, fueled by their mutual weakness and a pair of unfulfilling marriages—but the clarity of the present drowned him in shame, in a revulsion so deep it was difficult to look at himself in the mirror. He had indulged in an emotional affair long before the sexual aspect of their relationship began—committing the cardinal sin of every relationship, sharing the deepest parts of himself with someone else—and, though he was reluctant to admit it, it had been much easier to confide in Spencer than his wife.
Yvonne's embrace may as well have been a wooden marionette—cold and stiff, as if in representation of their emotional distance, something that plagued them even in the earliest weeks of their marriage—but it was no excuse to seek comfort elsewhere. He had been too much of a coward to make his grievances known, instead running from their problems, preferring to hide in secrecy like a child—for that weakness, his wife despised him, and she had every right to.
Even her hatred, so scathing and profound, could not mirror the remorse that burned within his own heart; he would spend an eternity to atone for his sin, if need be, even if absolution was a fool's hope.
The responsibility had always been his to bear—and his alone.
Upon catching his first glimpse of the body, his thoughts scattered—in that singular instant, everything else seemed so trivial, burned away by the grim tableau of carnage before him—and he wavered to a stop, peering down at the corpse below.
The girl's body cast an eerie portrait, haunting in its stillness, her golden hair strewn amidst flecks of crimson; beneath a curtain of moonlit shadow, her features seemed so surreal, almost like a veneer of plastic. Her mouth hung open—frozen in a perpetual expression of anguish, as if she had died with a scream upon her lips—and her eyes were just as wide, cloudy and unseeing. She was sprawled a few meters from the mouth of the alleyway, stripped of all clothing, her pallid flesh marred with a series of gruesome mutilations—as if she had been crucified, her limbs arranged in a mocking rendition of Christ.
Toby knelt beside the corpse, ignoring the horrible chill that swept up his stomach—Hanna's blood tainted the midnight air, a cold, metallic scent. Just beneath her ribcage, he spotted the Midnight Killer's distinct signature; a jagged piece of flesh had been cut from her corpse, likely another trophy to be added to the bastard's collection.
"I don't know what Tanner wants us to do that we haven't already done." He glanced up at Spencer, frustration biting at the edges of his voice—it was as if all of his emotions from the evening were channeled into anger, snapping forth in a single instant. "We still don't have any leads; just because we know who's killing these people doesn't mean we're any closer to figuring out who he is."
"Everyone slips up. Sooner or later, we'll find something." Spencer reassured, calm and poised, even in the face of death; that stoic discipline was a quality he had always admired in her, a resilience that he often found himself lacking. "He left a message." She continued, gesturing to the wall above Hanna's body with a deft flick of her arm-and he followed her gaze, spotting a phrase written across the ashen surface.
It was chilling in its simplicity, scrawled upon the wall above, a message carved in crimson lettering:
Look closer, Detective Cavanaugh.
"He knows my name." Toby rose to his feet, speaking more to himself than Spencer, a shiver crawling up his skin-and he fought the urge to glance over his shoulder, as if a pair of eyes were burning into him from the shadows. It had been a long time since he had felt this kind of fear, terror of such an intimate nature, sending the first whispers of dread through his spine—he had not escaped the murderer's notice, singled out on a personal level, and it made his stomach tighten with a surge of cold.
"We should get back to the precinct. Tanner will want to know about this." Turning in Spencer's direction, he pushed that fear aside, steeling his resolve; he had known the dangers of this job, and he would face them with dignity. He understood the Midnight Killer's psyche on a level that few could match—as one of the veterans of the case, he had spent what felt like years absorbing every detail they could incorporate into his profile—and that knowledge gave him an advantage, along with the strength to endure whatever mind games were placed before him.
Nevertheless, as they began to head towards his vehicle, he was more alert than usual—eyes darting into the blackness of night, adrenaline simmering beneath his skin like an electric current—and even as he hoped for the best, he feared the worst. The department had already lost several officers to the murderer's reign of terror, casualties in an ongoing battle that had lasted for years; if he was among the killer's list of targets, the danger was very real.
He could feel Spencer's eyes upon him, concerned, no doubt sensing the tension that curled through his shoulders; even after so long, she was still an expert at divining his mood. He made no move to acknowledge her scrutiny, circling towards the driver's side of the vehicle, only for a hand on his arm to bring the movement to a sudden halt-and he was pulled back around, turned to face her.
"He can't outmaneuver us forever, you know that. We'll get him." Spencer began, drawing closer, as if to strengthen the truth of her argument-but the feeling of her touch sent a rush of warmth through his skin, forcing his thoughts down a different path. Her hand lingered upon his arm with a lover's intimacy—an easy, natural affection, a gesture that could only be mirrored by two people very much familiar with the other's body—and, while he almost stepped back, something from deep within seemed to hold him still.
It was as if a dam had been flayed open, flooding his mind with ripples of memory—of nights spent tangled in passion, a collection of ill-fated trysts that had left him feeling more alive and content than an entire lifetime. He had never imagined, or wanted to imagine, that love could manifest itself within something as rotten as infidelity-yet it had been a deep affection that had drawn them together, for better or for worse.
"Spencer..." Toby cast a pointed glance down, at her hand, and she at last drew back; in spite of himself, the ensuing jolt of loss seemed to resonate through his soul. "Just because we're partners again, it doesn't mean that things can be the same." Sorrow flickered beneath Spencer's eyes, a flash of light in those murky shadows, and her lips tightened; she was hurt, he could tell, and it made him want to retract the words.
"What happened between us...it was more than lust." Spencer countered, voice thick with emotion, an undeniable truth. "You know that."
He knew all too well—carnal desire had been just one component of their relationship, a relationship that had seemed as natural and pure as drawing a breath—and the conflict maddened him, as if two beasts were raging for supremacy. "You're right." The words seemed to struggle up his throat, as if voicing them aloud was some secret sin—some taint upon the sanctity of his shattered marriage, a marriage that had been severed long ago.
In the wake of his labored confession, a heavy stillness seemed to hang in the air—a solemn cloud, rich with emotion, so thick it was hard to decipher—and after what seemed like forever, Spencer was the one to disrupt it, her voice strengthening with a passionate resolve.
"I'm sorry for what happened to our families, and I regret that every day, but I can't apologize for caring about you." Her hand found his own, firm and steady, bringing a warmth that seemed to flow between their interlocked fingers. "And I never will." Unbidden, his fingers tightened around hers, savoring the feeling of euphoria that buoyed his spirit—that deep contentment, the simple pleasure of her touch.
Some days, it had felt as if they had been cursed, damned to follow their hearts on a path to ruin-but for now, nothing seemed to matter but the warmth of her hand.
He wanted this moment of peace with her—at least, before the illusion was shattered once again.
.
.
Fin.