Under the surface
855 Words
The red and blue lights of Wickfield PD pulsed against the broken windows of Redwell Apartments, casting flashes over the wet pavement. Rain still clung to the sidewalks in oily puddles. Yellow tape fluttered like warning ribbons.
Detective Elias Marquez ducked under the line and stepped into the narrow stairwell of the building.
“Third floor,” Officer Hanks said, holding the door. “It’s bad.”
Marquez nodded. “Crime techs inside?”
“One has already arrived. Jessie Black.”
Marquez paused at the name.
Jessie Black.
He’d seen her name at nearly every Black Thread copycat scene in the past six months. It could’ve been a coincidence—she was one of the city’s best forensic techs. Efficient. Obsessively precise. Cold under pressure.
But still.
Too many threads were converging.
He climbed the stairs slowly, each step heightening the hum in his gut. Instinct.
Something was coming together.
The smell hit him before the door opened.
Sterile bleach, coppery blood, and something burned into the air like guilt.
Apartment 3B was dead silent, except for the low mutter of a forensic recorder and the occasional click of gloves on plastic. The body was still secured to the bed—duct tape over the mouth, wounds exposed beneath peeled-back pajama fabric. The chest had been sewn with thick, black thread, the word GUILTY repeated in perfect lines across the pale flesh.
It was the same pattern.
The same signature.
Marquez didn’t speak at first. He let the scene settle around him, let it breathe.
Then he saw her.
Jessie Black stood near the foot of the bed, camera in hand, crouched to photograph the ligature marks. Her dark ponytail swung slightly as she moved. Calm. Detached. Exact.
Just like every time.
She looked up when he entered.
“Detective,” she said with a nod. “You’re early.”
Marquez stepped carefully into the room. “Couldn’t sleep.”
Jessie straightened, peeled off one glove, and pulled a small evidence marker from her kit. Her expression never shifted.
“Time of death looks like somewhere between ten p.m. and midnight. Ligature marks on the ankles, wrists, and bruising on the throat. Tape gag. No visible defensive wounds.”
“No sign of forced entry?” Marquez asked.
“None. The lock was clean. No tool marks. Whoever came in either had access… or knew how to pick it without leaving evidence.”
Marquez stepped closer to the bed. The word stitched into the flesh was so clean it almost looked machine-made.
“Same word. Same thread. Same depth of stitch,” he said.
Jessie said nothing.
“Same killer?” he asked, but his tone was loaded.
Jessie gave a slow nod. “Looks like it.”
“Your opinion?”
She met his eyes. “This isn’t a copycat anymore. It’s personal.”
That answer surprised him. Jessie rarely offered anything beyond forensics. Never emotional speculation. Never gut instinct.
Marquez filed the moment away in silence.
He turned back to the body. “Victim?”
“Howard Johnson. Local landlord. No criminal record. Widowed. Daughter’s been in and out of the ER—injuries consistent with abuse.”
“So he was guilty,” Marquez murmured.
Jessie didn’t respond.
“Who found him?”
“Anonymous call to 911 from a burner cell. No prints. No signal trace. The voice was male. Mid-thirties. Calm. Like he was reporting a power outage.”
Jessie returned to her kit and snapped another pair of gloves on. “If I had to guess, the killer cleaned before leaving. No hair, no fingerprints, no DNA so far. But I’ll process everything.”
“I’m sure you will,” Marquez said quietly.
She didn’t look up.
Outside, Moments Later
Marquez stepped out into the hall, phone to his ear.
“Yeah, I’m at the Johnson scene. Same M.O.”
The captain’s voice buzzed through. “Think it's our guy?”
“I do.”
“Aaron Cole?”
A long pause.
“Yes,” Marquez said. “Too many similarities. Too much knowledge. The timing’s too clean. Every time we find a scene, he’s already profiled it. It’s like he’s leaving bread crumbs for himself.”
“You don’t think he’s working with someone?”
Another pause.
“I think Aaron Cole might be acting alone. But I also think he’s been playing both sides. Behavioural profiler by day—Black Thread Killer by night.”
“You going to bring him in?”
“Not yet. I want to shake the tree a little. See what falls.”
Back Inside
Jessie stood alone in the bedroom now, facing the body.
The room had emptied. Officers were outside. Marquez was gone. For the moment, she was alone with her work.
She stared at the stitches. Her stitches.
Perfectly executed.
But now… they weren’t just hers.
Aaron was out there.
Watching her.
Leaving trails.
Threatening her.
> Now your name is on my list.
She closed her eyes briefly and whispered to herself, just above a breath:
> “Then you’d better make sure I’m your last.”
- Writer
