Page 7 of Depraved Devotion

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CHAPTER 4

GENEVA

It’s Friday, but when you’re married to your work, every day is the same. I guess my life is a compilation of Mondays then.

I sit at my desk, the hum of the activity outside my office completely muted by my noise-canceling headphones. With my back facing the wall, I’ll be sure to notice if anyone opens my door. Although, everyone knows better than to interrupt me when I have my headphones on, unless it’s urgent.

My notes from this morning are displayed on my computer screen, along with the stark images of the victim and the crime scene. Just like every other time, the details etch themselves on my memory. They’ll stay there until the case is solved.

Ifthe case is solved.

“Case #1025-0731, Crime Scene Analysis. Location: 1207 Maple Street. Victim: Julia Mills, mid-thirties, found deceased in her residence. Time of death is estimated between 11:00 p.m. and 1:00 a.m.”

I type steadily, describing the scene thoroughly, noting the position of the body, the state of the room, and the lack of forcedentry. The blood spatter is only in the living room, while the rest of the house remains untouched by the violent struggle.

“You put up a fight, Julia,” I whisper to the victim. I stop to briefly run my fingertips over her gruesome image. “We’ll catch this son of a bitch.”

I move onto the profile development. The methodical arrangement of the scene suggests an organized offender, someone who plans and executes with precision. There’s a ritualistic element to the positioning of the body, indicating a possible psychological compulsion.

“The suspect has a meticulous nature and possibly a background in forensic knowledge,” I mutter to myself. “The lack of forced entry suggests the victim may have known the perp or was deceived into allowing them in.”

I lose track of time as I continue adding to the report until I save the file and send it to the lead detective. A knock sounds the moment I remove my headphones.

“Come in,” I call out, looking up from my desk.

The door swings open and Detective Allen Harris steps inside. His graying hair is cropped short, and a perpetual five o’clock shadow frames his square jaw. He smiles at me, then pauses, glancing around my office with a raised brow.

“You know, Gen, your office always feels like a morgue. There’s no color in this room.”

The walls are pristine white and every piece of furniture, down to the wall clock, is black. The starkness of the decor is only softened by the natural light coming in through the windows. The flooring is a polished concrete, the gray surface adding to the minimalist aesthetic. To me, my office is a haven of efficiency.

Inwardly, I sigh. “I find it easier to focus without distractions.”

“Fair enough. But a plant wouldn’t hurt.”

I smile at him and gesture to the empty chair in front of my desk. “What can I do for you, Detective?”

He takes the proffered seat, his expression turning serious. “I saw your report hit my inbox. I’m sure it’ll be just as good as the others.”

“Thank you.” I scan his face, noting the way he’s clenching his jaw and the tension lining his mouth. How tightly he’s clutching a folder in his right hand. “Is there something else you wanted to discuss with me, Allen?”

My use of his first name is a subtle tactic to put him at ease. It’s a reminder that we’re more than co-workers. We’re colleagues, fighting on the side of justice.

Allen scrubs the back of his neck before his posture loses some of its stress. But only infinitesimally. Damn. I brace myself when he opens his mouth.

“Ghost refuses to speak to any of the professionals. We’re talking about days of silence. For fuck’s sake, we don’t even have a psych profile on him yet.”

“Where is he locked up?”

“Blackwater Correctional Facility,” he says. “Usually that place knows how to handle people like him.”

“Except he’s not like anyone else.”