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Roseline glanced at the clock on the wall. He was only five minutes late. Hardly an offense worth noting.
“Not at all,” she replied evenly. “Please, have a seat.”
Callan settled into the chair across from her. As he did, Roseline caught a whiff of his coffee. She watched discreetly as he lifted the mug to his lips and took a long sip.
Mid-sip, Callan paused, lowering the mug. “Oh, I’m sorry about that. Would you like me to grab you a coffee, too?”
Roseline blinked in surprise, caught off guard by the offer. It was a small but thoughtful gesture, one she hadn’t expected from him.
“I didn’t even think to ask if you wanted one,” Callan continued apologetically. “My mistake. I can run and get you one right now if you’d like.”
“Oh, um, no need for that,” Roseline stammered, waving her hand. “I appreciate the offer, but if I drink any more coffee right now, I’ll turn into a vibrating mess.”
She let out an awkward laugh, hoping to diffuse the sudden sincerity of the moment. His kindness had caught her off guard, challenging her preconceived notions about him. She made a mental note to recalibrate her initial impressions—perhaps he was more considerate than she had assumed.
“Well, the offer stands if you change your mind,” Callan said amiably. He took another sip of coffee before setting the mug down and folding his hands on the table. His expression grew more serious.
“So why don’t you bring me up to speed on everything you’ve uncovered about our suspect calling himself the Game Master? I’d love to get your take first.”
Roseline raised an eyebrow, a bit surprised by the gesture. Most detectives she had partnered with over the years were overly eager to flaunt their own ideas from the get-go. “Very well,” she began crisply. “I’ll summarize the key facts as I know them. But interrupt me with any questions. The technical details can get dense.”
Hemlock nodded, flipping open a fresh notebook and uncapping a pen. “I’m all ears,” he assured her.
Roseline walked him chronologically through the digital trail she had traced back to the Game Master’s earliest online activity, which wasn’t much before the Mani Alto murder. She explained how his encrypted presence initially surfaced on message boards frequented by criminals and those enthralled by violence. She also highlighted the growing followers, as revealed by her anonymous contact.
There, the Game Master advertised upcoming, strictly anonymous events for live-streamed content described as “artistic brutality and justice.” This caught Roseline’s attention, given the implicit reference to orchestrating actual crimes rather than broadcasting simulations or recordings. It was said that the murder of Alto was only an appetizer and that the next show would be even greater.
The organizer promoted this occasion as the following stage of amusement for refined spectators exhausted by the commonplace and foreseeable. Just a chosen few would get access to the selective substance he vowed to assemble and convey continuously, custom-made to the crowd’s intelligent requests. The more they paid, the more influence they would have over the “shows”. Furthermore, it was a restricted event, according to other forums.
Roseline paused, taking a sip from the glass of water on the table. Her mouth felt dry just summarizing the Game Master’s reprehensible operation. She noticed Hemlock’s jaw tighten as he jotted down notes. At least someone else shared her disgust.
She went on to explain how, at first, even she could find no hard evidence that the Game Master’s claims were more than just bluster and deception used to extort money from an eager audience. But then web chatter arose, suggesting the Game Master had recruited someone on the inside with access to despairing individuals who might embrace the promise of cash for shady dealings, and rumors circulated that the first performance was imminent.
“Beckner didn’t go into details, but there is another victim, too. Yesterday, at approximately 9:37p.m. Central Time, an encrypted live stream popped up in a closed forum,” Roseline continued, her voice tight. “I discovered it just moments after it started broadcasting. What I witnessed…”
She trailed off, seeing the crime scene again in her mind’s eye. Hemlock stared at her intently, pen frozen above his notebook. His mouth opened and closed as though he meant to urge her forward, but he held back.
She cleared her throat. “The Game Master had abducted a local mob boss named Vincent Garofalo. Dragged him before a camera in some dingy basement or warehouse space. You could just make out faint outlines of shelving in the shadows, the killer’s storehouse for instruments of torment.”
Callan watched Roseline intently as she described the disturbing live stream murder. It was almost unsettling, as if he could see the toll it had taken on her, having witnessed such depravity firsthand. Her usual composure seemed to waver ever so slightly as she recounted the details.
“I have a partial copy of the video archived,” Roseline said finally, breaking the silence that had fallen over them. She turned to open her laptop on the table beside the scattered case files.
After a few clicks, she angled the screen to face Callan. He leaned forward, steeling himself as the video loaded. Roseline’s eyes remained fixed on him, gauging his reaction.
“I must warn you, it’s... difficult to watch,” she added quietly.
Callan gave a solemn nod, his face neutral and professional despite the horror unfolding before him.
The footage was dark and grainy, clearly filmed with a handheld camera. The basement setting offered little sense of place. It could have been anywhere. In the center of the frame, a heavyset man sat bound to a metal chair with thick rope. His head lolled forward limply, either unconscious or drugged.
Callan said the name, clearly already acquainted with the victim, Vincent Garofalo. Roseline had read the initial file and the relatively important mobster who pulled several strings in the city. But why had this killer—the Game Master—targeted him? Roseline’s mind still tried to process that piece of information.
Garofalo began to stir as a figure dressed fully in black entered the frame. The Game Master. Roseline noted the black leather gloves and dark masquerade mask obscuring his face, the same as in Alto’s video. Smart choices to avoid leaving trace evidence that could identify him.
The Game Master grabbed Garofalo roughly by the hair, yanking his head back. Garofalo’s eyes flew open, and he let out a panicked yell that was muffled by a cloth gag.
“Welcome to the show,” the Game Master announced in a distorted voice. He turned and gave an exaggerated bow toward the camera.
