Chapter 6

Michael's POV

The Chief fell silent. He didn't know what had really happened either.

"Don't worry, Chief," I assured him. "As long as she helps us solve the case, I'll accommodate all her peculiarities."

"Not all of them, just be friendly to her," he said with a smile. "Actually, she seems quite interested in you. You're already 27. Perhaps you two could..."

"I think we're done here. I should get back to work." Knowing what Charles was about to suggest, I didn't give him a chance to continue as I turned and left his office.

When I arrived at the conference room, they had already finished lunch. Thomas was fiddling with the projector, Raymond and Olivia conversing quietly, while Emily and Daisy sat at the far end of the table.

"Let's continue the meeting," I announced.

Thomas immediately spoke up: "I reviewed the surveillance footage Daniel brought back from Ocean View Apartments. Three people exited the elevator from the fifth floor of Building B on the day of the incident, including an unidentified woman."

He pulled up the grainy footage. A woman wearing a baseball cap entered the elevator at 7:23 PM and left the building at 7:31 PM.

"We believe she might be the victim's girlfriend or acquaintance," Thomas added.

"Can you get a clear view of her face?" I asked, studying the blurry image.

"Not from this angle, but we're working on enhancing it."

"Check the footage from the past two weeks. See if she appears regularly." I turned to Emily. "Have you completed your profile?"

Emily shook her head. "I need more victim information to complete a proper criminal profile. There's not enough data yet."

I considered this. "The pond drowning case seems different from our other cases. The electrocution and carbon monoxide poisoning both happened in the victims' homes, while the pond incident occurred outdoors. That might be our breakthrough point."

Emily's POV

Later that day, the Colemans had just come to identify their son's body. I noticed the distinctive expression on their faces—grief intertwined with disbelief, the look that only parents who have lost a child would have. I'd seen many photos of similar cases in Caitlin's classes, but witnessing it firsthand was still heartbreaking.

We guided them to a private conference room, where Michael poured them coffee.

"How did my son die?" Brian's father asked, his voice rough like it had been sanded.

"Preliminary investigation indicates cardiac arrest caused by electrocution," Michael answered, his tone calm but not cold.

"Suicide?" Brian's mother gasped, as if the word itself was poisonous. "Impossible. Brian was always so positive, so full of life."

I made a mental note of this. Parents typically struggle to accept their child's suicide, but this intense denial might mean something more.

"This is what happens when you spoil a kid!" he suddenly snapped at his wife. "Always letting him do whatever dangerous thing he wanted!"

"Don't blame me!" she fired back. "You're the one who kept pushing him to 'be a man' and take risks!"

I observed their interaction. Grief often manifests as anger, especially when people feel helpless. This couple's mutual accusations were actually their way of processing their own guilt.

Michael intervened before the situation escalated further. "Mr. and Mrs. Coleman, did Brian have any hobbies or special interests?"

Brian's father took a deep breath, struggling to control his emotions. "He loved extreme sports, especially mountain biking. He'd race down those mountain trails at insane speeds. Scared me half to death, but he lived for that rush."

I asked softly, "Did any young women visit your son's apartment?"

Brian's mother nodded, wiping away tears. "Once when I called him, I heard a female voice. I asked if she was his girlfriend, but he said no, just a friend."

Michael showed them the surveillance photo. "Do you recognize this person?"

After carefully studying it, they both shook their heads. I quietly noted their expressions—they seemed genuinely confused, not hiding anything.

"Damn it!" The man slammed his palm on the table, making the coffee cups jump. "It must be those friends of his, getting him into dangerous situations! You should arrest them!"

I leaned forward, making sure my voice was both gentle and firm, which is the best approach for asking critical questions. "Mr. Coleman, was Brian always fearless? Even as a child?"

His face hardened at my question about his son's fearlessness. He puffed out his chest, clearly proud.

"My son never knew what fear was," he declared, voice filled with a father's misplaced pride. "When he was a kid, everyone called him 'Fearless Brian.' He'd climb the tallest trees, jump from the highest diving boards—nothing scared that boy."

Brian's mother fidgeted with her tissue, her eyes downcast. "Brian was actually quite afraid of his father," she whispered, barely audible.

He snapped his head toward his wife, his glare so intense it could've burned a hole through her. She immediately shrank back in her chair.

I filed that interaction away—classic family dynamics of dominance and submission. The kind that creates hidden traumas.

"Did Brian ever show any unusual reaction to electrical devices or currents?" I asked, keeping my voice neutral despite the tension crackling between the parents.

The change was immediate and unmistakable. Their expressions froze mid-expression, while Brian's mother's hands began trembling so violently she had to clasp them together.

"Why would you ask that?" she demanded.

Michael stepped in smoothly. "It's relevant to our investigation, ma'am."

She suddenly straightened, as if remembering something important. "Brian was hospitalized when he was eight after getting electrocuted, he almost died."

Her husband shot her another warning look, but the dam had broken.

"It happened in the garage," he admitted reluctantly. "Brian was always tinkering with things. Found one of my power tools, tried to fix it. Next thing we knew, he was convulsing on the floor. Rushed him to the ER. Doctors said it was a miracle he survived."

"After that incident," Mrs. Coleman added, voice stronger now, "he wouldn't go near anything electrical. Wouldn't even use an electric razor. Always that old-fashioned straight one."

Michael and I exchanged glances. Bingo. A severe electrical phobia caused by childhood trauma—exactly what we needed to connect the dots.