Sitting at my desk, I was sifting through dozens of photos, each one capturing the chilling detail of recent deaths, some more staged than others. Dominic kept drifting back to me and how we ended things earlier, but when my boss called, I had to come in. My eyes scanned the details—faint signs of struggle, the precision of wounds, the meticulous placement of each victim. The more I looked, the clearer the patterns became. Dominic’s work was unmistakable; there was a cold efficiency to it, a perfection in the staging that left no room for error. Those were the cases I set aside, marking them as unrelated to our so-called “copycat.”
The rest? Sloppy. Amateur. Whoever this copycat was, they didn’t have Dominic’s precision, his control. They were trying too hard, leaving signs that screamed
