Chapter Two
Rule Number One
Silas
I was looking forward to a relaxing Saturday off.
A well-deserved break after my late night.
Who knew hosting a pedophile roast could be so exhausting?
I bring my mug to my lips, about to take my first sip of the steaming coffee in my hand, when a loud and insistent knocking at my door shatters my peace.
I let out a sigh before setting down my mug on the kitchen counter and making my way to the front door.
"Hey, Voss!" a deep, irritatingly familiar voice calls out from the other side of the door.
"Open up! We've got a case." I clench my jaw.
Of course, it had to be Deputy Dipshit—a spineless, conniving, waste of space.
He has also been one of the officers covering for his cousin, Pastor Jeremy, for years.
Anytime an accusation was raised against the pastor, Brooks was the first to swoop in, silencing the claims and sweeping them under the rug.
Enabling a child molester and ensuring their dark and depraved secrets stay safely hidden is just as vile as committing the acts yourself.
Deputy Brooks thought they were both untouchable, but he hadn’t counted on someone like me.
I swing open the door. "What's the case?"
"Eliza Pearson, the pastor's wife, called the sheriff's department this morning in a panic. She believes my cousin is missing. "
Jesus Christ, the man's barely been missing for what, ten hours, and she's already crying to the cops? He’s probably still sizzling.
I had to fight back a chuckle at the thought.
At least we know Eliza is a saint compared to the piece of work she married.
She'll be thankful later for this little intervention.
"Sheriff Campbell wants a detective and a deputy out at the Pearson residence pronto," Brooks continues, oblivious to my internal musings.
"He wants us to take her statement and assess the situation.” I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing.
I already had 'the situation' pretty well assessed.
“The Sheriff asked for you specifically. "
"You know, Brooks, phones exist for this very reason," I reply with a grin, enjoying his exasperated eye roll. "Give me twenty. You go on ahead, I’ll be right behind you."
I shut the door, cutting him off before he can respond. The thought of working with Brooks was about as appealing as getting a circumcision with a rusty spoon. With a sigh, I walk to my bedroom, stepping inside my walk-in closet to change.
I strip off my white t-shirt and then untie the drawstring of my gray sweats, sliding them off and letting them pool on the floor.
As I toss my discarded clothes into the laundry hamper, my eyes are drawn to the tattoo on my inner forearm.
The scales of justice in all black and white, perfectly balanced, the words 'Monsters are made, not born' inscribed beneath.
I run my finger along the tattoo, remembering the moment I'd decided to get it inked on my skin—the day after my eighteenth birthday.
It was a pledge, a vow to right the wrongs in a world that so often turned its back on the innocent and rewarded the wicked.
I would be the one to tip the scales, to balance the injustice.
The one to ensure that the guilty who slipped through the cracks of the justice system didn't go unpunished.
Two wrongs may not make a right in the eyes of some, but it sure as hell evened the score in mine .
I donned my usual attire. A pristine white button-down shirt, crisp and perfectly ironed, along with sleek charcoal dress pants and a pair of polished black boots.
Fastening my belt, I secure my duty holster to my waist, always finding comfort in the familiar weight of my firearm and badge at my hip.
Lastly, I slip on a fitted dark gray suit jacket and straighten my tie while looking at my reflection in the full-length mirror.
I am the monster made, not born.
Keys in hand, I step outside, ready to make the short drive to the Pearsons'.
The promotion to detective two years ago meant ditching the standard issue police car for my black full-size truck.
I needed something big enough so I could easily throw a body in the back, but I wasn't trying to look like a fucking soccer mom in a minivan.
It was convenient already knowing the Pearsons' address and the precise travel time to their home from mine.
A mere ten minutes separated me from the crime scene.
I shouldn't keep the new widow waiting, even if she is unaware she'll soon be grieving.
I do have manners, and that would just be fucking rude.
The Pearsons' home is nestled on Vine Street, the last home on a cozy little dead-end street. Their driveway, lined with apple trees, leads to a modest two-story home—thankfully childless. No child should ever be subjected to a predator like Jeremy Pearson as a father.
As I approach the house, I notice the front door still remains open, just as I had left it the night before.
I knock lightly on the storm door, announcing my presence, before I step into the entryway.
I make my way down the hall and toward the kitchen, my footsteps echoing on the hardwood floors.
There in the kitchen sits the worried wife herself, Eliza, her eyes red and puffy from crying.
Deputy Brooks sits across from her at the kitchen table.
Brooks is the first to speak, "Eliza, this is Detective Voss."
"Detective Voss, thank you for coming," Eliza says, offering me a small smile as she shakes my hand .
"Ma'am," I give her a nod. "We've run into each other a few times at church services and community events.
Such a shame it's under these circumstances that we meet again.
I know this is a difficult time for you.
" I reply, giving her a fake sympathetic smile.
"If you don't mind, I'd like to pull up a chair and ask you a few questions. "
"Not at all, please, sit down." Eliza gestures to the seat at the head of the table.
"Thank you, Mrs. Pearson." I take the offered seat. Giving my full attention to Eliza, I ask, "Can you tell me about what prompted you to contact the sheriff's office earlier this morning?"
Eliza releases out a shaky breath. "Jeremy is missing. I woke up and he's just gone. I need your help to find him, please."
"I understand your concern but let's not jump to any conclusions," I say, feigning concern. "Why don't you start from the beginning? Tell me your husband's full name and when you last saw him."
I reach into the inside pocket of my suit jacket and take out my notepad, prepared to take down any vital information Eliza may share. Vital information in this case means an intricate doodle of a stick figure inside a box, engulfed in flames.
"His name is Jeremy Pearson," Eliza begins. "I last saw him around eleven last night. He went downstairs to investigate a noise and..." Her voice trails off, her eyes brimming with unshed tears.
"And?" I prompt her.
"And he never came back."
"Okay, Eliza. You mentioned an unusual sound. Can you elaborate on that?"
She nods. "I was just about to fall asleep last night when I heard a loud bang, or an explosion. I'm not sure which. Jeremy jolted awake beside me. I thought maybe it was just the TV. Sometimes we forget to set the sleep timer. But then we heard another sound, so he went to see what it was."
She continues recounting the events of the night before.
"I take Ambien every night, I suffer from insomnia.
The sleeping aid was starting to take effect around the same time we heard the noise, and I must have dozed off.
When I woke up, Jeremy wasn't in bed with me.
I panicked, realizing he never came back.
I started searching the house. The front door was hanging wide open, but his car was still in the driveway. "
"Now, that's peculiar," I said, maintaining my composure. "Did he take anything with him?"
"No, nothing," Eliza answers, shaking her head.
"His phone is still on the bedside table.
His wallet and keys are in the basket on the buffet table where he always throws them when he walks in the front door.
It's like he just vanished. I know something must've happened to him.
He would never just leave and not tell me. "
"We'll do our best to locate him, ma'am," I assure her. "But we can't officially open up a missing person investigation until Jeremy has been gone for at least 24 hours. I promise we will start looking into this right away, that's just a technicality for paperwork."
I flip my notebook closed, sliding it into the inner pocket of my suit jacket. "It would help aid our investigation if you could provide us with a recent photo of Jeremy. We'll circulate it among our officers in the department, and the public if necessary."
I continue, "Any details you can provide about his physical appearance would be helpful. What he was wearing when you last saw him. Does he have any distinguishing marks? Scars, tattoos, birthmarks? Any jewelry he always wears? Also, anyone you can think of that he may be with, or places he frequently visits.”
Standing, I ask, "Mrs. Pearson, if it’s okay with you, I'd like to take a look around your home. "
"Of course. Please, do whatever you need to do to find my husband."
I can see the worry on her face, so I offer what I hope is a comforting smile.
She's searching for answers, and I plan to give her the truth, even though it won't be what she wants to hear.
I can't help but feel some sympathy for the pain she's obviously feeling.
After all, she's an innocent bystander in this mess. She’s about to be blindsided by the man she married and thought she knew.
I don't feel responsible for her pain, though.
It is her husband's actions that has led her here, putting her in this situation, not mine.
"I intend to, Mrs. Pearson. Rest assured we will do everything in our power to locate your husband." I know exactly where he is, or rather, where what's left of him is. Once I'm finished here, I will need to take care of that loose end.
Turning my attention to Deputy Brooks, "Deputy, stay here and collect all that information from Mrs. Pearson while I take a look around the house."
"Of course, Detective. I'll be sure to get everything."
It's a dangerous game I’m playing, and one that requires the artful skill of deception. I’m Detective Silas Voss by day, but a vigilante serial killer by night. It's a delicate performance when the life of a detective and a serial killer intersect, but it’s one I’ve learned to execute flawlessly.
I leave the kitchen and begin my search of the home.
I make my way downstairs and start with the basement.
It looks ordinary enough. The walls are painted a stark white and well-lit, almost institutional looking.
A washer and dryer sit in the open space beneath the stairs.
A large L-shaped couch occupies one corner, facing a flat screen TV mounted on the wall.
My eyes settle on a vintage roll-top desk tucked away in the far corner. As I walk towards the desk something catches my eye, a faint outline disrupting the otherwise seamless finish of the glossy oak surface. A hidden compartment.
I run my fingers along the edge of the desk, until my fingers land on a subtle indentation. I press it, and the side panel pops open with a gentle click. Inside lies a single black box. I know what I’ll find inside before I even open it. I take a deep breath, bracing myself, before lifting the lid.
I reach into the box and pull out the first photo.
My stomach churns at the sight, and I have to force down the rising bile in my throat.
Flipping through the stack, my fingers tighten around the edges, and for a moment, my vision goes red and blurs with rage.
These pictures are of children—innocent kids, some fully clothed, others not.
Pearson appears in some of the photos. Some of the other men in the photos I've already killed, and a few of the men I’ve never seen. I'll be seeing them soon though.
Some of these men were at least smart enough to keep their faces out of the view of the camera. Or some of the men in these pictures knew about the camera, while others didn't. Either way, these photos were meant for blackmail or as an insurance policy. Maybe both.
One girl stands out among the rest, appearing in at least half of the photos and always alone.
Her photos are grainy, likely taken with a webcam, and carefully staged and posed in what appears to be a bedroom in front of god-awful floral wallpaper.
She looks to be older, perhaps eighteen or nineteen, definitely an anomaly for Pearson's disgusting fucking preferences.
The pictures could mean she's a willing participant, but there's a sadness in her eyes that makes me think that isn’t the case.
Tall and slender, with raven black hair that frames her face, she exudes a certain confidence in the way she carries herself.
She knows her angles, hands on her slim hips, one knee bent, accentuating her long legs.
Full, pouty lips parted slightly. She's a natural in front of the camera.
My instinct tells me that, whatever her story, this girl isn't an amateur and she's been doing this for a while. That much is clear.
My anger builds and my kill list grows with each photo I see.
Every motherfucker in these pictures is a dead man walking.
They don't know it yet, but their time is up. The last photo, I can’t see the man’s face in the picture, but I recognize the ugly fucking wedding band on his left hand that is resting on a young boy's thigh. Fucking Brooks.
With a snap, I shut the box, shoving it into my inside jacket pocket for now. I'd deal with it later. Right now, I need to get out of here before I do something reckless in front of a witness.
Rule Number One: Never allow your emotions to control you or dictate the kill. You're in control. Emotions are a liability; emotions make you weak. Weakness gets you prison time.