Chapter 3

The silence in the apartment felt heavier than usual that night when I got home, thick with the unsaid, the unspoken frustrations that clung to me like the precinct’s stale smoke. It was a couple of days after we found Tommy Jenkins, and the case was colder than a witch’s tit. The rain had finally let up, but the city still felt soaked, the air heavy with dampness and despair. I was sprawled on the couch, the TV a low murmur in the background, not really watching, just letting the noise fill the empty spaces. Gracie was in the kitchen, humming softly as she put away dishes. That gentle sound was usually a balm, but tonight, even it felt a little… distant.

“Rough day?” she asked, her voice soft, like always. She came over, sat on the edge of the couch, and gently took the tablet from my hand. It was open to a news article, another one of those screaming headlines about the "Phantom Killer."

I just grunted, pushing a hand through my hair. “Every day’s rough when you’re chasing ghosts. This guy he’s too good. Too damn good Gracie.”

She leaned her head on my shoulder, warm and solid. “You’ll catch them, Dave. You always do.”

I closed my eyes, letting her warmth sink in, but even that couldn't shake the chill deep inside me. “Not this one. Four victims, and we’ve got squat. No witnesses, no prints, no forensics worth a damn. It’s like they just walk in, do the job, and vanish into thin air.” I sighed, the exhaustion pressing down on me. “Every one of these guys, they’re trash. Abusers, creeps, lowlifes. But someone’s making them pay. Someone’s playing God.”

She didn’t say anything for a beat, just squeezed my hand. “Maybe… maybe that’s why it’s so clean. No one’s exactly crying over these guys, are they? It makes it harder to get people to talk. And maybe the killer knows these types. Knows how they operate. Knows how to get close.”

I sat up straight, pulling away slightly, not because I wanted to, but because her words sparked something. “That’s what’s messing with me, you know? It’s too specific. These aren't random hits. Someone’s picking these guys out. And they’re doing it with a purpose. It’s personal.” I ran a hand over my chin, the stubble grating. “I just can’t figure out the connection. We’ve run their names through every database, cross-referenced every known associate. Nothing solid linking them, beyond their shared history of being scumbags.”

“Maybe the link isn’t obvious,” she offered, her voice still quiet, thoughtful. “Maybe it’s not something official. Like… maybe they all knew the same victim, even if they didn’t know each other.”

I looked at her, really looked at her. Her eyes were wide, earnest, always looking for the good in people, even when talking about the bad. That’s what I loved about her. Her unwavering belief that things could be better, that people deserved justice. “That’s a hell of a jump, but we’ve thought about it. We’re digging into every past victim, every domestic call related to these guys. It’s a mountain of paperwork. But so far… nothing. No single person links all of them in a way that makes sense.”

She just nodded slowly, then squeezed my hand again. “Well, you’ll figure it out, Babe. You always do.”

That night, sleep was a battle. My mind kept replaying crime scenes, flashing through victim photos, trying to find that one missing piece. The face of the first victim, Richard Vance, kept popping up. The soccer coach. Charges for child molestation never stuck, but everyone knew. I’d seen him once, years ago, when a worried parent came to the precinct. Vance had smiled, smug and untouchable, shaking my hand like we were old buddies, talking about community involvement. It made my skin crawl even then. Now, he was dead. Justice, in a way. But not our justice.

The next morning, the precinct was a beehive of activity, despite the grim faces. Ben was already at my desk, pouring over reports. “Morning, sleeping beauty,” he grumbled, pushing a mug of lukewarm coffee my way. “Commissioner’s on our ass. Media’s blowing up. Another op-ed about how we’re failing the city.”

I took a long swig of the coffee, grimacing at the taste. “Great. Just what I needed.” I tossed my bag onto my chair. “Anything new on Jenkins?”

“Forensics finally finished combing through his apartment. Nada. Clean. Like the killer knew exactly what they were looking for, or rather, what they weren’t looking for,” Ben said, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “No forced entry, like the others. The door was locked from the inside. Whoever killed him, they were let in, or they had a key.”

“Or they picked the lock without leaving a trace,” I muttered, pulling up the case file on my computer. “Or they’re just that damn good.”

The idea of the killer being someone known to the victims kept gnawing at me. Someone they’d let into their lives, or their homes. But who? These men had so many enemies, so many people who wanted them dead. The sheer number made it impossible to narrow down. And yet, this killer had. With terrifying precision.

We spent the morning chasing shadows. Interviewing Jenkins’s few remaining acquaintances, none of whom had anything useful. Another dead end. The same old song and dance. Ben and I went through the entire case board again, trying to see something new. We had photos of the victims, their rap sheets, maps of the crime scenes. Four dots, spread across the city, seemingly unrelated beyond the brutal efficiency of their demise.

“Look, Dave,” Ben said, pointing a pen at the board. “Abuser, harasser, predator, abuser. It’s a pattern. Someone’s targeting these specific types of guys. So, who would know all these guys were scumbags, but also manage to get close to them without suspicion?”

When she talked, her voice was low, clear, and steady. It was the kind of voice that grounded me, especially when I was spiraling into my case. It was a voice that never judged, always listened. She was my calm in the storm, my quiet harbor. The one person in my life who felt completely real and utterly trustworthy.

Sometimes, I’d tell her about the cases, the victims, the messed-up stuff I saw. She'd just listen, eyes soft with understanding. She’d often say, "It's a shame the bad ones always get away with it."

That line just hung in the air. "The bad ones always get away with it." It’s what everyone says, victims, cops, even me sometimes. But with this case, someone was making damn sure they didn't get away with it. Someone was dishing out their own twisted justice.

I looked back at the corkboard, at the faces of the dead men. Tommy Jenkins, the abuser. The bar owner, the creep. The landlord, the creep. The coach, the pervert. All guys who’d caused so much pain, who’d slipped through the cracks. And now, they were gone.