Chapter 2
Damien
Play - Angel by Massive Attack, Horace Andy
Memories of the dead
No time for coffee or sleep, not even a chance to shower.
I don’t really like working like that. The only thing that brings me peace is knowing I only take missions that make a real change. I do this for the safety I never got growing up on the streets.
My ribs are still painfully sore, my head pounding, and I can’t find my glasses anywhere.
Mondays at the Bureau make me question why I’m still doing this.
Extraction went clean, hostiles down, minimal collateral.
Plus, I made it back in one piece. Yes, my uniform is shredded, my hands sticky, I have some gunpowder in my hair, and the cut on my head probably needs stitching too, but that’s a problem for another day.
At least we made sure the man who kidnapped his ex-wife got arrested and she is finally safe.
Today is an important day; there’s no time for whining, not for wounds, not for second thoughts, even though I’d be happy to have at least the time to change.
The elevator doors close behind me, and a thin line of blood slides down my temple. It’s already starting to piss me off. I wipe it with my sleeve, but it smears more than it disappears.
Just a few more floors before I can sit down and grab a coffee. I can hold on, even if I’m dead tired. The building is already alive with noise. Agents everywhere, and it’s not even 8 a.m. yet. My team’s waiting upstairs, and I hope they have what I asked for.
All I’ve got to bring them this morning is blood, mud, bad moods, and four hours of hell stitched into every step straight into the heart of the FBI offices in Virginia.
Come on, Damien, keep it up, you have a long day waiting for you.
My wallet ends up in my hand before I even realize it, and his photo stares back at me. Fifteen years ago, there was barely a hint of grey in his hair, but still the same big smile he always had, even when I was an angry teenager.
I don’t know why I needed to see this; it happens every time I lack motivation. But then I feel the same fucking lighter in my pocket and the grief turns into anger.
I grab it, see it, and remember why I’m even here.
I need to solve this case, find this motherfucker and give him hell. It was his last wish, the one thing that had haunted him in the previous years of his life.
A few seconds pass while I let myself sink into it, probably the head wound messing with me, but the elevator opens finally.
Twelfth floor, Behavioral Analysis Unit’s offices.
The analyst glances up and gives a brief nod, and I see my team in the distance, already gathering and opening the briefing room door. Fifteen years of silence from the killer, and today, I want to reopen this case. I need a reason to do so, that’s why I’m here.
Most of the agents on this floor aren't field agents.
The leads will join missions, but a few stick mostly to desk work.
I guess that explains the looks I get coming in here with blood drying on my uniform, forehead, and the team already in the office probably wondering what hell I crawled out of this time.
The door to the briefing room is open, and everyone is already sitting around the table: Lena Chen, our junior profiler, Rylan Voss, the behavioral analyst and linguistics specialist, and Kyle Hale, senior profiler and my second-in-command, who also happens to be my friend.
Lena shakes her head before speaking, “Boss, you look like hell.”
“Good. Means the other guys look worse.”
“Did you at least let the doctor clear you?” Rylan asks, standing up.
“I walked past him.”
All three stop what they’re doing and look at each other like I’m insane, but it wasn’t my first time with long missions; they know that, it’s been like this for almost three years now. Missions, me not being able to sleep for days, smoking too much, and having nightmares again.
“You’re bleeding, Damien,” Kyle says with a hint of worry hidden in his tone.
“I noticed.”
Rylan starts rearranging the room and gives us all a copy of the file. The projector starts up behind him, flooding the wall with harsh white light. Goddamn, it’s too bright…
A half-finished murder board sits in the corner, maps, dates, red pen circling years-old crime scene photos.
“We pulled the files you asked for,” he says, pinning the first picture on the board.
“Good. Let’s get to work before my head decides to fall off.”
Kyle’s eyes land on me, confused and knowing before whispering, “You sure you’re ready for this one, Damien?”
I am. Today marks the anniversary of the last victim’s death, and I knew I’d reopen it after Bobby’s death. He never forgot this case, kept that girl’s picture in his wallet from the day she disappeared, and never threw it away, not even after they discovered her body years later.
I look up at the board, at the familiar photo now staring down at all of us.
“Fifteen years is long enough. Let’s bring the bastard back into the light.”
Rylan hits play on the old surveillance footage; the images are grainy, almost yellowed. It’s harder to see new details with this quality, but Lena leans forward, fingers tapping her tablet already doing her magic.
“The victim’s body has the same marks as the previous ones; heavy chains around her neck, clearly applied before death, sexual and physical abuse, and the note on her thigh, DNA isn’t giving us anything new.”
Same victimology, and same postmortem carving, but the quote is different.
The rest is silence.
This sick bastard wrote that on her while she was alive. He left us a goodbye note.
“Did you cross-check the DNA against our updated case files, every unsolved, every open archive we have?”
“Already done, boss. Nothing matches.”
I lean closer to the screen, trying to see if anything isn’t making sense in this picture. “Check again. I want every profile, every cold case, and every piece of evidence running in the background. I don’t want to miss a thing.”
Rylan adjusts his glasses, zooming in on the frame. “All the leads match the previous cases. The chain marks, the positioning, the notes, everything is identical. Even the DNA lines up perfectly. But there’s no match, no name. Nothing.”
I crouched over the projection, squinting at the grainy photo on the screen. The victim’s body is sprawled awkwardly, everything feels faded, distant, almost unreal, but something is catching my attention.
“Zoom in here,” I say, pointing at the blue point on the ground next to the body.
The image enlarges, and then I see it: a tiny blue mark on the floor, almost invisible, blurred in the photo. “Closer, Rylan,” I add, and so he does. That blue mark looks like something the previous team didn’t notice. “What’s that?”
Rylan leans forward before replying, “Looks like a keychain? But it was found just outside the perimeter. Could’ve belonged to anyone.”
I shake my head. “No, look at the position; that’s too close to be random. Enhance it, Lena.”
She clears the image and the logo sharpens. It’s faint but readable enough.
“That’s…” Kyle squints. “St.Ellesta Academy. It’s in Seraphin Bay Island, off the East Coast. The place runs a federal criminology program, affiliated with the FBI.”
“You’re telling me the last potential trace our killer left was from a Bureau-connected training ground?”
No one answers.
“The case is reopened,” I say quietly.
“Damien?” Kyle asks. “You mean officially?”
“I’m going there myself.” I start gathering the files, then look back at Kyle. “You’ll take over everything here until I return.”
“Wait, boss, you can’t just—”
“Any other questions?” I cut Lena off before she could add anything else.
Silence. Good.
I close the file and head for the door. “Lena, send the paperwork to HQ. Request an undercover operation in that city and attach everything we found today. They’ll sign it fast.”
She nods immediately, already typing.
“You three stay here. Kyle’s my point of contact, anything you need to ask or report, you go through him.”
No one argues.
“Once the clearance comes through, I’m heading out. If there’s a way to drag this bastard out of the dark, I’ll find it.”
Bobby, and every family torn apart by this monster, deserves that much.