Chapter 3
Emily's POV
"Seeing the scene in person is better for my deductions than photos," I leaned closer to him, staring into his eyes. "Detective Stone, do you look down on me?"
Michael's eyes darted away as he took half a step back.
"I don't look down on you," he said evenly. "I'm just concerned you might not handle seeing something disturbing."
"You think I can't handle it?" I stepped closer, challenging him. "I've visited the collections of three serial killers. I've observed autopsies. I've interviewed people who did things you couldn't imagine."
His eyes darkened slightly, the only indication he was processing my words. Throughout our entire exchange, not a single muscle in his face moved. No smile, no frown, not even a twitch. Could he have some facial condition?
Finally, he relented and led us into the apartment building.
Michael led the way, while I moved closer to Thomas, wanting to confirm my suspicion.
"Thomas," I said quietly. "Does Michael have a facial expression disorder?"
Thomas almost dropped his phone. "Uh, yeah," he whispered nervously, glancing at Michael's back. "But don't mention it to his face. He doesn't like when people bring it up."
"You think I can't hear you?" Michael turned suddenly, his voice ice-cold.
Thomas looked like he wanted to disappear immediately.
"Facial expression disorder," I mused, studying Michael's face with renewed interest.
I'd taken some micro-expression courses before, but Michael seemed beyond the scope of my abilities.
When Michael was talking to a police officer, I quickly took a photo of him and sent it to my friend who's an expert in micro-expressions, with a note:
Can you tell what he's thinking?
Her response came immediately: Oh my God, Emily! Is he your boyfriend?
I smiled and typed back: He's my new research project.
When I looked up, Michael was watching me. "Are you texting about the case?"
"No. Personal stuff." I pocketed my phone and crossed my arms. "Listen, I have a proposal. If I help you solve this case, you have to grant me one request."
Michael's posture stiffened. "We solve cases for the victims and their families, not for personal promises."
His words made me feel embarrassed to insist on my demand.
After a period of silence, he spoke again. "One request, if you can help solve the case."
I couldn't help the triumphant smile that spread across my face. The slight narrowing of his eyes told me he was already regretting his decision.
At the seaside apartment, a young man greeted us at the entrance.
"Daniel, what's the general situation?" Michael asked.
"The victim is on the fifth floor, apartment 501," Daniel explained. "Name's Brian Coleman. Just moved in about three weeks ago."
"Any security footage?" Michael asked.
"Yes, I've already pulled it for the last 48 hours."
Michael nodded, then suddenly turned toward a group of residents gathered nearby. Several had their phones out.
"Anyone taking photos or videos of the crime scene will have their devices confiscated as evidence," he announced loudly. The phones disappeared instantly.
Three police cars pulled up simultaneously, and four people emerged. A tall, muscular man with a military haircut led the group, followed by a slender woman with golden-brown hair tied back in a messy bun. Behind them came a petite woman with short, stylish hair and a friendly face, and a younger officer carrying equipment bags.
"Who's the kid?" the muscular man asked gruffly, nodding toward Michael.
"Emily Grey is a criminal psychology consultant," Michael replied.
The man snorted. "Since when do we need consultants? Especially ones who look like they just got out of college?"
"Yes, I recently returned from studying abroad," I answered without providing more information.
"Great, another pretty face with no real experience," he muttered. "Just what we need."
The woman with the golden-brown hair approached, her expression cold and clinical. "Don't be fooled by her appearance, Raymond."
I blinked in surprise. "Olivia?" The voice was unmistakable. "Wow, it's been years since I've seen you!"
Olivia's eyes flicked to me briefly. She gave a curt nod but said nothing more, turning instead to Michael.
"Initial reports suggest electrocution. I'll need to examine the body before it's moved."
My enthusiasm deflated. My high school friend had become so cold.
Michael seemed to sense the tension. "Let me introduce everyone," he said. "This is Emily Grey, temporarily serving as our criminal psychology consultant, specially requested by Chief Finch. Emily, this is my team."
He gestured to each person in turn. "Raymond Hall, senior officer. Olivia Rain, forensic pathologist. Daisy Harper, our data analyst and administrative support."
Daisy stepped forward with a genuine smile. "Nice to meet you, Emily! Don't mind Raymond—he's grumpy with everyone at first."
"I'm not grumpy," Raymond growled. "I just don't understand why we need a young person playing detective games at my crime scene."
I smiled sweetly. "Oh, don't worry. I'm just here to do the thinking part. You can handle the heavy lifting."
His face turned an interesting shade of red, but before he could respond, Michael cut in. "Enough. We have a crime scene to process. Let's focus on the victim."
I followed Michael through the damaged doorway, immediately hit by the distinct smell of burnt plastic and ozone.
"The victim's neighbor reported a strange odor," the patrol officer explained.
The apartment was a chaotic mess of a single man's existence. The coffee table was buried under electronic magazines and components, a sports jacket was thrown over the couch, and dirty socks littered the floor. Despite the disarray, there were no signs of blood or struggle—just wires and electronic parts everywhere.
"This guy was seriously into electronics," Thomas commented, carefully stepping over a tangle of wires. "Like, obsessively so."
I scanned the living room, taking in details. "Everything's messy but in an organized way—like controlled chaos. Despite the appearance, he knew where everything was."
Michael nodded slightly. "The body's in the bathroom. Prepare yourselves."
Nothing could have prepared me for what we found.
In the bathroom, a custom metal bathtub dominated the center, and in it lay a naked man, his skin pale with distinctive red marks scattered across his body. The tub was surrounded by electrical equipment—wires, electrodes, and control panels.
"Holy shit," Raymond muttered from behind me. "What the hell is this?"
