I sat at my desk in the cluttered precinct, a cold cup of coffee beside me and a newspaper in hand. The headline stared back like an accusation.
Another victim.
My jaw tightened. I slammed the paper down, grabbed my jacket, and headed toward Alex's desk.
"Come on," I said, my voice sharper than I meant. "We've got another one. Let's move."
Alex didn't say much — he never did. Just stood, nodded, and followed.
Of course, the damn car wouldn't start. We had to walk. Rain threatened overhead, and every puddle seemed determined to soak my shoes.
"Still quiet, huh?" I muttered as we trudged along.
Alex just gave me that look — the one halfway between polite discomfort and silence. I chuckled softly. I should've known better than to expect a reply.
When we reached the scene, two uniforms were blocking the apartment door. One recognized me, nodded us through.
Inside… the smell hit first. Metallic. Sharp.
The body was a man — late thirties maybe — sprawled on the floor. His mouth had been carved into a grotesque grin, eyes wide open, staring at nothing. Limbs… cut apart with precision that made my skin crawl.
And in front of him sat a small, yellow smile ball. The kind you squeeze for stress. Except this one was soaked in blood.
"Jesus Christ," I muttered.
Alex lingered near the doorway, scanning the room in that quiet, calculating way of his.
"Check the surroundings," I told him, kneeling beside the body.
I looked for anything — a weapon, footprints, signs of a struggle. Nothing. The room was too clean. Too quiet. Like the victim had simply… accepted it.
The only thing that didn't belong was that damn ball.
I crouched lower, studying it. Bright yellow beneath the dark stains. Its plastic smile mocked me. Like a joke only the killer understood.
I looked back at Alex. "You find anything?"
He shook his head. "No forced entry. No struggle. Just… quietness."
I stood, rubbing my chin. "You seem focused today."
He didn't look up. "It's hard not to be."
We left the apartment and stepped into the hallway. Officers were already moving in — cameras flashing, bags rustling. Neighbors peeked through half-closed doors, whispering like they were watching a crime drama instead of real death.
I lit a cigarette, leaning against the wall. "That's three this week," I said. "A teacher, a bus driver, and now an insurance clerk. No link. No motive. Nothing."
Alex's voice was low. "Maybe it's not about the victims. Maybe it's about the act."
I turned to him. "What do you mean?"
"Some killers don't care who dies. Just how."
That line stuck with me. Not because it sounded poetic, but because it felt too damn true.
Back at the precinct, I pinned the latest photo onto our board. Three faces. Three smiles that weren't smiles. And three smile balls — each different.
The first one was clean, placed neatly on a shelf. The second stuffed into the victim's mouth. The third sat like a silent audience to the horror.
Alex typed quietly at his desk while I stared at the board.
"You ever play with these things as a kid?" I asked suddenly.
He looked up, puzzled. "No."
"Me neither." I leaned back. "This guy though… he's obsessed. It's like a ritual."
Alex nodded slightly. "Or a taunt."
"Yeah. That too."
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The rain outside started to pour, streaking the windows. I hated nights like this — when the city felt alive but empty at the same time.
I rubbed my temples. "We'll go over the first scene again tomorrow. Maybe there's something we missed."
"Okay."
Silence again. Just the rain, the faint hum of the lights, and the soft clicking of Alex's keyboard.
I stared at the third photo. The grin on the corpse's face looked wrong. Like a puppet forced into laughter.
I broke the silence. "You ever wonder what makes people snap? What turns someone into… this?"
Alex didn't look up. "All the time," he said quietly.
Hours later, the station was almost empty. Alex had gone home — or so he said. I stayed behind, staring at the board. My coffee was cold, my eyes gritty from lack of sleep.
No patterns. No links. Just chaos.
And that bothered me more than anything.
I took the photo of the latest scene down and stared at it closer. The blood on the ball — it wasn't random. It was smeared. Like someone had wiped their fingers across it deliberately.
I went to evidence room at night and requested the ball. The tech brought it out, gloved and careful.
"Still drying," he warned.
Under the light, I turned it over. The blood had mostly dried, leaving streaks. But near the bottom, barely visible, was something else — a faint ink mark. Not blood. Not dirt.
A symbol, maybe. A curve. Part of a circle?
I frowned. "What the hell are you trying to say…"
The other smile balls — I'd only seen them in photos. Tomorrow, I'd need the real things. Something told me they weren't just toys.
At home, the rain hadn't stopped. I poured a whiskey and stood by the window, staring out at the empty street. The storm outside fit the one in my head.
The third victim's face haunted me — that carved smile.
I'd seen something like it before. Years ago.
A case that never closed. The same kind of violence, the same kind of chaos. And then the killer vanished. No trace. Just… gone.
I'd buried that memory deep. But now, looking at these new murders — I couldn't shake the feeling it was back.
Or maybe he was.
I picked up my phone and dialed Alex. He answered after two rings, voice heavy with sleep.
"Leo?"
"You okay?"
"Yeah… just tired."
"I want you in early tomorrow. We're digging deep. Cold cases. From six years back."
There was a pause. "You think it's connected?"
"I don't know. But I need to be sure."
"…Alright. I'll be there."
"Good."
I hesitated, then said quietly, "You're a good partner, Alex. Quiet as hell, but reliable."
Another pause. "Thanks. That means a lot."
When I hung up, I stood there, phone still in hand.
Something about his tone lingered in my mind — soft, almost… sad.
A chill crept down my spine. Maybe it was the storm. Maybe it was exhaustion.
Or maybe it was something else.
Something crawling beneath the surface, whispering that this wasn't over. Not by a long shot.
I drained the glass and turned off the light.
Tomorrow, we'd dig deeper. And I had a feeling I wouldn't like what I found.