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It wasn't just the murders that were premeditated; it was the entire storyboard. She felt like she was peeling back layers of a dark, intricate tapestry. The more she delved, the more she discovered patterns and repetitions, echoes of a mind obsessed with detail, control, and cinematic flair.
She thought of the messages, the victims, the masks – or one mask in particular. The mask at Ginny Mathers’ scene wasn’t of a famous horror icon, because that horror icon hadn’t made it to the screen.
Yet.
Then she thought of the Dread Pages. The threads she'd idly read, convinced she wasn't making any headway when, really, she'd seen it all in black and white.
I AM IN HELL HELP ME.
The heavy weight of frustration that had been pressing on her for days started to lift, replaced by an exhilarating rush of adrenaline. The world around her faded, consumed by the cascade of revelations. Gone was the weary investigator, and in her place was a detective alight with fervor. The once calming surroundings of the river and the greenery were now just a blur in her peripheral vision. Her focus was singular - the precinct. She felt like a bloodhound that had just picked up a scent, leading straight to its quarry.
The pace of her heartbeat quickened. For the first time, she felt like she was starting to grasp the magnitude of the unsub's vision. It wasn't just about the thrill of the kill; it was the theatrics, the legacy. He wanted to be immortalized, and not just as a serial killer.
Because this unsub was a film director.
And she even had the title of his movie.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
Ella barreled into the precinct, boots rapping off the polished floor as she stormed past busy officers, turning heads and halting conversations. She navigated the maze of desks and officers with an agility borne out of urgency. Her eyes darted around, scanning the sea of faces for one in particular. Spotting Mia Ripley at the coffee machine, she made a beeline in her direction.
Ripley looked up, clearly startled by the commotion, her eyebrows raised in question. But before she could utter a word, Ella was there, grabbing her arm and pulling her back to her desk.
‘Mia, listen to me. I know what’s going on.’
Ripley’s coffee had spilled over her hands. ‘Thanks for the third-degree burns, Dark. I couldn’t wait for your coffee any longer. I was about to die.’
‘Coffee can wait, this can’t.’
Ripley’s initial surprise melted into intrigue. ‘Alright, Dark, you've got my attention. Lay it on me.’
‘Our unsub isn’t just a killer. He’s a director.’
Her partner sipped her coffee, unimpressed, it seemed. 'We know he sees himself as some sort of artist. We knew that from the start.'
‘No,’ Ella pleaded, ‘he’s literally filming scenes for his movie. And not just any movie, but one that was canceled.’
‘Make sense here, Dark. What are you talking about? How do you know this?’
Ella hurried over to her whiteboard, erased everything and started from scratch. ‘Look, on that video of Jessica Owen’s murder, he saidI’m going to finish what I started.Remember?’
‘Of course.’
‘That’s because he’d already begun his fictional movie, so this was his way of taking things to the next level. This is his way of bringing his fictional movie to life.’
‘What fictional movie, Dark? I’m lost here.’
‘I’m getting there,’ Ella said at too loud a volume. Her erratic ramblings had drawn the attention of a few peripheral officers. She continued regardless. ‘Every scene has been a clue. A breadcrumb trail that mimics his fictional movie. At Jessica’s scene, it was the voice message. At Kathleen’s scene – which was his first kill – he referenced it right in front of us.’
Ripley placed her coffee down and moved closer to the board. ‘You mean those little prints in the dust? The tripod marks?’
‘That was one clue, but the other was way more obvious.’
Ripley looked back at her papers for a moment. ‘The giant message on the wall? About him being dead?’
‘No, not dead. In hell.’
‘What’s the difference?’
