THE THERAPIST

03

𝐂 𝐡 𝐚 𝐩 𝐭 𝐞 𝐫  𝟑

     Detective Meredith filled the styrofoam cup with coffee and stood upright, then turned away from the machine, walking across the long hallway to one of the offices in the police precinct. She brought the cup to her thin lips and took a sip.

     A uniformed officer walked past her with a wide grin stretching across his face. “Hi, Meredith. How’s your arm?”

     She smiled back. “Better. Thanks, Tom.”

     “Don’t mention. I’ll see you around.”

     “Sure.” She increased her steps to the end of the hallway and then veered left. The door was ajar. Her ponytail swinging behind her back, she crossed the threshold into the big office and neared the desk.

     Detective Spade sat in a chair, his eyes glued to crime scene photos.

     “How did it go with the Doc?” Meredith asked, handing him the cup.

     He bent down, blew over the beverage, and took a sip. “Well, she demanded to see a warrant, so it didn’t go well. She’s not cooperating.”

     Meredith sat slowly in the chair across from him. “Can’t say I blame her. She’s doing her job.”

     His face crinkled into a frown. Depositing the coffee on the desk, he said, “Oh, come on, Meredith. The person’s deceased.”

     “It still doesn’t change the fact she’s bound by a code of ethics.”

     He glared at her. “You know something? You sound just like her.” He shook his head. “I hate shrinks.”

     Meredith giggled. “Tell her that when you see her.” She finished the coffee and tossed the cup into the trash can.

     Spade scoffed. “I will.”

     Meredith glanced at the photos, picking one and perusing it. “What have we got so far?”

     Spade passed a hand through his hair. “Three murders in the past months,” he replied and fingered the photo she was studying. “Our first vic, Mallory Blake, was stabbed multiple times in her house on February twelve. It was a silent kill. No witnesses. None of her neighbors heard her scream, which makes me believe the killer knew the vic. There was no sign of forced entry too.

     “Then we’ve got Cameron Caldwell. A thirty-three-year-old married man living in Beverley Grove.” He leaned forward and tapped on the grotesque photo of Cameron submerged in a bathtub. His bloated eyes stared into the void.

     “Cause of death was drowning,” he said and then went for the last photo. “Our recent victim was Rosalind Danvers. Twenty-four years old. Daughter of elite suburbanites Mr. and Mrs. Danvers. She was killed brutally in her house. Cause of death was gunshot wounds to the chest and abdomen.”

     Meredith replaced the photo and picked another, turning it at different angles. “Rosalind had defense marks on her hands and arms. She tried to escape from her killer but got caught.” She dropped it. “You think we’ve got a serial killer on the loose?”

     “Not sure.” He pulled open a drawer and brought out a file, then flipped through.

     “All three victims were killed using different methods,” Meredith said. “Three people whose paths wouldn’t have crossed in any way. The victimology doesn’t quite add up. The killer isn’t sticking to one MO.”