CONFESSIONS OF A FALLEN SAINT

CHAPTER TWO – THE CRIME SCENE

June 19, 2024

6:30 A.M.

Police cars lined both sides of Ash Street.

Their flashing lights painted the quiet neighbourhood in shades of blue and red.

Yellow tape stretched across the entrance of Richard Hawthorne's mansion as officers kept curious neighbours at a distance.

Nobody crossed the tape without permission.

Nobody spoke above a whisper.

The front door of the mansion remained open.

Crime scene photographers moved from room to room.

Forensic officers dusted every surface they could find.

The whole house smelled of fresh coffee...

...and death.

A black SUV rolled to a stop outside the gate.

The driver's door opened.

A man stepped out.

He was tall, a little over six feet, with broad shoulders and a straight posture that made him stand out without trying.

His dark grey suit looked expensive but slightly wrinkled, like he'd been wearing it since yesterday.

A black overcoat rested on his shoulders.

His tie hung loose around his neck.

His short black hair was neatly cut.

His sharp jawline was covered by light stubble.

His brown eyes were striking.

The kind that usually made people feel safe.

Today...

They looked tired.

Very tired.

Dark circles rested beneath them.

Detective Damien Carter hadn't slept properly in almost three weeks.

Not since the first confession.

Not since the first body.

An officer waiting at the gate walked over immediately.

"Morning, Detective."

Damien gave a small nod.

"What have we got?"

"Male. Richard Hawthorne. Fifty-eight."

"Time of death?"

"The medical examiner is still working on it."

The officer hesitated.

Then, quietly added,

"...There's another confession."

Damien closed his eyes for a second.

He didn't look surprised.

He looked defeated.

When he opened them again, he simply said,

"Take me inside."

The officer stepped aside.

As Damien walked toward the house, the camera flashed lit up outside the police tape.

"Detective!"

A reporter raised her microphone.

"Do you believe this is the work of The Fallen Saint?"

Damien didn't even turn around.

Another reporter shouted,

"Is the city dealing with a serial killer?"

No answer.

He kept walking.

The living room was crowded with officers.

Some were taking photographs.

Others were collecting fingerprints.

Near the staircase stood a middle-aged woman wrapped in a thick sweater.

Her eyes were red from crying.

She held a tissue tightly in one hand.

Damien stopped beside the officer, guarding her.

"Who is she?"

"The housekeeper."

"Has she said anything?"

"Only that she found the front door open when she arrived for work."

Damien looked at the frightened woman for a moment.

Then he walked over.

"Mrs. Wilson?"

She looked up slowly and nodded.

"My name is Detective Damien Carter."

"I'm going to ask you a few questions."

"I need you to answer honestly."

She swallowed hard.

"I... I'll try."

Damien's voice remained calm.

"What time did you get here this morning?"

She glanced at the clock on the wall as if trying to remember.

"A little after six."

"And the gate?"

"It was already open."

"The front door?"

She nodded.

"It wasn't locked."

Damien frowned.

"Was that unusual?"

"Very."

"Mr. Hawthorne always locked the door before going to bed."

"What did you do when you got inside?"

"I called his name."

Her voice shook.

"When he didn't answer... I thought maybe he was still sleeping."

A tear rolled down her cheek.

"So I walked further into the house..."

She stopped.

Her breathing became uneven.

Damien waited patiently.

"What did you see, Mrs. Wilson?"

She covered her mouth with one hand.

"I..."

Another tear escaped.

"I saw him."

The room fell silent.

"I saw him..."

Her voice faded into a whisper.

"I saw Mr. Hawthorne."

She lowered her head and began to cry again.

Damien handed her a handkerchief from his coat pocket.

"Take your time."

Mrs. Wilson wiped her eyes before continuing.

"He was sitting on a chair."

"I thought he was sleeping."

She paused.

"But..."

She shook her head.

"The closer I got..."

"The more I realized something was wrong."

"I screamed."

"I don't even remember screaming."

"I just... ran outside."

Damien nodded.

"You did the right thing."

He took a small notebook from his pocket.

"Did Mr. Hawthorne mentioned expecting any visitors yesterday?"

"No."

"Did anyone come to the house while you were here?"

"No."

"What about phone calls?"

She frowned.

"He did receive one."

Damien looked up.

"When?"

"Just before I left yesterday afternoon."

"Did you hear who it was?"

She shook her head.

"No."

"But after the call..."

"He wasn't himself."

"What do you mean?"

"He looked worried."

"He kept staring out of the window."

"I asked if everything was okay."

"He smiled."

She let out a weak laugh.

"But it wasn't a real smile."

"He just said..."

"'It's probably nothing.'"

Damien wrote that down.

"Did he leave the house again after you left?"

"I don't know."

"His car is still outside."

Damien closed his notebook.

"For now, I'd like you to stay available."

"If we need anything else, we'll contact you."

Mrs. Wilson nodded quietly.

"Thank you, Detective."

Damien turned away.

An officer approached him.

"Sir."

"The medical examiner is finished."

Damien followed him down the hallway.

The deeper they walked into the house...

The quieter it became.

Every officer they passed looked uncomfortable.

One detective looked away completely.

Another quietly removed his gloves and rubbed his face.

Nobody needed to say it.

This crime scene was different.

They stopped outside a half-open door.

The medical examiner stepped out.

A man in his late fifties with silver hair and thin glasses.

"Morning, Damien."

"Morning, Doc."

The older man removed his gloves.

"I've never seen anything quite like this."

Damien looked toward the room.

"What have we got?"

"No signs of forced entry."

"No struggle."

"No defensive wounds."

He sighed.

"At first glance, it almost looks peaceful."

Damien frowned.

"Cause of death?"

"We'll know for certain after the autopsy."

"But..."

He lowered his voice.

"I'm fairly confident it wasn't quick."

Damien's jaw tightened.

"And the confession?"

The doctor's eyes drifted toward the room.

"Still there."

"Just like the others."

For a brief moment...

Neither man spoke.

Finally, Damien took a slow breath.

"I'll see it myself."

The medical examiner stepped aside.

Damien rested one hand on the door.

Then...

He slowly pushed it open.

The room was quiet.

Too quiet.

Damien stepped inside.

His polished shoes tapped softly against the wooden floor.

His eyes swept across the room.

The hanging bulb was still on.

It swung gently from side to side.

As if someone had only just left.

Then...

He saw Richard.

Still sitting in the chair.

His head rested slightly to one side.

His eyes were open.

Frozen.

Damien stopped walking.

For a second...

The room seemed to disappear around him.

He had seen death before.

Too many times.

Gunshots.

Car crashes.

Stabbings.

Even children.

But this...

This felt different.

Richard looked almost peaceful.

If not for the lifeless eyes...

Anyone would have thought he was simply resting.

Damien slowly walked closer.

His gaze dropped to the table.

There it was.

A single sheet of cream-colored paper.

Folded neatly.

Beside it lay a black fountain pen.

And next to the pen...

A tiny white saint.

No bigger than a child's thumb.

Damien's chest tightened.

Again.

The exact same paper.

The exact same pen.

The exact same little saint.

His fingers curled into a fist.

"Damn it..."

The words escaped before he realized.

An officer standing behind him remained silent.

He knew better than to interrupt.

Damien carefully put on a fresh pair of gloves.

He picked up the confession.

Unfolded it.

His eyes moved across the page.

The room fell completely silent.

The officer watched Damien's face.

At first...

Nothing.

Then...

Frustration.

Disappointment.

Finally...

Anger.

Damien folded the paper again.

His jaw was tight.

"What does it say, sir?"

Damien didn't answer immediately.

He looked at Richard one last time.

Then quietly said,

"The same thing as the others."

The officer frowned.

"What do you mean?"

Damien placed the confession back exactly where it had been.

"It sounds like a confession."

He paused.

"But it never truly confesses to anything."

The officer looked confused.

Damien continued.

"It gives you pieces."

"Fragments."

"It makes you believe you're looking at the truth."

"But every time you try to connect those pieces..."

"They lead nowhere."

He let out a slow breath.

"It's like reading half of a story."

The young officer stared at the folded paper.

"So..."

"We still don't know what they actually did?"

Damien shook his head.

"No."

"Not from these."

He looked around the room once more.

No fingerprints.

No broken furniture.

No signs of forced entry.

Nothing.

Whoever had done this...

Had walked in...

Done exactly what he came to do...

And walked out again.

Without leaving a single mistake behind.

An officer hurried into the room.

"Detective."

Damien turned.

"The Commissioner is on the phone."

"He wants to speak with you immediately."

Damien looked once more at Richard's body.

Then at the little white saint.

Something about it made his skin crawl.

He had seen it three times now.

Yet it still felt like the killer was standing somewhere nearby...

Watching them.

Waiting for them to fail again.

Damien took one last look around the room before walking out.

He had a feeling...

That phone call was about to change everything.