Chapter 17
Seventeen
T he warehouse was dark and cold, the rain outside beating down on the roof like a steady heartbeat. Inside, the scent of blood and decay hung heavy in the air, the oppressive violence bearing down on everyone in the room. Brad’s boots echoed on the concrete floor as he moved toward the center of the scene, his stomach twisting with dread.
The body of the young woman was still where they’d found her—bound to a chair, her face beaten and bruised beyond recognition. The thick leather collar around her neck was still connected to the chain that hung from the ceiling, pulled tight as if to make sure she couldn't move an inch without suffering. The marks on her wrists, the deep gashes on her skin, all screamed of domination, of cruel and coerced submission. The killer had made sure she felt utterly powerless before her death.
Brad’s eyes swept over the grotesque display, his chest tightening with every gruesome detail. Beside him, Jeffrey Brewster stood silent, his face pale, his eyes hard.
But it was John Larson, leaning against a rusted beam, who spoke first. “It’s from one of Isobel’s old cases, isn’t it?” his voice was cold, detached.
“Rapid City, a few years back. Same setup. The collar, the ropes, the way she’s posed like… like she was nothing,” Brewster said. “She was an observer. I traced the case through NCIC. It occurred during her last year in grad school.”
Brad didn’t respond right away, his mind still trying to process the horror in front of him. The only difference was that the killer had added his own twisted touch. The message wasn’t just about domination. It was personal.
“There’s something for you, not just Isobel,” Brewster broke the silence. He handed Brad a small evidence bag. “I think he made the victim write it before he killed her.”
Inside was a note, its edges stained with blood, but the handwriting this time was precise, taunting in its clarity. Brad’s heart raced as he pulled on gloves and opened the bag, unfolding the note. The second he saw the words, his blood ran cold.
Assistant Commander Killian:
You’ve seen my work now, haven’t you? You understand the beauty of what I do. The control, the precision. Each one is a masterpiece, broken exactly how they need to be. But this is only the beginning. What I did to them, what you’re standing in front of right now? It’s nothing compared to what I have planned for her.
Your Isobel.
She’s always been strong, hasn’t she? Always the fighter, the one who thinks she can understand people like me. She’s made a career out of diving into minds like mine, but she has no idea. She doesn’t know what it’s like to truly be broken. But she will.
I’m going to take her apart, piece by piece. I’m going to make her submit in ways she’s never imagined. She’ll stop fighting, just like the others. She’ll beg for it to stop. She’ll beg me to end it, but I won’t—not until she realizes the truth. She deserves this.
She’s spent too long thinking she’s in control. She thinks she’s better than the people she studies, that she can unravel the dark corners of their minds. But when I’m done with her, she’ll know. She’ll know that she’s no different. She’ll understand that she was never in control to begin with.
This isn’t about just killing her, Brad. No, that would be too easy. Too quick. I want her to break. I want her to lose every ounce of that strength you admire so much. I want her to be nothing but a hollow shell by the time I’m finished.
And when she finally gives in, when she finally stops fighting, you’ll know. You’ll know I won. You’ll see what true power looks like.
I’ll be watching, Brad. I’m always watching.
See you soon.
Brad felt a cold sweat break out across his forehead and down his back as he finished reading the note. His hands shook as he folded it back into the evidence bag, his mind reeling. The killer wasn’t just taunting him—he was declaring his intentions with terrifying clarity. This wasn’t just about Isobel’s cases anymore. This was about her.
"He’s escalating," Brewster muttered beside him, reading the fear on Brad’s face. "He’s not going to stop, is he?"
Brad shook his head slowly, still trying to process the magnitude of the threat. "No. He won’t stop until he gets to her. And when he does…" His voice trailed off, the words too heavy to finish.
Larson, standing in the shadows, gave a bitter smile. "Sick bastard is obsessed. He’s playing a game, and he’s dragging her right into the center of it."
Brad’s stomach twisted. Isobel was in more danger than either of them had realized. This killer wasn’t just recreating her old cases—he was using them as a way to reach her, to pull her into a nightmare of his own making. And his end goal was clear. Breaking her.
Brad clenched his fists, the rage and fear boiling up inside him. "We need to find him before he gets to her. Before he—" He stopped himself, the image of Isobel in the killer’s hands too horrifying to even imagine.
"I’ll have our crime lab run this note through every database we have, then I’ll send it to the FBI," Brewster said with urgency. "We’ll cross-reference it with the cases she’s consulted on, see if there’s any connection we’re missing."
Larson pushed off the beam, his eyes cold and calculating. "We better move fast. He’s not waiting around."
Brad nodded. Another victim. Isobel’s life was hanging by a thread—the killer made it clear.
Brad stepped out into the pouring rain, the cold water immediately soaking through his clothes, running in rivulets down his face. He barely noticed. His mind was spinning with the grotesque scene inside, the note, the blood—the bound body. Every step away from the warehouse felt like trying to escape a nightmare that was clinging to him, sticking to his skin like the mud beneath his boots.
The scene wouldn’t leave him. The brutality, the calculated cruelty—it wasn’t just another murder. It was personal. He felt it in his bones.
Behind him, Brad heard the sound of footsteps splashing through the puddles. John Larson.
Brad’s muscles tightened instinctively. He had sensed for a while now that something was off about Larson. The man was too cold, too distant in the face of horror like this. And after the email from his FBI contact about Larson’s past, the last pieces of doubt had clicked into place.
Brad turned abruptly, his voice cutting through the rainfall as Larson came closer. "Enough with the bullshit, Larson," he growled, his eyes narrowing. "I know you’re not who you say you are."
Larson stopped short, his expression carefully neutral, but Brad saw the flicker of something pass over his face. Fear? Guilt?
"What are you talking about?" Larson asked, his voice low, almost too calm.
Brad took a step toward him, the rain sloshing between them. "I’ve been talking to some people back in L.A. Friends at the FBI, and I got word from a contact at Bliss."
Larson’s jaw ticked at the mention of Bliss, and Brad knew he hit the mark. "You’re not just some newly appointed small-town cop running from your past. You're hiding something. You need to come clean. Now."
For a long moment, Larson said nothing. His eyes, shadowed by the downpour, flicked around, almost as if he were considering running or lying again. But then he sighed deeply, a sound filled with exhaustion and defeat.
"Fine,” Larson’s voice was laced with something that almost resembled relief, “you’re right. I’m not who I’ve said I am."
Brad’s fists clenched by his sides, but he forced himself to stay calm. He needed answers, not more lies. "Then who the hell are you?"
Larson ran a hand over his wet face, slicking back the rain from his hair. "John Larson is my real name, but I’m not just a cop who transferred to Waverly County to keep my daughter safe. Though that’s true." He paused, meeting Brad’s eyes. "I’m still a detective with the LAPD. I’ve been undercover, tracking a serial killer."
Brad’s blood ran cold, the pieces falling into place faster than he could process. "A serial killer? And you didn’t think to mention that?"
Larson shook his head, the rain dripping off his chin. "Tell me, if the roles were reversed, would you have come clean? If anyone knows about trust, it should be you. I’m here because this killer doesn’t stay in one place—he moves. And I’ve been following him for three years."
Brad’s mind raced, the anger simmering beneath the surface threatening to boil over. "And how does Bliss fit into this? You were at that club doing more than just undercover work."
Larson winced, a shadow passing over his face. "Bliss… that was part of my cover, but not all of it. I had to use extreme behavior as a lure to gain access to the circles the killer moves in—people who thrive on ruthless domination, coerced submission, and control, the kind of environments where things can easily spiral into violence. But it wasn’t just a role I played. I do participate in that lifestyle, and that’s what made it easier to blend in. The killer is obsessed with power and breaking his victims. I had to fully immerse myself in that world to understand how he selects them and how he operates."
"And what does that have to do with Isobel?" Brad snapped, taking another step closer. His voice was sharp, filled with the desperate need to protect her. "You know something about the cases she’s worked on. You know this is connected to her."
Larson nodded slowly, his expression darkening. "It’s all connected, Brad. This isn’t the first time this killer has gone after a psychologist. Isobel is the tenth."
Brad’s heart pounded in his chest as Larson’s words hit him. "The tenth?" His voice faltered slightly, as if the wind had been knocked out of him. "What are you saying?"
Larson’s eyes were steady but filled with the kind of haunted knowledge of someone who had seen too much. "Nine psychologists before Isobel, each specializing in forensic psychology or criminal behavior, were killed in the last three years. They were targeted because they could see through him. They understood his mind, and that made him feel exposed, vulnerable. He can’t stand that."
Brad felt like the ground had shifted beneath him. "And Isobel?”
Larson nodded grimly. "She’s alive. The others were taken out before they even realized what was happening. But Isobel… she’s different. She’s already survived an attack. She’s a threat to him in ways the others weren’t."
Brad clenched his fists, his anger burning hot beneath his skin. "So, what’s his plan for her? What does he want?"
Larson took a step closer, his voice dropping low. "He doesn’t just want to kill her. Killing her would be too easy. He wants to break her. He wants to make her believe she’s powerless, that everything she’s built her life on—understanding the criminal mind, helping people—is meaningless. He’s playing a long game, wearing her down with these cases, making her question everything she knows. These case duplications are distractions for the police. My guess is he didn’t count on her being able to call 9-1-1 after the bees stung her. I think the police arrival beat him to grabbing her.”
Brad's stomach churned at the thought. The killer wasn’t just after Isobel’s life—he was after her soul. "You should have told me this sooner," he hissed, barely keeping his voice in check. "We could have stopped him. We could have?—"
"You think I haven’t tried?" Larson shot back, his voice rising in frustration. "This killer is meticulous. He’s always ten steps ahead. Every time I thought I was closing in, he’d slip away. And then he came here, to Waverly County, and I realized Isobel was next. I couldn’t blow my cover. If he even got a hint I was tracking him, she would be dead, and he would move on to the next."
Brad’s anger faltered for a moment, Larson’s words sinking in. He hated this, hated that Isobel had been caught in the middle of some twisted game. But there was one thing he couldn’t shake.
"You’ve been watching her all this time," Brad said, his voice low with barely contained fury. "Did you ever think that maybe she deserves to know the truth? That he’s copying her cases, and she’s feeling responsible for every death, but she’s been his target all along?”
Larson’s face hardened. "I’ve been trying to keep her safe. The less she knows, the less chance he has to manipulate her. This guy… he gets off on psychological torment, on making people question their sanity. If Isobel knew she was his target, it could have pushed her over the edge. She’s stronger than the others, but even she has her limits."
Brad shook his head, stepping back as the rain continued to pour down. "You don’t think she already knows? How can she not? But this isn’t your decision to make. Isobel has a right to know the truth. I’m sharing everything with her."
Larson opened his mouth to protest, but Brad cut him off. "You’ve been playing this game alone for too long, and it’s gotten people killed. You want to stop this guy? We need to work together."
For a long moment, the only sound was the relentless rain tapping against the pavement and their soaked clothes. Finally, Larson nodded, his jaw clenched. "Alright. We work together. But you need to know—this guy’s not just some psychopath with a taste for blood. He’s smart. And he’s coming for Isobel. If we don’t get ahead of him, she won’t be a survivor for much longer."
Brad looked back toward the warehouse, his heart heavy with fear for Isobel. The storm raging around them felt small compared to the one that was coming.
"Then we stop him," Brad said, his voice cold and determined. "Before he gets any closer."
The light of the police precinct’s conference room cast long shadows over the table where they sat, the air thick with frustration. Papers were scattered across the surface—crime scene photos, timelines, and maps with pins marking the locations of the murders. The map was dotted with red marks across multiple states, a web of chaos that refused to yield a clear answer.
Brad leaned forward, his elbows on the table, staring at the map. “Nine psychologists dead, copycat murders with each of them, and we’re no closer to finding this guy. What are we missing?”
Detective Larson rubbed his temple, the weariness of weeks on the case etched into his features. “It’s the damn jurisdictions,” he muttered, leaning back in his chair. “Every time we get a lead, we have to coordinate with another department. Different protocols, different people, different levels of urgency. It’s like trying to herd cats.”
Brad nodded, his jaw tight. “The killer knows that. He’s exploiting the gaps in communication. Look at this,” he said, pointing to the map. “South Dakota, Minnesota, California, Illinois, Nebraska… he’s not staying in one place long enough for us to get a solid lead. By the time one department gets evidence processed, he’s already moved on to the next victim in another jurisdiction.”
Larson scowled. “And every department wants to keep their cards close to their chest. Nobody wants to share too much in case they lose credit for solving the case. Meanwhile, this guy’s out there laughing at us.”
Brad leaned back, frustration evident in his posture. “It’s not just the jurisdictions. It’s the copycat murders. They’re throwing us off at every turn.”
Larson picked up a photo of one of the collateral murders—a staged scene eerily similar to the primary killer’s work. “You think he’s got a network? People doing this for him?”
Brad exhaled, rubbing his hands together. “I don’t know if it’s a formal network or just people he’s inspiring somehow. But think about it—each psychologist’s death is preceded by murders that mimic high-profile cases they worked on. It’s too deliberate. Either he’s working with others, or he’s somehow convincing people to act.”
“Like puppets on strings,” Larson muttered. “Hell of a way to keep us running in circles. Every copycat murder makes us question the pattern, throws us onto false leads. It’s giving him more time to plan.”
“Exactly,” Brad said. “And his planning… it’s meticulous. He’s not leaving anything to chance. Nine sentinel murders surrounded by at least three others having to do with their past cases, and we don’t have a single solid piece of forensic evidence that links them directly to him. He’s using disposable tools, changing his methods just enough to keep us guessing.”
Larson frowned, flipping through the files. “He’s got to have some kind of training. Military? Law enforcement? Even a damn hunter? This level of precision doesn’t come out of nowhere.”
“Could be,” Brad said. “But it could also be someone with a deep understanding of the system—someone who knows how we investigate and what we look for. He’s moving deliberately, targeting specific psychologists, and staging these murders in ways that draw attention to the cases they worked on.”
Larson slammed the folder shut, the sound echoing in the quiet room. “And now he’s after Isobel.”
Brad’s expression darkened. “He’s sending messages. To her. To us. But why now? Why her?”
Larson leaned forward, his voice low. “What if he’s manipulating us? What if everything we’re seeing—the patterns, the victims, even the copycats—is meant to draw us toward a specific conclusion? Hell, for all we know, he’s feeding us false information.”
Brad stared at the map again, Larson’s words settling in his chest. “If he’s controlling the narrative, then we’re playing his game. We’re reacting to his moves instead of getting ahead of him.”
Larson nodded grimly. “And that’s exactly what he wants.”
They both fell silent for a moment, the enormity of the situation pressing down on both men. Finally, Brad spoke, his voice steady but resolute. “We need to think like him. If he’s anticipating our moves, we need to start anticipating his. Break the pattern he’s setting.”
Larson sighed, pushing back from the table. “Easier said than done. But you’re right. We need to get every jurisdiction on the same page and start looking at the bigger picture. This guy’s good, but he’s not perfect. Somewhere in all this…” he gestured to the scattered files, “…there’s a thread we can pull.”
Brad’s eyes narrowed, determination hardening his features. “And when we find it, we unravel everything.”