Obsessed

Chapter 4

Commissioner Reynolds walked Veronica—Ronnie—to her new office, a modest but private space tucked down the main hallway of the Detroit precinct. The blinds were drawn halfway over the windows that looked into the bullpen, and a clean desk waited in the center of the room. A laptop, a few legal pads, pens neatly aligned. Already organized—Ronnie’s kind of place.

"Take a few minutes to settle in," Reynolds said, pausing at the door. "I’ll send Detectives Jackson and Marshalls in to brief you more on the case."

"Thank you, Commissioner," Ronnie replied warmly, her voice soft yet confident.

As soon as the door closed behind him, she wandered to the window, looking out over the buzz of the precinct. People moved like gears in a machine—hurrying, typing, debating. Ronnie folded her arms, tapping her thumb against her sleeve, and waited.

Moments later, the door opened. Mark Marshalls walked in first, a file tucked under his arm, Jackson trailing behind with a coffee in each hand.

"Dr. Summers," Jackson said with his usual charm, handing her one of the cups.

"Ronnie," she corrected gently, smiling. "What do you two have so far?"

Mark didn’t bother with pleasantries. He placed the slim case file on her desk and stepped back. "Whoever this guy is—he’s smart. Doesn’t make mistakes. He only targets women between eighteen and twenty-seven, all blonde hair, blue eyes. Classic beauty type."

Ronnie opened the folder and began flipping through. "And how does he kill them?"

"Tortures them first," Mark said flatly. "Beats them. Rapes them. Then... kills them."

Jackson added, "Then cleans them. Completely. No prints. No DNA. No hair. Nothing."

Ronnie’s brows lifted, her expression lighting up with interest—bright but also troubled. Her face shifted as she absorbed the information, animated and thoughtful all at once. "You haven’t found even a partial sample?"

Mark shook his head. "After he’s done with... the body, he cleans it. Inside and out. Surgical. It’s like he’s trying to erase them completely."

Ronnie frowned and kept flipping through the photographs, her fingers brushing the edges with clinical delicacy. She stopped when she reached one. "This one—Kayla Martin. She was found a little differently, wasn’t she?"

Mark gave a subtle nod. "Yeah."

"I want to see the bodies," Ronnie said, her voice calm, but firm.

Mark and Jackson exchanged a glance.

Jackson grinned. "Sure, you can ride with—"

"I’ll ride with Marshalls," Ronnie interrupted with a quick smile, standing and already moving toward the door.

Jackson’s mouth opened to object, but she was already gone. He scowled after her. "Lucky bastard."

Mark couldn’t help but smirk.

They walked out into the parking lot together. Mark unlocked his matte black GMC Sierra and Ronnie climbed into the passenger seat, adjusting her blazer as she settled in.

They drove in silence for a while. Ronnie kept stealing small glances at Mark, her gaze assessing—curious, but not invasive. Mark could feel it.

He cleared his throat. "Look, I know Reynolds told you to try and talk to me. Don’t waste your time. I don’t need therapy."

Ronnie smirked. "Noted."

The rest of the ride was quiet.

They arrived at the county morgue, the air growing noticeably colder as they stepped inside. Jackson pulled up a moment later, revving his Mustang like a teenager showing off his toy.

Ronnie raised an eyebrow. "Is he always this obnoxious?"

Mark gave a dry nod. "Especially around pretty girls."

She smirked and followed him through the sliding doors.

Inside, the scent of antiseptic and chilled steel filled the air. A forensic tech met them at the door, nodded, and led them to the cold room. The lights flickered slightly overhead as the drawers were pulled open.

Ronnie stepped forward, pulling on gloves. She leaned over the first victim and took in every detail. The girls looked nearly identical—blonde, fair skin, delicate facial features. Every one of them cleaned meticulously, bodies nearly sterile.

But when she got to Kayla Martin, she frowned.

"This one’s different," she murmured. "Look here."

She motioned to Kayla’s hands. "The others had their fingernails removed. Clean, careful. But these?"

Mark leaned closer. "Torn."

"Exactly. There’s still torn skin and uneven lacerations. And her feet—look. The others were scrubbed spotless. Kayla still has debris on her heels. Dirt, dried blood. Maybe even fibers."

Mark immediately pulled out his phone. "Commissioner Reynolds? We need forensics down at the morgue now. Check the bottoms of Kayla Martin’s feet for potential evidence."

Jackson blinked, rubbing the back of his neck. "So what does it mean?"

Ronnie pulled off her gloves. "It means one of two things. Either we have a copycat... or he has an accomplice."

Silence hung in the room.

Jackson swallowed. "And you think that accomplice could’ve messed up?"

"If he’s new to it, yes. It would explain the inconsistencies."

Mark’s jaw clenched. "Or the original killer is slipping."

Ronnie looked between them. "Either way, it means we’re closer than we’ve ever been."

Mark met her eyes. There was something resolute in his gaze now, something almost dangerous. The pieces were starting to shift.

And for the first time in five years…

They had something real.

They drove back to the Precinct, Ronnie walked into her office with her arms folded, her brows slightly furrowed in thought. Mark trailed just behind her, silent and brooding, his eyes cast down like he was carrying the weight of every case they’d ever worked. Jackson, on the other hand, was already pulling out his keys and tossing them between his fingers with a cocky grin.

"So," Jackson said as they stepped into the office, "how about dinner tonight? I know this great Thai place not far from here. Spicy enough to numb the stress of the job."

Ronnie glanced over at him with a polite smile, "Thanks, but I’m still moving into my new place. Boxes, furniture, and chaos—lots of work to do."

Jackson chuckled and leaned her desk. "Maybe some other time then?"

She nodded, still keeping that courteous, unreadable smile. "Sure, maybe."

With a wink and a flash of teeth, Jackson walked off toward the bullpen, clearly satisfied he’d made some kind of impression. Mark turned to follow him but was stopped when Ronnie called gently, "Detective Marshalls."

He slowly turned to look at her.

Ronnie’s eyes were soft, her expression still but sincere. "If you ever do want to talk… my door’s open. No pressure."

There was a pause. He studied her face, searching for any hint of condescension or pity—but there was none. Just quiet honesty.

He gave her a curt nod. "Thanks."

Then he turned and left, footsteps heavy against the floor

Ronnie sat behind her desk, she pulled the file Commissioner Reynolds had given her earlier—the one labeled MARSHALLS, MARKUS D.—and opened it. Her ice-blue eyes scanned each line with intent, absorbing every word.

Name: Markus "Mark" Marshalls

Age: 33

Mother: Deceased (died when he was 7)

Father: Raymond Marshalls – history of alcohol abuse, multiple charges of domestic violence. Mark was placed in and out of child protective custody but always returned home.

Military Record:

Enlisted in the Marines the day he turned 18. Rose quickly through the ranks due to exceptional field skills and leadership. Transferred into a top-secret Special Operations Unit by the time he was 22.

Most of his Special OPS record was redacted or blacked out—marked CLASSIFIED. The few missions listed were labeled with codenames and vague locations, mostly in high-risk war zones.

Incident Report – Afghanistan (7 Years Ago):

Operation: Silent Talon. Objective: Extraction and elimination of a high-value target in Kandahar province. Outcome: Mission compromised. All members of squad KIA except Marshalls.

Mark was found unconscious, buried under debris from an IED explosion. Shrapnel tore through his right shoulder, chest, and upper arm. He was airlifted out in critical condition. Multiple reconstructive surgeries followed. A titanium plate was inserted into his right shoulder; additional metal reinforcements were installed in his upper arm and pectoral region.

Post-op evaluations documented the following:

PTSD (Severe)

Insomnia

Anxiety

Depression

Anger issues

Survivor’s Guilt

He was honorably discharged.

Law Enforcement Record:

Joined the Detroit Police Academy six months after discharge. Graduated with top physical marks, despite his injury. Been on the force for five years. Quiet, controlled, hyper-efficient.

Psychological evaluations noted a reluctance to engage in therapy. Has repeatedly skipped required sessions, citing workload or claiming they were unnecessary.

Ronnie set the folder down gently and leaned back in her chair. Her mind was spinning—not just with the case, but with the man at the center of it all. Mark Marshalls wasn’t just a detective with scars—he was a walking survivor of hell.

And yet, he hadn’t crumbled.

She looked down at the last page in the file. There was a black-and-white photo clipped to the top corner—an old military shot. Mark standing tall in full gear, eyes narrowed, jaw tight. Even then, haunted.

Ronnie reached forward, gently tugging her sleeve down over her wrist—an unconscious motion. Her mind had already begun piecing things together. Not just about the killer, but about the people around her.

She’d have to tread carefully.

Especially with Mark.