Chapter 14
Damien
Play - Teacher’s Pet by Melanie Martinez
You First
I watch closely as the students enter one by one, filling the classroom, each of the desks, and cramming next to their friends. It all feels very juvenile. Every muscle in my jaw tightens as I think about the optics of this case, the mission, everything.
Shit.
I go undercover for the first time in years, and it has to be under the disguise of a university professor?
I roll my sleeves halfway up my arms, buttoning the cuffs around my elbows. The tattoos are visible now, and I catch a few students staring before they remember themselves.
I’ve heard it enough times that I look like I should be on the other side. The kind of man they expect to see in a case file instead of at the front of a classroom.
What they don’t know is that it all came later. After the mistakes, and after the violence.
The scars and the tattoos didn’t mark the angry young man, they buried him.
All I can think about is how not true this is.
The worst criminals I caught were not what they thought they looked like.
Stupid brains teach stupid things to their kids and stupid things happen because of that.
Most of them think the criminal mind is something distant, exotic almost. Like a switch that flips randomly.
Monsters, not people.
They haven’t learned yet that no one wakes up violently one morning. It’s erosion, years of pressure, neglect, learned anger, and small justifications that pile up until something gives up.
I won’t teach them how to catch criminals. I’ll teach them how people break.
I see it before anyone says a word. Legs bouncing beneath desks, fingers worrying at sleeves, shoulders drawn tight. Fear, apprehension, confusion, curiosity, trying to mask itself as confidence.
A few of them sit too still, overcorrecting, others lean forward without realizing it. They don’t know yet that their bodies speak long before their mouths do.
I clear my throat as I click on the remote. The projector hums, illuminating a grid of photographs: all the victims of the serial killer who was never caught.
The Chain Poet.
The students lean back, reassured by the “Closed” label, and they think the case is finished.
“Look closely,” I say. “What do these victims have in common?”
A hand twitches in the back, the student looks confused and hesitant, maybe because he’s scared of giving a wrong answer. “Uh… maybe… they all lived in the same city?”
I tilt my head, studying him. “Close,” I say. “But no. Not close enough.”
The student nods, trying again. “They all went out on weekends?”
I shake my head. “Observe more carefully. Notice patterns, not guesses.” I take a deep breath before continuing, “This class is Applied Behavioral Profiling. You’ll learn to see details most people miss.
I’m Mister Caldwell, and today I want to evaluate all your answers before we move forward.
Pay attention because every detail matters.
” I click to the next slide. “This course isn’t about fictional scenarios.
You’ll work on closed cases, with real people, real patterns.
The files are sanitized, but the behavior is genuine.
This is how people break, how killers operate, and how cases unfold. ”
I’m not a teacher, never have been. But I know what I’m doing. I’ll teach them the way I learned, by seeing it, noticing it, and surviving it.
“Based on these pictures,” I say, clicking again, showing a slide of notes and pictures from the crime scenes, “How did profilers back then describe the perpetrator?”
A pause follows, pen hover, and a few students glance at each other.
“Older maybe?” one mutters.
“Solitary too?” another adds, eyes meeting mine.
I raise an eyebrow, crossing my arms. “Okay, keep going, what else?”
A hand twitches in the back, “Old, solitary and paranoid?”
“Possibly,” I reply. “But you need to think about behavior, not just labels, it’s too generic.”
I switched to the historical profiler’s notes from the team who worked on this case years ago. “Mid-forties, living alone, avoid attention. Meticulous and socially withdrawn. Do you all agree?”
A quiet and soft voice from the middle row says, “No.”
I look up, searching for the person who just replied, and she meets my gaze, swallowing audibly before looking up at the screen behind me again.
Long raven hair, sad eyes, and a pen in hand as if she was doing something before I interrupted her with this lesson and she got curious enough to follow.
I’ve seen her. Isn’t she the woman on the rooftop ?
“I’m listening, miss…?”
Her friend sitting next to her nudges her lightly. When she exhales softly, she replies, “Vitelli.”
“Okay, Miss Vitelli, why are you disagreeing with this portrait?”
“I think… I think there's a common method in how the victims were approached. All women, pretty, young too. It’s not about the timing. He selects them maybe by attraction and he’s handsome enough to make them keep their guards down.”
I tilt my head, pretending to consider her answer, “Hmm, not sure I fully agree,” I say flatly.
Be sure, continue.
I let a beat pass, watching her posture change from shy to confident. Most of the other students' fidget, some scribble faster, trying to keep up with everything said.
“But it doesn’t fit the behavior patterns. I don’t think he was old and isolated. I think he was probably younger, fully sociable. A man who could talk to anyone, especially women, but deranged underneath all that confidence.”
“Manipulative?” I ask.
She nods, her cold blue eyes scanning the pictures. “Narcissistic.”
Good.
I let her words sink in; she feels certain about her opinion now. “Interesting.”
I look around before switching to the autopsy reports of the last victim. “This is the kind of thinking you’ll need in this course. Patterns, behaviors, underlying motives. I want you all to see what most people miss. Even professionals.”
I take a look at the marks on the victims’ bodies before continuing, “These wounds are precise. Long chains around the neck. The killer loves to leave a message. Quotes, phrases, a sign of narcissism and control, but also obsession.”
Fingers drum quickly as eyes flick nervously between the screen and their laptops. Miss Vitelli sits still, she doesn't speak again but she’s focused on the pictures.
I continue explaining the meaning of each mark, the subtlety of the killer’s methods, and the way he misled the team who was working on that case years ago.
They all listen and take note but not Miss Vitelli.
After a few other questions, the class ends. Students begin gathering their things, whispering to each other as they file out. I watch them go and nod at them as they tell me goodbye. Then I say, “Miss Vitelli, can you stay a bit longer?”
Her eyes lift, confused for a fraction of a second then she nods, “Yes, sure.”
She murmurs something to her friends as she descends the stairs slowly.
“Professor Caldwell, how can I help you?” She asks now that she’s in front of me.
“Have you ever studied profiling before?” I ask.
“No,” she replies quietly. “But I know how to notice narcissistic behavior.”
“Can I show you something?” I gesture toward the projector.
“Of course,” she replies immediately.
I pull up the remainder of the historical profiler’s file, the full notes and behavioral analysis.
“I want your honest opinion on this.” I speak. “Don’t hold back.”
She studies it, then shakes her head. “I don’t think he was like that at all.
This… this profile is weird, they missed everything.
He wouldn’t have been old and isolated knowing the victims were not random women leaving work or something like that.
Their hair was done, they had makeup on, pretty dresses,” she gestures at the victims' pictures, “he selected them in a way that… It almost looks like he asked them out for a date maybe? I think he was charming, well-spoken and probably cultured. You can see the manipulation in how he ended their lives. The look on their faces… They were confused. He knew how to gain trust. Internally, yes, deranged, narcissistic and all, but socially, he would have been convincing.”
She pauses mid-sentence, unsure, glancing back at me because I've been quiet.
“No,” I say. “Please continue, I’m listening.”
Her eyes lift slightly, reassured. She exhales and stares at me, “What is your opinion on this case, Professor Caldwell?”
“I asked you first, Miss Vitelli. Mine is not relevant for now.”
She nods and adds, “The patterns, how he organized the victims, the lack of evidence, the spacing of the crimes, I think they indicate planning, awareness and discipline. He’s methodical and observant. Everything about him was calculated, including how people perceived him.”
She leans back slightly after finishing her analysis and I remain silent for a moment.
“Alright, thank you for your time, Miss Vitelli.” I finally say.
She nods shyly, glancing down at her bag, before murmuring, “Of course.”
“You’re smart,” I add, almost offhand. “Don’t overthink your opinions.”
Her phone buzzes at the same time, and she glances at it before awkwardly smiling back at me, “Thank you.”
That smile. It doesn’t feel happy.
“Have a good day, sir,” she says politely as she tucks her phone away.
“You too, Miss Vitelli.”
She leaves and I exhale slowly, now the classroom is empty except for me.
First course, first class, done.
My mind drifts back to the case, the patterns, the things they missed back then.
That student who just left the room sees things differently, and that perspective might just be exactly what I need.