The Player's Victory

I walk into my precinct and the familiar environment sends waves of annoyance through my head. Captain Martinez paces in his office and the usual duty officers are sipping at their usual coffee. I scratch my head, wondering why I decided to become a detective. I thought this job would be a challenge, having to solve the puzzles of murders. However, every serial killer wannabe case I have had to deal with has left so many stupid clues, as if they wanted me to find them. I take a seat in my familiar black chair and get back to my familiar and boring job.

            I see my partner, Anne, sit up from her desk and walk towards me. Her hazel eyes are narrowed and her fists are clenched. Anne always has the same expression every time a murder takes place. “David, a homicide in a woman’s home just got called in,” Anne says to me while checking her phone. “Let’s go, I’ll explain on the way.” Anne grabs the keys to our black Impala and we walk out of the precinct.

            Anne mutters more information about the murder as we enter the car, but I tune her out. I think of past killers, such as Dahmer and Ridgeway, and wish I could have worked on their case. That kind of excitement must have kept detectives on their toes, waiting for the killer to strike again.

            “David? Hello, are you listening?” Anne asks while snapping her bony fingers in my face. “Are you alright today? You seem distracted.” I shrug my shoulders and look out the tinted window of the car. Joggers pass by, green lights to turn to yellow, and then to red, distant sounds of dogs barking ring in my ears. The same sounds, the same sights I’m forced to see every day. The car comes to a halt as Anne parks behind the other cars of officers from our precinct. She opens her door, and begins walking up the victim’s driveway. A sly grin spreads across my face as I, too, exit the car.

            I hold up the yellow police tape as Anne ducks under it, and the gruesome scene grasps my attention like sunshine after a cloudy day.

            Blood.

            Blood covers the once white carpet, blood is smeared on the walls, and a blood trail leads up the wooden staircase. Numerous bullet holes tattoo the walls. My heart speeds up to a rapid pace as I make my way up the bloodied stairs. I cannot tear my eyes away from the disgusting scene. Millions of thoughts run through my head as I enter the room where the victim’s body lies. Her blond hair is a tangled mess, her blue jeans are ripped, and her purple blouse is now stained red. On the wall is a message, written in blood: “Try,” is written repeatedly over and over.

            I take a step forward and feel something under my shoe. I lift my foot, look down, and see a lipstick container. I pick it up and turn it over in my hands. Anne steps in the room as I grip the little black container.

            A speechless Anne steps around the victim’s body to see the woman’s face. Her short brown hair falls in her face as she bends down to inspect the woman’s face. I begin to take in the sight of the victim’s pale face. It looks as if a chunk of her blond hair has been cut off.

            “What are your thoughts on the walls?” Anne asks, shifting her hazel eyes to me.

            I put the lipstick container in my pocket and say, “Maybe they are challenging us to try to solve the case, or try to discover their identity.” Anne nods her head in agreement. “Let’s try to see if the killer left anything behind. Be sure to get pictures of the wall.”

            Anne and I begin our search for clues, scanning the room for fingerprints and any possible evidence that could lead us to our killer.

            After searching the room, Anne says, “This place has been wiped clean. This person knew what they were doing.” I can hear the frustration in her voice. She begins taking pictures of the body and wall while I search the rest of the house.

I open another door that leads to a bedroom. The large bed has a purple comforter draped over it. A tall dresser stands against the wall on the left side of the room, and the bedside table is askew. As I search it I notice a piece of tattered cloth stuck to the corner. I pull a Ziploc bag and tweezers from my pocket and stow the torn piece of cloth away.

After searching the rest of the house Anne and I decide to go to the forensics lab to test our few findings. I become excited at the reality that few clues were found, I say to myself, “Let the games begin.”

***

A month has passed and three more bodies have been called in. However, each message is different. The first victim, Hannah Smith, “Try;” the second, Cooper Gilbert, “To;” the third, Rachel Hobgood, “Catch;” and the fourth, Gabriella Ruotolo, “Me.” And, each victim seemed to have a section of their hair cut.

Captain Martinez calls in a meeting. I look at the worried faces of the surrounding officers and I quietly laugh to myself. I find a seat and wait for the Captain to begin the meeting.

“How is it that after a month of this killer committing these murders we have no leads?” The Captain’s frustrated expression causes an unsettling silence in the room. A cough reverberates off the walls. I look at each face in this room, each with the same expression: guilt.

“Cap, we’re doing the best we can. This killer has done their research and knows how to cover their tracks,” I say while leaning on my elbow.

“Everybody, start doing your job and let’s get this killer put behind bars. David go find Anne, another body was just called in, go see what you can find,” The Captain says, slamming the door shut behind him. I look around the room and notice for the first time that Anne is not there. I try calling her cell phone. No answer. I lightly tap my chin with my finger and decide to look at the body without Anne.

            I notice the sun going down and darkness starting to creep in as I make my way through the victim’s backyard. His neighbors found his body lying on the ground next to the white picket fence. I look around the yard to see if there is a message. I wonder if this is the same killer, with the lack of a message. I take one more look around the yard, then approach the victim. His blond hair, missing a chunk, matches the MO of the other victims. I begin taking pictures of the scene.

I put the camera down and reexamine the body. He lays face down, lacking a shirt. His legs stick out at an awkward angle. I turn him over on his back and my eyes widen. Carved into his torso is a message. It reads: “Boo.”

***

            I throw my phone to the floor of my car after it tells me no battery is left. I need to tell David my new findings on the case. His house is only a couple of minutes away, so I decide to see if he is there.

            I step out of my car and walk up the brick steps to David’s apartment. The way the weeping willows with their long, flowing branches surround the house sends chills through my body. The setting sun causes an unsettling feeling in my stomach as darkness begins to spread across the yard.  I shake my head and laugh at myself for feeling this way and knock on the door. I waited a few moments and did not hear any stirring in the house. I try the door knob and twist it to reveal an unlocked door.

            “David? David, are you here? I found some fingerprints at Gabriella Ruotolo’s crime scene.” I walk into his kitchen and see it is completely spotless, how his house usually is. I walk down the creaking hardwood steps into his basement. Half way down my foot hits a sharp object and I topple down the stairs. I curse at the stairs as I pick myself up off the floor. I walk back up the stairs to investigate what tripped me. It’s a small handle embedded into the stair. I try turning the rusted knob clockwise, and to my surprise the single stair slightly lifted. I pull up the stair and a small box is lying inside. A smile is on my face as I realize this is a secret compartment. Pentagrams are carved into the wooden box. My brows furrow in confusion. I slowly lift open the lid of the box and a shiny key that looks like it could be from medieval times is what I find. I turn it over in my hands, wondering what it opens.

            “D-David? Are you down here?” Nothing but the sound of my echoes bounces off the walls. I get up and dust off my knees and make my way back up the stairs, taking the key with me. Before leaving I decide to take a look upstairs. Maybe he is sleeping. More creaking steps sound with each step I take. Never having been upstairs, I decide to check the first door on the right. The door does not budge. I notice a strange looking lock on the door. A tiny pentagram is etched underneath the key hole. I lift the key to the lock, and I suddenly hear a soft click. My heart begins to flutter as I open the door. I feel sweat prickling at my forehead. A sinking feeling in my stomach causes me to feel nauseous. As the door swings open all I see is a dark room. I blindly feel for a light switch on the wall, and my fingers finally wrap around the switch. What I see is worse than I could have imagined. Blood smears cover the walls, sharp tools lie across the floor, and five different shades of blond hair are framed on the walls, each with a name and date underneath. Hannah Smith 7/6/2013. Cooper Gilbert 7/13/2013. Rachel Hobgood 7/20/2013. Gabriella Ruotolo 7/27/2013. Marcus Trolli 8/3/2013. There is also a lipstick case on the little desk directly under Hannah Smith’s frame.

The key in my hand drops to the ground, interrupting the silence. A gasp escapes my lips as the piercing sound rings in my ear. I cover my mouth with my hand to try and stop the tears I know are coming. Millions of thoughts and questions run through my mind. My shaking hand reaches in the back pocket of my jeans to retrieve my phone. I curse out loud and kick the air as I remember my phone is lying in my car with no battery remaining. After another moment I pick up the key from the floor, turn off the lights in the room and shut the door closed. I practically sprint out the door of David’s house. I fumble for my car keys in the pocket. My breathing is at a rapid pace I cannot control. I turn the key in the ignition, turn on the police siren in my car, and make my way to the precinct.

***

After finishing up at the crime scene, I head back to my car. I begin to open my car door, but I begin to hear several police sirens traveling near me.

“There is no way they have figured it out yet,” I say to myself. I look into the distance hoping the sirens are not awaiting me. Sadly, multiple police cars turn the corner on the street I am on and now my game has been foiled. The officers jump out of the cars, yelling at me to get on the ground, and a smile spreads across my face. I say, “It’s been fun, boys.” They pin me to the ground, handcuff me and put me in the backseat of the squad car.

“David, why?” I look up and see a disappointed look on Officer Dean’s face. I only remember meeting him a couple times since he was new on the force.

 “I hate it when my puzzle pieces ask questions.”

***

Jail is my new life. I live in this cage that is supposed to “fix me,” but there is nothing that needs fixing. Although my precinct does not believe me, I am a completely sane man. I knew what I was doing. I know it is bad to hurt people. But that life I lived felt like death to me. What do you have to lose when you are dead? The answer is nothing. My precinct should thank me. I actually made their boring lives interesting. I gave them a game to play, and how do they repay me? They throw me in jail. I guess I cannot blame them. It is what officers do. They put the “bad guys” away to prevent more harm from happening.

Psychologists always ask me why I did it. They tell me how great a detective I was, and how I threw it away. I always give them the same response: “My puzzle pieces defeated me at my own game, and now I must pay the price.”

I do feel some resentment towards Anne since she entered my house without permission and foiled my game, but she also found my fingerprints on Gabriella Ruotolo’s body, so my game was over by then. I wish I could have seen her face as she saw my trophy chamber. She sometimes comes to my cell to talk to me, asks me to explain myself. She looks at me with hatred, and I do not blame her. I know she will never forgive me, but forgiveness is not what I want. What I want is a new game for the officers to play. A few days ago I whispered a sentence to her, and she has not visited me since. “Wait for my escape and a new game will appear,” I said.