Kate stepped inside, tugging latex gloves into place.The smell hit immediately—iron, raw and metallic, clinging to the air like cold breath.
Jennifer Hayes was on her knees in the center of the living room, forehead touching the floor, arms at her sides.A rigid supplicant.A grotesque imitation of prayer.Her throat had been opened in a single, decisive slash.
A scarlet collar.
CSIs clustered around the body, murmuring measurements, identifying spatter patterns, and sliding evidence markers into place.The clicking of camera shutters punctuated the room like insects ticking against glass.
Marcus crouched beside the victim."Clean," he murmured."One stroke.Deep.But short and precise.Unusual.”He stopped himself, one of those moments you have when your business is death.“Whatever usual is.Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing.”
Kate nodded, eyes narrowing as she studied the scene.The kneeling posture.And—most strikingly—the photograph.
In a simple clip-frame.A stern, proud-looking man in a business suit, early fifties in front of a building.There was a certain look in his eyes that saidthis is all mine.
“Strong Old Testament vibes,” Marcus said quietly.“Sacrifice.Submission.Atonement.”
Kate exhaled slowly.“It’s more than that.This… this is a sermon.It’s like him, but not like him.”
“You mean Cox?”
She nodded.
“Cox,” she said, “has never posed bodies like this.And he’s always been subtle with the symbolism—coded messages, obscure alphabets, arcane scriptures.Layers upon layers.”
“And this guy?”Marcus asked.
“This guy is direct.Almost enthusiastic.He wants us to see it.Wantseveryoneto see it.”
She crossed to the desk in the corner—the one Sullivan had pointed out when they'd arrived—and saw the artwork.
One was a drawing, pen and ink on sketch paper.
She photographed it.
Two stone tablets, side by side.Ten lines total.Five on each.The 5th line on the left tablet was underlined.
Kate zoomed in on her phone.The lines weren’t actual writing, just quick horizontal strokes to indicate text.No letters.No numbers.The underlined fifth mark sat like a scar across the left tablet.
“What do you think?”Marcus asked.
“Superficially, it’s the fifth commandment,” Kate said.“Honor thy father and thy mother.But that’s too easy.Too obvious.”
“And we already know that’s the theme.”
“Exactly.So the underline isn’t really telling uswhat—it’s telling us something else.Likewhere to look.Or who.”
Marcus frowned.“I don’t usually feel this dumb this early in an investigation.”
“I think this killer wants to show he’s not just following Cox’s pattern.He’s embellishing it.Interpreting it.Personalizing it.”
She photographed the second piece. This was a small painting, done in oils that still smelled; she caught a whiff that reminded her of school, her beloved art teacher: a voice of both sanity and sedition among the nuns.
It was on a small canvas, portrait-format, maybe seven inches across and ten top to bottom.This one was jarring in a different way—comical at first glance, yet deeply unsettling.A portly, well-dressed man sat at a lavish table, goblet in hand, mouth open mid-speech.Behind him crept an older woman in a shawl, arm raised, ready to box his ears.The style was unmistakably that of a 19th-century satire—lurid colors, comically exaggerated expressions.
“What the hell isthatsupposed to be?”Marcus asked.
Kate shook her head.“It’s moralizing.Victorian.Punchmagazine, maybe, or something like it.The powerful man oblivious to the judgment behind him.”
“From an older woman,” said one of the CSIs, peering at the picture as she passed by.
