Obsessed

Chapter 6

The briefing room at the Detroit Police Precinct buzzed with low chatter as officers and detectives settled into their seats. The stale scent of coffee and sweat hung in the air, the usual aroma of long shifts and stress. Mark and Jackson leaned against the wall near the back, arms crossed, half-listening to the scattered conversation until the double doors swung open.

Silence fell.

Commissioner Reynolds entered, and just behind him, Ronnie walked in.

She wore a tailored black vest over a crisp white collared shirt. The shirt was unbuttoned just enough to hint at the curve of her chest, subtle yet impossible not to notice. Her black dress pants hugged her hips in just the right way, and her platinum blonde hair was worn down, soft waves cascading over her shoulders. She looked polished, intelligent, and effortlessly beautiful.

Every male in the room noticed.

Mark's gaze lingered on her, drawn in before he could stop himself. The deep V of the vest, the sharp contrast of white against black amplifying her curves, the soft pink of her lips...

Jackson nudged him with an elbow, smirking. "You're starting to drool, man."

Mark blinked, pulled from his stare, and rolled his eyes. "Shut up."

Commissioner Reynolds cleared his throat, drawing everyone's attention.

"Alright, listen up. We may finally have lead on the serial case. The latest victim, Kayla Martin, was found with trace residues on the bottoms of her feet. It suggests she was held in a different location before being dumped. Our forensics team believes she might have been kept in an abandoned warehouse—likely one with a dirt or dust-covered floor. However, the residue wasn't enough to tell us what kind of facility or where."

Reynolds's eyes scanned the room. "So while you're out on patrol or following leads, keep an eye out for any warehouse or structure that looks like it's seen better decades. Anything out of place, unusual tracks, tire marks, signs of movement—report it immediately."

He gave a final nod. "That's all. Dismissed."

The chairs scraped as the officers rose. Jackson cracked his knuckles and looked toward Ronnie with a confident grin.

"Watch and learn," he told Mark. "I'm taking her to lunch."

Mark just shook his head. "Good luck with that."

He watched from the corner of his eye as Jackson made his way over, flashing what he probably thought was a winning smile. Ronnie stood near the side of the room, reviewing the board that held a collage of crime scene photos and notes. She turned to Jackson, polite but clearly uninterested. Her responses were short, her smile tight.

When Jackson returned to his desk, he looked defeated.

"She's going to be a tough one," he said, dropping into his chair. "Likes to play hard to get. But lucky for me, I like a challenge."

Mark shook his head again, biting back a smirk. "Maybe she just doesn’t like you."

Jackson gave him a side glance. "Nah. No one can resist this."

Mark didn’t respond. He turned back to his computer, opening a map of Detroit and its outskirts. He highlighted every known abandoned warehouse on record, narrowing them down based on proximity to the victim drop sites. One by one, he eliminated possibilities, his brow furrowing in frustration.

His eyes drifted toward Ronnie's office. She was standing with her arms crossed, staring at her own board—the same map, the same buildings.

He stood and walked to her open door.

"Got a moment?"

Ronnie turned, her face lighting up just slightly. "Of course."

He stepped inside, approaching her board. "I don't think these warehouses are the ones we're looking for."

Ronnie studied the map, nodding slowly. "I think you're right. They're all too close to the city, too visible."

Mark pointed to the red pins on the map. "One of the girls was found out here, near the forest. Another was dumped near the river, by a warehouse that's just on the edge of the industrial district."

Ronnie moved in closer, her eyes narrowing in thought. The scent of her perfume drifted toward him—vanilla and amber, warm and enticing.

She pointed to a different area outside the city limits. "Aren't there two abandoned warehouses out here? Near the old logging road?"

Mark looked at the map, considering. "Yeah. I think you're right. One of them used to be a freight storage building. The other... I think it was a meat-packing plant, shut down five years ago."

Ronnie tapped the map. "They’re isolated. Barely any foot traffic. And they’re close enough to the disposal sites that the timeline would make sense."

Mark nodded. "I'll get a team together. We'll check them out today."

Ronnie stepped back from the board and smiled at him. "Let me know what you find."

As Mark left her office, his heart beat just a little harder in his chest. It wasn’t just the case. It was her.

He pushed that thought aside.

Work first. Always work first.

They were only able to get a warrant for the freight storage building—an old shipping and receiving warehouse just off an abandoned stretch of industrial road. The other site, a defunct meat-packing plant deeper in the woods, would take a few more days for the paperwork to go through.

Mark and Jackson moved fast. They gathered a tactical team, briefed them, and by early afternoon they were en route.

The warehouse stood like a sleeping giant, surrounded by rusted fencing and wild overgrowth. Its exterior was chipped and decaying, with corrugated metal panels barely hanging on and cracked, dust-covered windows boarded from the inside. The faded logo of a shipping company long out of business was just barely visible across the roofline. Weeds had broken through the concrete, crawling over pallets and discarded equipment like nature was slowly trying to reclaim it.

Mark pulled up in the lead SUV, flanked by blacked-out cruisers. He stepped out, adjusted the gun on his hip, and looked over the perimeter. Jackson gave him a nod before moving around the far side with two officers. The team split into three groups.

Inside, the warehouse was just as eerie. Light filtered through fractured panels and holes in the roof, casting long beams through thick layers of dust. The smell was stale and metallic, laced with decay. The silence was deafening, broken only by the low creaks of the old building settling.

Mark swept through one of the main corridors with his flashlight and weapon drawn. His steps were quiet, calculated, trained. Room by room, they cleared the space: loading docks, storage offices, mechanical rooms—all empty.

Then, just as he was about to leave one of the smaller rooms near the West Wing, he paused.

There was a subtle draft brushing the side of his neck. The room had no windows, no vents, and only one door. Mark narrowed his eyes, scanning the walls.

Then he saw it: a seam in the far wall, barely noticeable unless you were looking for it.

He approached, pressing his hand along the panel until it clicked with a hollow sound. The wall creaked open, revealing a narrow stairwell leading downward into darkness.

Mark grabbed his radio. "This is Marshalls. I found something—West Wing. Sending location coordinates. Proceed with caution."

He started down the old, crumbling stairs, his flashlight cutting through the thick shadows. His gun was raised in front of him, every step deliberate. The further he went, the stronger the smell became—chemical, harsh, suffocating. The air grew colder, heavier.

At the bottom was a long, narrow corridor. The concrete was stained, the walls lined with rusted pipes. Flickering, dim light came from a hanging bulb halfway down the hall. It barely illuminated the metal door at the far end—ajar by just a crack.

Mark approached, heart pounding.

He nudged the door open with the barrel of his gun.

The room inside was like something from a nightmare.

It was perfectly sterile… disturbingly so. Everything was clean, organized with surgical precision. A metal examination table stood at the center, equipped with leather straps at the ankles, wrists, and neck. Next to it, a tray of surgical tools gleamed under a yellowed ceiling light—scalpels, bone saws, forceps, clamps—all laid out in perfect order.

On the nearby counter were rows of cleaning chemicals: bleach, ammonia, vinegar, hydrogen peroxide. Bottles were half-used, but meticulously arranged. Rolls of gauze, medical tape, gloves, syringes—it was a full setup. Not a speck of dust or dirt to be found… except one spot.

In the far corner, beneath the table, a faint stain of blood. Someone had tried to clean it, but hadn't done it thoroughly. It had seeped into the porous concrete, refusing to be erased.

Footsteps echoed behind him as Jackson and the forensic team arrived.

"Jesus Christ," Jackson muttered, pulling his collar over his nose.

The forensic team sprang into action, taking samples of the blood, swabbing the tools, photographing every square inch of the room. Everything was catalogued, labeled, and bagged for testing.

Mark stood silently, watching.

"This has to be it," he said. "This is where he... cleans them. The chemicals—it's all here. Same compounds the lab found in the victims."

Jackson nodded grimly. "No one just stumbles on a place like this. He picked it for a reason. Secluded. Controlled."

The forensic lead approached Mark. "We'll test for prints, but whoever did this knew what they were doing. Might be a long shot. Still… that blood stain could give us something."

Mark stared at the table, jaw clenched.

This wasn’t just a workspace. This was a ritual site. A temple of cruelty. Whoever the killer was, he didn’t just murder these women—he prepared them. Transformed them into something else. Cleaned them like artifacts.

And now, they were one step closer to catching him.