DAY 2 (Same day)
The nightmare clung to me like a shadow as I prepared to meet Russel. The old man's frantic warnings, the hooded figure, the blood, it all felt too vivid, too real. But there was no time to dwell on it. The results were in, and we had work to do. Whatever the day brought, I knew one thing for sure: this wasn't over. Not even close.
I arrived at the station, my mind still racing, when I saw him, the old man from my dream. He was rushing toward me, his face pale and his eyes wild. The sight of him sent a jolt through me, and for a moment, I considered retreating into the station. But before I could move, he was in front of me, his trembling hands gripping my arms.
"He's going to kill me," the old man repeated, his voice cracking. His words were loud, drawing the attention of passersby. He pointed across the street to the convenience store.
"He's there. The man you're looking for. He has two days to change, and you don't have enough time!"
I tried to pry his hands off me, my voice calm but firm. "What are you talking about? Look, we have an important case to work on. Come back later, okay?"
But the old man wasn't listening. "The killer is right there, and you won't listen to me!" he shouted, his frustration boiling over. "Are you going to wait around for another murder? Just go get your guy! He killed the bar owner and the school teacher! I saw him do it. Please, do something before it's too late!"
His fear was palpable, his eyes wide and his body visibly shaking. I glanced around, unsure of what to do, when Russel appeared, his expression a mix of concern and confusion.
"What's wrong? I could hear the commotion from inside," he said, looking from the old man to me.
I shrugged, still trying to make sense of the situation. "Let's take him inside," I said, guiding the old man into the station. But as we walked, I couldn't help but glance back at the convenience store, a knot of unease tightening in my stomach.
---
Russel stood by the window, his gaze fixed on the convenience store. He looked worried, his brow furrowed as he stared out at the building. I joined him, my own unease mirrored in his expression.
"You hurt yourself after you went in there last time," he said quietly, not taking his eyes off the store. "You overreacted after seeing the man in the video. The old man has been coming here for who knows how long. I don't want to act on suspicion, Stacy."
I could hear the genuine worry in his voice, mixed with a hint of fear.
He turned to me, his eyes searching mine. "How does he know about the bar owner? I mean, it could be the news. But you know I asked about the murder of a teacher. They said yes. Look at this."
He handed me a folder, and I opened it, my stomach churning as I saw the photos inside. Blood was everywhere, the scene chaotic and gruesome. It looked less like a murder and more like a macabre display, a message to whoever found it. I flipped through the witness statements, stopping at one from a security guard. The description was vivid, but the suspect hadn't been caught in four months. No fingerprints, no hair, nothing. It was as if the killer had vanished into thin air.
"How does he know this?" I echoed Russel's question, glancing at the old man, who sat quietly but still looked unsettled.
"We'll have to find out," Russel said, turning to face the old man. "We may have a potential witness."
I sighed and approached the old man, pulling up a chair to sit across from him. Despite his disheveled appearance, he was surprisingly clean for a homeless man. His slouched posture spoke of defeat, and his darting eyes betrayed his weariness. It was clear he hadn't slept much.
"Are you okay to talk now?" I asked, my voice gentle.
The old man nodded, his hands clutching a cup of water. "He doesn't care. He enjoys it a lot. The first time I saw him, he killed the actor, and his killer has not been caught. I'm still alive because he thinks it's funny."
My heart skipped a beat. "What actor?" I asked, leaning forward.
"Gerald Hayes. The retired actor. His death was all over the news," the old man said, his voice calm but hollow. "I worked as a security guard there until I was fired. That was when I saw him."
I exchanged a glance with Russel, then turned back to the old man. "Can you give us a minute?" I said, motioning for Russel to follow me to the side.
"What do you think?" I asked Russel, keeping my voice low. "I don't think this is just a man rambling. Something's wrong here. I mean, he's always coming here panicking."
Russel nodded, his expression grim. "I heard about the actor's death. It was brutal. The whole country was in shock, and the police took a lot of heat for not catching the killer. The media's been relentless."
I sighed, running a hand through my hair. The old man's revelation was unsettling, but it wasn't enough to act on. Still, the pieces were starting to come together. The killer's pattern, the gruesome scenes, the lack of evidence. It all pointed to someone who was meticulous, calculated, and dangerous.
"You mentioned a bar owner being killed," I said, turning back to the old man. "Which one?"
He looked up, his eyes meeting mine. "You mean David? I was there that night. So was that man...." He pointed toward the convenience store.
My breath caught in my throat. "Wait, wait, wait. You were there that night?" Russel interjected, pulling out his notebook. "What time did you leave the bar?"
The old man's eyes darted around the room, wild and frantic, as if he expected the walls to close in on him at any moment. He beckoned us closer, his voice dropping to a whisper, though it trembled with urgency.
"He changes," he said, his words barely audible. "You know? Like the lady in green from that movie, X-Men. He can do that. Last time, he was a woman in her fifties."
He paused, his gaze flickering between Russel and me, searching for any sign of belief. When he saw our skeptical expressions, his face fell, but he pressed on, his voice rising in desperation.
"Believe me. I didn't at first either. I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. But I've seen him change. Many times. It lasts for five days, and you don't have enough time!"
His voice cracked, and he reached out, gripping Russel's hands with surprising strength. "Please, you have to believe me."
Russel exchanged a glance with me, his expression a mix of concern and disbelief.
The old man's grip tightened, his knuckles white as he pleaded. "I know I sound crazy right now. But arrest him first. No!! Wait! He'll change and escape. Kill him. Yes, kill him now, or he'll keep killing!" His voice rose to a shout, drawing the attention of everyone in the station.
Before we could react, the old man spiraled into a full-blown panic. He grabbed fistfuls of his hair, pulling at it as if trying to tear the thoughts from his mind. His breathing came in ragged gasps, and he began pacing the room, muttering to himself. Then, without warning, he lunged toward the windows, slamming them shut one by one, as if trying to seal us in or keep something out.
I stood frozen, watching as the old man spiraled into a frenzy. His movements were erratic, his hands clawing at the air as if trying to fend off invisible threats. He darted toward the windows, slamming them shut one by one, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Russel shook his head, his expression a mix of pity and frustration.
"There's no point," he muttered, his voice low. "He's lost it."
He motioned to the officers, who moved quickly to restrain the old man. They grabbed him by the arms, their movements firm but not unkind, and guided him toward the holding cell. The old man didn't resist, but his eyes were wide with fear, his lips moving in a silent plea as he was led away.
I turned to face Russel, who looked as disappointed as I felt. He slammed his notebook onto his desk, the sound echoing through the station. I ran a hand through my hair, trying to gather my thoughts. My gaze drifted to the ceiling, as if the answers might be written there, but it was hopeless. The old man's outburst had left the station in disarray, and his bizarre claims only added to the confusion.
Is he really suggesting that all three murders were committed by the same person? I thought, my mind racing. His eyes had been desperate, pleading—not the eyes of a liar. But his story was so far-fetched, so impossible, that I couldn't bring myself to fully believe him. And yet, there was something about his fear, his conviction, that made me hesitate.
"He didn't even tell us who this person is," I said aloud, more to myself than to Russel. "Or who's in the shop."
Russel sighed, running a hand over his face. "I know. But we can't just ignore this. Not after everything that's happened."
I nodded, my eyes drifting toward the convenience store across the street. The neon sign was off, its bright colors muted in the daylight. The shop looked ordinary, unassuming, but the old man's words lingered in my mind like a dark cloud.
"Let's check it out," I said, motioning toward the shop. Russel agreed, and we headed out, the weight of the old man's warnings hanging heavy between us.
---
At the Shop
The shop was a typical convenience store, the kind you'd find on any street corner. A small seating area was set up outside, with chairs grouped around square tables. Some of the tables had umbrellas, their bright colors adding a cheerful touch to the otherwise mundane setup. The shop's neon sign, though turned off during the day, still stood out against the brick facade, its bold letters promising quick service and cold drinks.
Russel entered first, his movements confident and purposeful. I hesitated at the door, my hand lingering on the handle. The last time I'd been here, I'd left feeling uneasy, my skin crawling with the memory of the cashier's dead eyes. But today, the atmosphere was calm, almost welcoming. I took a deep breath and stepped inside.
The shop was immaculate, the shelves neatly stocked with rows of snacks, drinks, and everyday essentials. The items were arranged with meticulous care, each one perfectly aligned with its neighbors. It was the kind of order that spoke of pride in one's work, and it put me slightly at ease.
Russel went straight to the fridge, grabbing two canned sodas before making his way to the counter. I lingered near the entrance, my eyes scanning the store for anything unusual. But everything seemed normal. Yoo normal, perhaps. The calmness of the place felt almost unnatural after the chaos of the morning.
I joined Russel at the counter, where he was talking to a man who appeared to be the owner. He was in his sixties, with a gentle demeanor and a warm smile. His face was lined with age, but the creases around his eyes and mouth spoke of a life filled with laughter. He exuded a sense of calm, the kind that made you feel at ease just by being near him.
Russel was asking him if anything unusual had happened in the shop recently. The man shook his head, his expression thoughtful but unbothered.
"No, nothing unusual," he said, his voice steady. "I'm not here often. I leave most of the day-to-day operations to my employees. But they haven't reported anything strange to me."
"I'm hardly ever here," he explained, his tone light. "My employees haven't reported anything strange. Besides, we're right across from the police station. Robbers wouldn't dare come here." He chuckled, the sound deep and resonant, his belly shaking slightly behind the counter.
"Where are your employees?" I asked, my voice softer than I intended.
"The young lady is a university student, so she's in class," he replied. "And the other one, Cole, stepped out for a personal errand. He should be back any minute now. He handles the day shift, while the lady takes the night shift."
I nodded, forcing a smile, but my stomach churned at the mention of Cole's name. Before I could dwell on it, the doorbell chimed again, and my heart skipped a beat.
The man who entered was tall, his frame lean but imposing. He wore a hoodie, the fabric pulled low over his face, casting his features in shadow. My breath hitched as I caught a glimpse of his eyes, dark, piercing, and devoid of warmth. The owner greeted him with a smile, introducing him as Cole. But I couldn't move. My body felt like it was encased in ice, my lungs refusing to draw air. The walls of the shop seemed to close in, the neat rows of items blurring into a chaotic swirl.
Cole's gaze locked onto mine, and I felt as though he could see straight through me. His face was partially hidden, but the scar running down his cheek was unmistakable, a jagged line that seemed to glow faintly in the dim light. His lips curled into a small, knowing smile, and I felt a wave of nausea crash over me. My knees buckled, and I dropped to the floor, clutching my shirt as if it could anchor me to reality.
Russel and the owner rushed to my side, their voices distant and muffled. But Cole remained still, his expression unreadable. He bent down to my level, his face inches from mine, and I could see the cold calculation in his eyes. He reveled in my fear, feeding off it like a predator toying with its prey. His smile widened, and that was enough to shatter whatever composure I had left.
I stumbled to my feet, clamping a hand over my mouth as bile rose in my throat. I barely made it outside before I was doubled over, retching into the gutter. Russel followed, his hand steady on my back as he handed me one of the sodas. I rinsed my mouth, the cold liquid doing little to ease the tremors wracking my body.
We sat on the curb, the silence between us heavy with unspoken questions. My hands shook as I wiped my mouth, and Russel pulled me into his arms, his touch grounding me. For a few minutes, we just sat there, the world around us fading into the background.
"I didn't notice the scar before," I whispered, my voice trembling.
"Last night, I had a dream. There was an old man. He said someone was going to kill him. Then I saw a hooded man, just like Cole, with a knife. The way he looked at me… it was the same. I can't explain it, Russel. He's the one."
Russel's brow furrowed, his mind racing as he processed my words. "It's alright," he said finally, his voice calm but firm. "We'll take this step by step. If he's on the list, we'll handle it. But for now, stay away from him and this shop. We'll come back when we have more to go on."
I nodded, though my mind was still reeling. Russel helped me to my feet, and we made our way back to the station. The old man from earlier was gone, and I couldn't help but feel a pang of unease. Russel led me to his desk, where the forensic reports were waiting. The lack of fingerprints at David's shop was puzzling, but Russel's determination was unwavering.
As I sat there, my thoughts kept drifting back to Cole, his scar, his smile, the way he seemed to know exactly how to unravel me. Whatever was happening, one thing was clear: this was far from over.