"Stalking behavior," Finch agrees. "We'll need to canvas his workplace, check security footage from his regular stops. See if anyone was paying unusual attention to his movements."
Martinez begins packing up his preliminary examination tools, careful not to disturb the scene before the photographers finish their work. "I'll have more details after the full autopsy, but my initial assessment stands. This was planned, methodical, and executed by someone with significant anatomical knowledge."
"How soon can you get us those results?" Finch asks.
"Two days, maybe three. I want to be thorough with this one." Martinez straightens up with a slight grimace, his knees protesting decades of crouching over crime scenes. "There's something about this case that feels different. More personal."
Personal. The word hangs in the air between us, loaded with implications that make my chest tight. Because Martinezis right—this does feel personal. It feels like a conversation, a carefully crafted message sent across time and distance by someone who knows exactly how to reach me.
And the most terrifying part is that I want to respond.
I want to find whoever did this and demand answers to questions I've carried for nine years. I want to know why they've chosen now, why they've chosen Chen, why they've chosen to drag me back into a nightmare I thought I'd escaped.
But I can't do any of those things. Can I? No. No, I—I can only stand here in Marcus Chen's kitchen, surrounded by the smell of blood and disinfectant.
"Fascinating positioning," a voice says from the doorway, and I turn to see Dr. Evelyn Shaw entering the kitchen with the measured steps of someone who owns every room she enters.
Shaw is older than me by a mere decade, but her presence feels ageless—the kind of authority that comes from years of being the smartest person in the room. Ebony hair pulled into a sleek chignon with a mystifying amount of silver artfully streaked through it, complimented by her charcoal suit that suggests serious money and serious ambition, and eyes that catalog every detail with the precision of a surveillance system. She's a senior forensic psychologist at my workplace, technically my mentor, though the dynamic between us has always felt more like competition than collaboration.
The kind of woman who believes in the system because the system has always worked for her.
"Dr. Shaw," Finch acknowledges with a nod. "Didn't expect to see you here so early."
"I was reviewing case files when the call came in," Shaw replies smoothly, pulling out her leather-bound notebook and expensive pen. She doesn't crouch beside the body like Martinezdid, doesn't get close enough to smell the blood and disinfectant. Instead, she positions herself where she can observe the entire scene—and everyone in it. "Dr. North, interesting to see you consulting on this case. I thought you specialized in domestic violence patterns?"
The comment sounds innocent enough, but I catch the subtle probe. Shaw knows exactly what my specialties are, has signed off on my consultant work for the past three years. This is her way of asking what I'm doing at a serial murder scene.
"Detective Finch requested my perspective on the psychological aspects," I respond neutrally. "The ritualistic elements suggest organized behavior patterns."
"Indeed, they do." Shaw makes notes with quick, precise strokes, her handwriting as controlled as everything else about her. "I've been researching similar cases since I transitioned from police consulting. The methodology reminds me of patterns I documented during my time with the Metro PD."
My blood goes cold.
She pauses, pen poised above her notebook. "There's also a signature element that hasn't been shared with the media. Small objects placed within the body cavity before closure. Personal items, usually. Things with sentimental significance. I remember documenting similar techniques in cold cases from my police consulting days."
The floor seems to tilt beneath my feet, but I force myself to remain standing.
"That's quite specific," I manage to say. "Have you established any connection between the victims?"
"Still working on it," Shaw replies, but her tone suggests she already has theories she's not sharing. "What's yourpreliminary assessment of this scene, Dr. North? Professional opinion?"
The question feels like a test, each word carefully chosen to see how much I'll reveal.
"Organized offender," I say, falling back on standard profiling language. "High intelligence, likely experienced in evading detection. The ritualistic elements suggest personal significance rather than random violence. This killer is working through something specific."
"Working through what, do you think?" Shaw presses, her pen still poised.
I can feel Finch watching our exchange with growing interest, noting the subtle tension crackling between us. His detective instincts are too sharp to miss the undercurrents, the way Shaw's questions feel more like interrogation than consultation.
"Hard to say without more data," I deflect. "The positioning could represent control, domination, or even a form of worship. Serial killers often develop elaborate internal mythologies to justify their actions."
"Worship," Shaw repeats, making another note. "Interesting word choice."
Before I can respond, Martinez stands up with a slight grunt, his examination complete. "I'll need to transport the body for autopsy. Should have preliminary results by tomorrow afternoon."
"Make sure you document everything inside the chest cavity," Shaw instructs. "Photographs, measurements, complete chemical analysis of any foreign materials."
The casual way she mentions the chest cavity makes my pulse spike. She knows. Somehow, despite never havingexamined this specific body, she knows about the irregular suturing pattern I noticed but didn't mention.
