Parasites and Patterns
1038 Words
Part One – Marquez Digs Deeper
Detective Elias Marquez leaned back in his chair, eyes bloodshot, mind racing.
He hadn’t slept in nearly thirty hours.
Aaron Cole’s file sat open on his desk, dozens of notes and reports scattered across the surface like debris from a psychological explosion. Marquez had been peeling back layers, and every one revealed something stranger, something colder.
Everything about Cole screamed control—his reports, his language, his timing. Even his coffee breaks were clockwork.
But it was what wasn’t in the file that disturbed Marquez most.
Between the ages of 13 and 17, there were four missing years. No high school records. No medical entries. No foster system tracking—nothing but a sealed juvenile case file tied to a house fire and two dead parents.
The system had erased whatever Cole had been back then.
But ghosts always leave a footprint.
Marquez stared at the corkboard now lining his office wall. One column read Original Black Thread, another labeled Copycat, and the third, newly added: Aaron Cole.
The connections were mounting:
Predictive profiling too accurate to be theoretical.
Unreleased crime scene details referenced in internal emails.
A “gut instinct” that always led them too close to the truth.
He scrawled a note beneath Aaron’s name:
> “Killer pretending to chase himself?”
That’s when a knock came at the door.
It was Carla from records.
“I pulled his internal audits,” she said, holding out a folder. “You’ll want to see this.”
Inside: two flagged cases. Both had behavioral profiles so precise they bordered on firsthand knowledge. One included a sketch of the scene before the victim was even identified.
Marquez’s blood ran cold.
He looked back at the photos. The stitch pattern. The angles. The clean entry points.
Aaron had studied these scenes like an artist replicating a master.
But what if he wasn’t replicating?
What if he was remembering?
Part Two – Jessie’s Plan: Clean, Cold, Clinical
Jessie sat in her living room with a mug of cold coffee untouched on the table. Her laptop displayed a forensic training module—just a decoy. Her real work was in the notebook beside her.
Mr. Howard Johnson.
Sixty-one. Local slumlord. Former pastor. Widower. Abuser.
Jessie had reviewed Lila Johnson’s ER file personally. Fractured wrist. Blunt force trauma to the ribs. The bruises were old and fresh—layered like tree rings of suffering.
Lila had claimed she fell.
Jessie knew better.
She cross-checked prior visits. Quiet patterns of domestic violence. The mother’s suicide three years earlier? Autopsy photos suggested she was pushed—not jumped.
Jessie saw what the police refused to.
Mr. Johnson had been hiding behind religion, bureaucracy, and clean records for decades. But monsters always leave something behind.
Now, she would leave something of hers.
Phase One: Surveillance
For four days, Jessie watched him from afar—using a low-profile department SUV she checked out for “equipment pickup.” Her badge let her get close. Her forensics experience told her how to avoid leaving any forensic trace behind.
From 6 a.m. to 10 p.m., she tracked:
His movements (predictable).
His habits (sloppy).
His apartment layout (memorized).
Points of entry and exit (back stairwell, security camera blind spots).
She pulled the building’s maintenance records using department access.
Discovered:
Rear alley door lock recently broken and poorly repaired.
No camera coverage in the stairwell.
Hallway motion sensor didn’t work during heavy rain due to a shorted circuit.
His unit? Apartment 3B. One entrance. No security system. No dog.
She chose Thursday night—rain forecast, full routine, alcohol in the bloodstream.
Perfect.
Phase Two: Prep – Forensics-Proof
Jessie packed her kill kit with professional-grade precision:
Double-layered gloves: latex under nitrile to prevent sweat or trace DNA.
Custom-wrapped thread and sterilized needle: surgical quality.
Sterile chloroform in a vacuum-sealed glass vial.
Soft-soled, anti-slip shoes: no footprint impressions.
Mini sprayer with bleach solution: for door handles and surface touchpoints.
Surgical smock and cap under a black hoodie.
Plastic booties worn in and burned afterward.
She sterilized everything in her lab using unassigned equipment logged under a training ID—erased the logs later that night.
Her final touch?
A disposable phone, powered off and left six blocks away.
No signal. No GPS. No chance.
Phase Three: Execution
The rain was falling hard by 9:45 p.m.
Jessie approached the back of Redwell Apartments, hood up, eyes sharp. She passed the security camera blind spot and slipped into the stairwell.
Camera: flickering.
Sensor light: off.
Just as planned.
She moved to the third floor, picked the lock on 3B in under fifteen seconds using a handmade rake and tension bar.
She entered silently.
TV buzzing in the background. Mr. Johnson asleep in his recliner, whiskey glass balanced on his chest.
Jessie walked to him calmly, glove already soaked in chloroform.
He stirred.
Too late.
She pressed the rag to his face. Counted to twenty-five. Checked his breathing. No movement.
She worked quickly and silently.
Tied his limbs to the bed with electrical cord and nylon belts from his own closet. Taped his mouth. Covered his head with a towel to block visual contact until she was ready.
She turned off the TV. Moved the lamp to cast a clean shadow over the bed.
She peeled off her outer gloves and hoodie, revealing the surgical smock underneath.
The needle was already threaded.
She removed the towel from his face.
The Death Scene
He woke up strapped to his own bed, duct tape over his mouth, limbs tied tight. The room was dark except for a single lamp casting long shadows across the wall.
Jessie stepped into view, hair tied back, black sweatshirt clinging to her like a second skin.
She didn’t say a word.
She held up a needle threaded with thick, black string.
He began to thrash.
She leaned in, voice calm, almost clinical.
“Your daughter deserves peace.”
She lowered the needle.
“And your sins deserve to be read.”
The first stitch pierced the skin just below his collarbone.
She began sewing.
G
U
I
L
T
Y
Over and over again.
His screams muffled into the tape.
But no one came.
- Writer
