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‘Outdoors,’ Ripley said beside her. ‘This is new.’
Ella marched forward once the crowd had been subdued, taking in the whole scene at a glance. It was a suburban street of little individuality; rows of houses, well-tended gardens, driveways of family cars all bathed in the glow of streetlights. She now saw the victim in plain view. The front lawn of a nondescript house, typically a space of leisure and life, was now a silent testament to death.
The body lay face-down, sprawled out as if in a deep slumber. Another male victim. Ella took a moment to pay her respects to the dead, if only to keep her heart from turning to stone.
‘This isn't just a killing,’ Ella said, more to herself than to Mia. ‘It's a statement. He's not hiding anymore.’
‘Or it could be the only chance he had to kill him.’
Ella surveyed the area, noticing the victim’s front door wide open. She gestured towards it. ‘No. he could have slipped inside and done the deed in there. This is no accident. This is escalation. Not content with the shadows anymore. This is a killer who wants his work seen, acknowledged.’
Ella crouched beside the body, her eyes scanning every detail, every clue that could lead them into the mind of the killer. She applied her gloves and gently twisted the victim’s head to face her. It was frozen in a final expression of terror, eyes wide and glossed like marbles. Chief Vasquez appeared beside her, hands on his hips.
‘Sorry about the rabble back there,’ he said.
‘Not your fault,’ Ripley offered. ‘Who called it in?’
‘Neighbor. Said she heard a commotion on the front lawn. Looked out and saw James dead.’
‘James,’ Ella repeated. ‘James Gorton.’
‘Huh? How’d you know?’ Vasquez asked.
‘Saw his name all over social media.’ Ella silently cursed herself, wishing she’d gone the route of warning every single potential victim she could beforehand. She clocked the bruises around James’ neck. ‘Strangled, manually. No vacuum bags, no refrigerators. Our killer’s gaining confidence.’
‘And that makes him even more dangerous,’ added Ripley.
Ella stood up, her gaze shifting from the body to the house. The lights in every window blazed with an intensity that spoke of a desperate attempt to ward off the night's darkness. ‘Look at the house,’ she said, pointing. ‘All the lights are on. It's like he was trying to give the illusion of activity, maybe to scare off the killer.’
Vasquez squinted at the illuminated windows. ‘Could be. Or maybe he was just up late.’
‘No, it's intentional,’ Ella insisted. ‘It's too methodical, every light in every room. He knew he was a target. He was trying to protect himself, to make it seem like he wasn't alone. This killer’s got his old classmates in a state of terror. This is his revenge.’
Ella’s mind raced, piecing together the victim's last moments. James Gorton, aware of the danger he was in, must have decided to stay in, lighting up his house like a beacon in a futile effort to deter his pursuer. But the killer, emboldened and relentless, had not been deterred.
She looked back at the body, at the sprawled form on the grass, a life violently extinguished under the glow of his own sanctuary. ‘He left his house, maybe thinking he'd heard something or someone,’ she speculated. ‘And that's when the killer struck. A moment of vulnerability, a split-second decision that cost him his life.’
The scene was a grim tableau of fear and desperation, a vivid illustration of the killer's merciless determination. James had tried to play it safe, to use light as a shield, but it had only served to highlight his isolation, making him an easier target in the unsub’s game.
‘But why’d he come outside? That’s the question,’ Ripley asked. ‘If he was trying to shield himself, why’d he willingly come out here?’
Vasquez said, ‘Unless our perp was already inside and chased him out?’
Ella ran her hand along James Gorton’s torso, searching for any blood loss or foreign objects. She found a wooden handle and gently retrieved the item within.
‘Kitchen knife,’ she said.
‘James was trying to defend himself,’ said Ripley. ‘He might have seen someone outside and came to confront them.’
Ella turned to her partner. ‘We need to check the house. There might be something inside. Anything that can tell us more about James's last hours.’
She moved toward the house with Ripley in tow, stepping into a world that seemed frozen in time. The kitchen was a tableau of mundane domesticity disrupted by chaos. Dishes were piled in the sink, and a half-eaten meal sat on the counter. It was a snapshot of a life interrupted, a routine shattered by fear and then by violence.
As they moved through the living room, Ella noted the groove in the couch, an imprint of life that spoke volumes. It was as if James had been waiting, perhaps watching, tense and alert for any sign of danger. The blaring TVs and the lights in every room were like a desperate plea for normalcy, a facade to mask the terror he must have felt.
Then she saw James’ cell phone sitting on a living room table.
‘Ripley,’ she nudged. ‘Victim’s cell.’
