Seduction of the Mind

The Detective

The precinct smelled like sweat trapped in paper. Coffee, too—burned and old, like it had been sitting in the pot since dawn. Ethan stood just inside the glass doors, rainwater drying on his coat, his breath shallow with something he didn’t want to name.

He’d told himself this was curiosity. Professional duty. The part of him that still believed in patterns and reasons. But when the officer at the front desk asked, “Business or personal?” he didn’t have an answer ready.

“I’m here to see Detective Bennett,” he said finally.

The officer jerked his head toward a corridor. “Second door on the left. Big guy. Looks like he hasn’t slept in a week.”

Ethan walked down the hall, shoes clicking on scuffed linoleum. Behind closed doors voices rose and fell, telephones rang like alarms no one hurried to silence. Fluorescent light hummed overhead, cold and merciless.

He stopped at the second door. A brass plate read: D. Bennett, Homicide.

Knocking felt strange, almost theatrical. But he did it. A pause, then a low voice: “Yeah, come in.”

The room was smaller than he expected. A single desk cluttered with files, two chairs, blinds drawn against a gray afternoon. And behind the desk—Detective Bennett. Mid-forties, broad-shouldered, tie loose, sleeves rolled. A face carved from fatigue and humor in equal parts.

“You must be Dr. Hale.” Bennett stood, extending a hand big enough to close around a brick. His smile carried warmth without softness. “Your reputation beats you here. Sit.”

Ethan shook his hand and lowered into the chair opposite the desk. The metal groaned under his weight like it had opinions.

“Coffee?” Bennett asked, nodding to a pot that looked more like a threat than an offer.

“I’m fine,” Ethan said.

“Your message said you wanted to… consult?” The detective leaned back, eyes narrowing slightly. “Not every day a psychiatrist walks in offering free labor.”

“I thought I could help,” Ethan said. He kept his tone steady, professional. “Build a psychological profile. Patterns in behavior. It might point you closer to motive.”

Bennett grunted, a sound like skepticism wrapped in interest. “Profiles sell a lot of books, Doc. Not as many arrests.”

“I’m aware,” Ethan said.

The detective studied him for a beat longer, then shrugged. “Hell, why not. Smart beats lucky—sometimes.” He dragged a folder from the top of a stack and flipped it open. Glossy crime scene photos glared up: bodies on hotel carpets, blood blackened by flash. Ethan felt his stomach tighten but didn’t look away.

“All male victims,” Bennett began, his tone clipped. “Ages twenty-eight to forty-five. No sign of forced entry, which means they opened the door. Either they knew her”—he caught Ethan’s glance and smirked—“yeah, we’re betting female, or she’s very good at pretending she’s not a threat.”

“Method?” Ethan asked.

“Knife.” Bennett’s fingers tapped the photo of a gash blooming across a man’s torso. “Clean blade, no serration. Straight thrusts, not hacks. She knows anatomy—or she’s just lucky with depth.”

“The weapon?”

“Never recovered. She takes it with her.”

Ethan’s gaze slid to another photo. Something small glinted near the victim’s hand. “What’s that?”

“Souvenir,” Bennett said. “We find one with every stiff. Tiny glass figurine, animal shape. This one—” He nudged the photo closer. “—is a horse.”

Ethan frowned. “Always the same animal?”

“Nope. That’s the kicker. Each one’s different. Horse, owl, fox, cat. And get this—” Bennett leaned in, his voice dropping as if conspiracies needed softer tones. “We think the animal isn’t random. First vic was a guy big into racing—betting, horses, all that. The second? Birdwatcher. Third ran a pet shop. Fourth collected fox-themed art. You see where I’m going.”

“She tailors the token,” Ethan murmured. “A personalized signature.”

“Exactly. That’s not impulse. That’s… ritual.” Bennett sat back, eyes narrowing. “What kind of brain does that, Doc?”

Ethan kept his voice neutral, though his pulse drummed in his throat. “Someone who wants more than a kill. Someone who wants… art. A story only they understand.”

Bennett nodded slowly, like a man filing the thought under maybe useful later. He closed the folder with a dull slap and slid it across the desk.

“Background on the vics, crime scene reports, timelines,” he said. “Read if you want. But keep it to yourself. Press would eat this alive.”

Ethan took the folder. The weight of it felt wrong in his hands, like contraband.

“Thanks for this,” Bennett added. “But level with me—why’d you really come? Doctors don’t just wake up wanting to swim in blood.”

Ethan hesitated. The truth flickered at the edge of his tongue: Because I can’t stop thinking about a woman who might be writing this story in glass and veins. Instead, he said: “Professional curiosity. That’s all.”

Bennett’s smile tilted. “Uh-huh. Curiosity. That thing that killed the cat.”

Ethan forced a small laugh, tucked the folder under his arm, and stood.

“Doc,” Bennett called as he reached the door. Ethan turned. “If you figure out what makes her tick… tell me before she adds another souvenir to the collection.”

Ethan nodded once and stepped into the corridor. The door shut behind him with a sound that felt final, but nothing about this felt finished. Not the weight in his hand. Not the heat crawling the back of his neck.

By the time he reached the street, rain had started again—thin, needling, like a reminder. He stood there a moment, folder pressed to his chest, and realized he had no idea why he’d come. Or maybe he did, and the answer was worse than ignorance.