Twisted roots

The stench of rot and rainwater clung to the air as Jessie Black stepped into the alley. The narrow space between the buildings was littered with trash, puddles, and broken glass, all glistening in the glow of red and blue police lights. It was early. Too early. The sky above was still a bruised gray, the city barely awake. Her boots splashed through standing water as she moved forward, crime scene kit in one hand, ID already clipped to her belt. “Tech Black,” she announced to the uniform at the yellow tape. The officer lifted it wordlessly, gaze flickering to the dead-end of the alley behind her. That’s when she saw the body. A man. Late twenties. Dark hair soaked with rain, limbs splayed unnaturally, face twisted in a final frozen scream. His shirt had been pulled up, revealing a gaping wound carved across his stomach with surgical precision. And in the center of it—etched deep into the soft skin above the navel—was the word: GUILTY. The blood hadn't even fully dried. Jessie froze. For just one second, she couldn’t move, couldn’t think. Her hand tightened around the strap of her kit until her knuckles turned white. The word stared back at her, glowing red beneath the harsh white light of the floodlamps. It was the word she left behind. Only she never killed this man. She had never seen his face before. And she never would’ve made it this sloppy. She dropped to a crouch beside the body, pushing her emotions aside. Instinct took over—clinical, practiced. Measure. Observe. Record. She slipped on a pair of nitrile gloves and studied the cut, noting the deliberate depth, the spacing of the letters. Too neat to be random. But… off. This wasn’t her work. But whoever did this had studied it closely. Too closely. “Victim’s name is Leroy Thomas,” came a voice behind her. Jessie glanced over her shoulder to see Detective Marquez stepping closer, coffee in one hand, a manila folder in the other. He looked like he hadn’t slept. “Thirty-two. Rap sheet a mile long. Battery, domestic assault, some priors for child endangerment. Released six months ago on a technicality.” Jessie’s gaze dropped back to the carved word. Guilty. The irony wasn’t lost on her. “You think this was vigilante?” she asked softly. “Maybe.” Marquez crouched beside her, eyeing the wound. “It’s too… specific to be random. Not a robbery gone bad. Not gang.” She didn’t respond. Her jaw clenched as she photographed the letters, one by one. She couldn’t shake the chill building in her spine. The killer knew exactly what they were doing. Which meant they knew her work. “Signature crime?” Marquez asked, narrowing his eyes. “You’ve worked similar scenes, haven’t you?” Jessie kept her expression neutral. “I’ve worked a lot of scenes.” She packed away the camera and began brushing for trace fibers around the wound. Anything to keep her hands busy. “Security cameras picked up someone walking away from the alley around 3 a.m.,” Marquez added. “Can’t make out much. Hood up. Tall. Broad shoulders. Could be male, could be female.” “Cameras never give us what we need,” Jessie muttered. “Too grainy. Too late.” She finished up her sweep, then stood slowly, taking in the rest of the alley. No signs of a struggle. No drag marks. He’d been killed here—or placed here soon after. Either way, the killer had time. Time to position the body, pull up his shirt, carve their little message. Jessie’s mind raced. Was someone trying to send a message? To her? By late afternoon, the body was at the morgue, and Jessie had returned to the department lab. The air smelled of antiseptic and rubber gloves, cold and clean compared to the filth of the alley. She stared at the autopsy photos on her tablet. The clean cut. The surgical rhythm of the letters. The lack of hesitation. Someone was copying her. Someone had read the story the media never told. The one no one should know. But how? She paced the lab, fists clenched at her sides. No one should know about the pattern. The victims she chose had all hurt others—monsters that slipped through the cracks of a failing system. Each one had the word Guilty carved into them, but only after meticulous preparation. No fingerprints. No fibers. No survivors. This kill… this was a mockery. There was a knock at the door. Jessie turned, startled. A man stood just outside the glass, watching her with a polite, unreadable smile. “Aaron Cole,” he said when she opened the door. “Behavioral Analyst. I’ve been brought in to consult on the Leroy Thomas case.” Jessie tilted her head. “We don’t usually see profilers unless it’s serial.” “Maybe it is,” he said. “Or maybe the captain’s just being cautious.” He offered a hand. She hesitated, then took it. His grip was firm but measured. His eyes held a strange sort of calm—focused, but distant. Like he wasn’t just looking at her, but through her. “I wanted to speak with the crime scene tech who processed the alley,” Aaron continued. “See if there was anything… unusual.” Jessie gave a practiced shrug. “Everything’s unusual until it’s not. The word carved into the body caught attention.” “‘Guilty,’” Aaron echoed. “Strange choice. Intimate. Like the killer wanted to make a statement.” His gaze lingered on her face. Jessie offered a tight smile. “You’d know more about that than me.” “Maybe.” He paused. “You didn’t happen to process any other scenes where that word was used?” Jessie’s heart skipped, but her expression didn’t change. “No,” she lied. “This is the first time I’ve seen it.” Aaron nodded slowly, as if making a mental note of her answer. She watched him walk away a few minutes later, feeling that same cold instinct curl at the edges of her mind. He hadn’t done anything wrong. Hadn’t said anything threatening. But something about him scratched at her. She didn’t suspect him—not yet. But her gut was whispering something she couldn’t quite name. And Jessie Black had learned long ago that her instincts were almost always right