Chapter 8
Michael's POV
The streetlights cast long shadows as we got into the car after leaving school, and Thomas started the engine. We recounted the events to him.
"Something doesn't add up," Thomas said. "Why would someone with severe electrical phobia construct an elaborate electrical death trap for themselves?"
"Exactly." I kept my eyes on the road. "It really doesn't make sense, almost as if he was being manipulated."
I glanced in the rearview mirror. Emily sat quietly in the back seat, her eyes unfocused. The streetlights occasionally illuminated her face, revealing dark circles under her eyes. She looked completely drained.
"Counselor Gray, where should I drop you?" I asked.
"Take me to Sunnyvale Heights in the East District," she replied, then closed her eyes completely.
I exchanged a glance with Thomas. Sunnyvale Heights was one of the most expensive residential areas in town.
Twenty minutes later, we stopped in front of a sleek high-rise with a doorman out front. I woke her up. "Need me to walk you up?"
"I can manage," she said drowsily. She gathered her things and stepped out. "Nine o'clock tomorrow, right?"
"Right. Get some rest." I watched until she disappeared through the glass doors before pulling away.
"Rich girl playing cop," Thomas muttered.
"She's not playing anything," I replied. "Whatever she is, as long as she helps solve the case."
Back at the station, the night shift was quietly buzzing. The wall clock read 10:30 PM.
"We should call it a night," I told Thomas. "Everyone's exhausted. Full briefing tomorrow at nine."
He nodded, stifling a yawn. "Want me to update the case board first?"
"Leave it. Fresh eyes in the morning."
I drove home with the radio off, letting the silence help organize my thoughts.
Morning came too quickly. I was pouring coffee when my phone vibrated.
Social media was exploding with news about the case. Someone had leaked photos of Brian's electrocution scene. The images were grainy but graphic enough to cause panic.
One headline caught my eye: "Modern Jack the Ripper." Comments sections were filled with wild theories and growing fear. Some users had even connected the recent death cases.
"Shit," I muttered, tossing my phone onto the counter. Public panic was the last thing we needed.
Then my phone rang.
"Stone." I answered.
"Michael," Daisy's normally cheerful voice sounded tense. "The mayor's office called. The case is the number one trending topic in the city. They want updates and results."
I rubbed my forehead. "I know. Those leaked photos are everywhere."
"And there's more—reporters are camping outside the station. Charles wants to know if we should issue a statement."
"Tell him to hold off. We need more facts before going public."
After hanging up, I realized I needed to pick up Emily. The thought of her facing a mob of reporters alone didn't sit well with me.
Emily's POV
The next morning, I saw Michael's car parked downstairs, with two news vans across the street. Apparently, news of the case had spread.
I put on a thin brown cashmere coat with a matching skirt and walked out of the building. No scarf or gloves, despite the cold weather.
"Aren't you freezing?" Michael asked as I slid into the passenger seat.
"I'm fine," I answered, though my visible breath betrayed my words.
"It's 30 degrees Fahrenheit out. Are you sure you don't want to change into a winter coat?"
I gave him a sideways glance. "I don't like bulky clothing. It restricts movement."
He didn't say anything more, just silently turned up the heat. A warm gesture.
At the station, I paced the office while waiting for the briefing to start. Moving helped me think and generated some heat. I regretted not wearing more.
"Here." Daisy entered carrying a tray of coffee and bagels. "Breakfast, everyone."
I shook my head. "No, thank you. I don't eat breakfast."
"You need to eat something," Michael said, his gaze sweeping over my loose-fitting cashmere coat.
"I'm not hungry."
"If you don't eat, you'll end up as thin as a spaghetti noodle," he joked, but without any obvious expression.
I smiled slightly, amused by his concern.
In the conference room, the team gathered around the table. Raymond leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching me with open skepticism. His distrust radiated from him.
"Let's begin," Michael said. "We have three suspicious deaths, all staged as suicides."
"With all due respect," Raymond interrupted, "I think Miss Grey's analysis yesterday was wrong. The victim couldn't have committed suicide."
"Here's what other experts think." He immediately pulled out his tablet and played a video of a psychologist being interviewed.
"What we're likely seeing is a fantasy-driven serial killer," the psychologist explained. "Someone with a superhero complex who fantasizes about having supernatural abilities to control people's thoughts. The killer attempts to prove their supernatural powers through murder."
Raymond paused the video. "Why don't we consult multiple experts? No offense, Miss Grey, but this case is too important to rely on just one perspective."
The conference room fell silent. All eyes turned to me, waiting for my response. I felt a surge of frustration—not at Raymond's skepticism, but at the so-called expert's textbook analysis.
I stood up from my chair. "With all due respect to whatever this expert's name is, he's just regurgitating standard profiles."
Raymond crossed his arms. "Enlighten us then, Miss Grey."
I pointed at the paused video. "A fantasy-driven killer? Please. Fantasy killers crave recognition. They'd display their victims in public places, not hide them in private bathrooms where they might not be found for days."
"She's right," Thomas chimed in, adjusting his glasses. "Most documented fantasy-driven killers like BTK or Zodiac sought attention."
"The killer manipulated Brian's terror of electrical current," I stated my view.
Thomas cleared his throat and pulled out his tablet. "I've been tracking electronic component purchases in the area." He projected a list onto the screen. "Brian Coleman bought specific components used in creating variable voltage regulators."
Daniel, one of the junior officers, added, "The surveillance footage confirms it. On November 14th, Brian purchased a metal bathtub. Two days later, he bought electronic components and wiring from three different stores."
"His dashcam also shows multiple trips to the electronics market," Thomas continued.
Olivia stepped forward, her clinical detachment evident as she laid out her report. "The final examination shows no sleeping pills or sedatives in his system. There was no head trauma either. He was fully conscious when he entered that bathtub."
She pulled up images of electrical burns on the victim's skin. "These marks indicate the current was gradually increased. The bathroom setup included a dial for adjusting voltage."
"So why," Olivia asked, her cool gaze sweeping the room, "would a fully conscious person sit in an electrified bathtub until cardiac arrest?"
The question hung in the air.
