Seduction of the Mind

Patterns and Promises

The knock came just after eight, firm and deliberate. Ethan opened the door to find Detective Bennett standing there, coat collar turned up against the morning chill, a half-grin playing under sharp eyes.

“Doctor Hale,” Bennett said. “Hope I’m not ruining your quiet morning.”

“Come in,” Ethan replied, stepping aside.

The detective moved through the hallway with the restless ease of a man who notices everything without asking permission to look.

“Coffee?” Ethan asked, heading toward the kitchen.

“Sure,” Bennett said, like a man doing the host a favor.

They settled in the study, mugs steaming between them, sunlight slicing the room into neat bars. Bennett leaned back, elbows on the armrests, studying Ethan like a puzzle he enjoyed too much.

“So,” Bennett said finally, “did you get time to work on that profile?”

Ethan reached into his briefcase, pulled out a folder, and slid a page across the desk. Clean bullet points. Nothing wasted.

Bennett skimmed, lips moving silently. “Introverted. High-functioning. Ritualistic tendencies. Above-average IQ. Likely collects tokens from victims.” He paused, eyes flicking up. “Souvenirs, huh? What makes you so sure?”

Ethan’s tone was measured, almost academic. “Because souvenirs always anchor to a memory. They’re not random trophies—they’re personal triggers. One victim, a former minor-league baseball player, had his championship ring taken. Another—church volunteer—lost the chain with his christening cross. Third guy wore an engraved lighter; it vanished too. Those items matter because they meant something before the killer touched them. That’s the point—stealing meaning and making it his own.”

Bennett let out a low whistle, setting the page down. “You’re good at this, Doc. Better than half the profilers I’ve met.”

“I observe patterns,” Ethan said simply.

“Patterns.” Bennett’s gaze narrowed, intrigued. He tapped the paper. “‘Bodies positioned facing south.’ That little gem wasn’t in any of my reports.”

“You didn’t ask the question.” Ethan’s voice carried no brag, just truth.

Bennett chuckled. “Fair enough. Still doesn’t tell me why you’re this invested. Most civilians run from a case like this. Hell, even some cops do. People don’t like standing too close to the fire. Might get burned.” He leaned forward, his smile a shade too sharp. “You know how many folks refuse to talk because they think the killer will come knocking? Ninety percent. The other ten are lying.”

Ethan held his gaze, calm as water in a sealed jar. “Then I’m the one percent left.”

“Not afraid of being next?” Bennett asked, tone dipping into something more serious.

Ethan sipped his coffee, eyes steady. “For me, death isn’t such a terrible ending. Just another inevitability. And if it comes… at least I’ll die knowing I tried to make sense of the chaos.”

For a moment, silence stood between them like a third man.

Then Bennett smirked. “You’ve got a dark streak, Doc. Anyone ever tell you that?”

“Often,” Ethan said.

Bennett set the mug down, lacing his fingers. “So let me ask: why this case? Why now?”

“Because I think someone I see… might be connected.”

That hit like a clean shot to the jaw. Bennett straightened, grin evaporating. “Jesus. You serious?”

“Yes.”

“You realize,” Bennett said slowly, “doctor-patient confidentiality means your hands are tied tighter than a hangman’s knot.”

“I know.”

“Which means you can’t give me a name unless you want to frame your license and hang it in a morgue,” Bennett pressed.

“I’m not giving you a name,” Ethan said evenly.

The detective studied him, something sly creeping back into his expression. “You know what thought just hit me?”

“What’s that?”

“That maybe you’re the guy,” Bennett said lightly, grin tilting back. “Killer hiding in plain sight. Best cover in the world—sit in that leather chair, listen to everyone’s sins, and stack bodies in your spare time.”

Ethan almost smiled. “If that were true,” he said dryly, “you’d have found my wife in a ditch already. I’d even leave you the coordinates.”

That cracked Bennett up—a sharp, barking laugh that turned a few birds outside into startled silhouettes. “Fair enough. These victims were all men, anyway. Not your type, huh?”

“Not even close.”

They shared a look—the kind men trade when the world tilts toward something darker than the daylight can bleach.

When the laughter thinned, Bennett tilted his head. “Seriously, Doc. Doesn’t it cross your mind—what if this guy decides you’re next? Because you’re in his orbit now. That’s how it happens. You stare too long into the monster, and he notices.”

Ethan leaned back, voice calm as confession. “If that’s what’s waiting for me, then here’s the deal. When you unzip the body bag, check the waistband. There’ll be a note sewn into my underwear.”

Bennett blinked, then grinned like a wolf. “What’s it say?”

“‘This is who killed me.’” Ethan’s tone didn’t flinch.

Silence cracked—then Bennett roared, laughter rolling out like thunder. “Jesus Christ, Hale. You’re darker than my ex-wife’s prenup.” He rose, sliding the paper into his coat. “Keep those instincts sharp, Doc. You might just save a life. Maybe even your own.”

Ethan watched him leave, the door closing on a gust of cold air and a truth heavier than the coffee cooling on the desk:

Some part of him didn’t fear the end. Some part of him almost welcomed it.