Page 20 of The Birthday Girl

“I have, but something about these murders don’t add up.” Vega stood over Tremaine’s corpse, head craned back, numb to the tremor in his knees.

The rookie had retreated to the shadowy end of the hallway and was squeezing his hands into fists so hard his knuckles whitened. Vega glanced at him, then back to the potbellied vet.

“Who found the bodies?”

“Patrol got the call around 8:30. Some dumb kids use this place to skip school because they know no one in their right minds will come here. Kids came in through the back and found the woman. The girl was still screaming when dispatch picked up.” The old cop shrugged, a tic in his jaw as he lowered his eyes to the floor.

“You get a statement from the kids?”

“Yes, from the boys,” the rookie answered.

“Good.” Vega’s gaze swept the hallway, observing the cracked drywall, ancient wallpaper half-peeled, and the dolls. “What about the girl?”

The rookie shook his head. “She couldn’t talk. Paramedics sedated her.”

“What do we know about the victims?” Vega leaned closer to Tremaine, studying his expression.

“We got ID on the woman. Her name is Mercedes Johnson. She lives in Highland Hills, and the two men are John Does for now.”

Vega's gaze traveled from the hanging body to the slashed throat on the floor, then mentally descended the stairs to the mutilated woman.

“Whoever did this changed their approach with each victim.”

The veteran frowned. “What do you mean?”

“The men,” Vega nodded toward Tremaine, then Jimmy, “were cut with the same blade. Look at the tearing. Something short, dull, and uneven was used in their attacks, but the woman?” He paused, picturing Mercedes’ wounds.

“Whoever worked on her used something sharper, longer. Took their time. Every stitch was intentional.”

The rookie shifted, his knuckles pressed to his mouth. “So… two weapons?”

“Two weapons,” Vega confirmed.

His pen scratched across the notebook, quick strokes marking down what his mind had already logged. “Could be two killers. Could be one who wanted the men out of the way, fast, and saved the theatrics for her.”

The rookie shifted uneasily. “So Johnson was the main target?”

“Maybe.” Vega’s gaze cut back down the hall, toward the stairs. “Or maybe not. Another angle is this: there were two attackers.”

The veteran crossed his arms, frowning. “You think more than one person had a hand in this?”

“It’s on the table,” Vega said as he scribbled a note, then looked up again. “But here’s another theory. It could be the same person, trying different methods. These murders might be their first, and they’re finding their rhythm. Testing what works. They could be gearing up for something bigger.”

The rookie’s voice cracked as he spoke. “You don’t think this is the end?”

Vega shook his head. “Killers don’t stage bodies like this to stop here. They do it to get attention. The woman downstairs was the centerpiece. The men, quick work. The message is in the difference.”

Vega checked the floor for bloody footprints. “If it’s one killer, they’re experimenting. If it’s two…” He paused, his jaw tightening. “Then we’ve got a partnership, and those cases can sometimes be even harder to crack.”

The veteran grunted. “Partnerships don’t usually last. Somebody always ends up causing a mess.”

“True,” Vega said, flipping the page in his notebook. “But if they’re working together now, the body count will climb before it falls apart. Either way, we’re staring down escalation.”

The rookie rubbed a hand over his face, his eyes darting between Tremaine’s stiffened arm and Jimmy’s dangling body. “Jesus Christ.”

Vega closed the notebook, slid it back into his coat, and took one last look at the hallway. Tremaine, Jimmy, the dolls, every detail clawed at him, demanding order.

Mercedes was dissected and debased on the first floor, while Tremaine’s carotid fountain painted the hall, and Jimmy hung to a slow, morbid metronome.

The killings weren’t random acts of rage.

They were choreography. Whoever staged their bodies had composed them like exhibits, each death an unhurried brushstroke in a canvas designed to haunt its audience long after they were gone.

The crime scene was a nightmare, so well-articulated that Vega could almost taste the intent behind it.

The killer wanted the spectacle. It was designed for maximum impact, calculated to send tremors through the precinct and into living rooms across the city.

It was a grotesque object lesson about arrogance, wealth's false protection, and about the debts that come due when recklessness finally catches up to you.

Tremaine’s blood had long since stopped flowing, already tacky and half-congealed, but it was the posture that bothered him: the arm stretched, finger pointer still frozen. There was no sign of struggle, only that grim clarity of a target hit exactly as planned.

Vega scanned the dolls. There were five, dressed in hand-stitched clothing: one in sparkling blue, one in a tiny tuxedo, the rest in mismatched party dresses. He wondered if they were meant to represent something. Maybe a warning, a joke, or some coded message only the killer understood.

“Secure this floor,” he said to the uniforms at his back. “Nobody touches a thing until CSU finishes downstairs and moves up here. I don’t want anyone to so much as breathe on it.”

The officers faded into the background as Vega pivoted from the carnage, mentally connecting invisible threads between the bodies. Someone had staged this theater of death, expecting applause. The killer wanted an audience, and now, they had one.

Vega descended the stairs, his expression calm, and his heart heavy. By the time he stepped back into the morning light, he knew sleep would be far from him tonight. This was no ordinary case. This was war, and it had just been laid at his feet.

By the time he arrived at the precinct, the halls were abuzz with chatter about Kellam Street.

Officers leaned against doorframes, trading theories in low voices.

Someone had printed crime scene photos and spread them across the conference table like a poker hand, and half the room circled them with grim fascination.

Vega kept walking past the spectacle, ignoring the stares that followed him, when a voice cut through the noise.

“Vega. My office.” Captain Harper demanded before turning and disappearing inside his office, leaving the door wide open.

Vega obeyed, and as soon as he was inside, he noticed Harper pacing behind his desk. Pausing to look at him, he jabbed one thick finger at the images.

“Tell me what you saw out there.”

Vega eased into the chair behind the desk, resting his forearms on his knees. “Two weapons. The two men were cut with the same blade, but for the woman, they used a different knife entirely. Either more than one person was involved, or we’re dealing with a psychopath.”

Harper stopped pacing, his gaze hard. “Are you sure?”

Vega nodded. “I wouldn’t label them a serial killer, yet, but I believe they eventually will be. Those were their first bodies, and we all know first kills are messy trial runs. Whoever did this is building toward something bigger.”

The captain studied him for a beat, then leaned back against the desk. “That’s a hell of a leap, Vega. You sure you’re not reaching?”

He shook his head. “No, sir. I’ve seen plenty of butchers in my time. This one isn’t butchering. This one is rehearsing.”

The room went quiet, the weight of his words hanging between them.

Finally, Harper sighed, dragging a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah. I know,” Vega said, agreeing with Harper’s sentiment. “You need me on this. You’ve heard what I pulled from the scene. Don’t give this to a rookie squad. Let me take point.”

The captain leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing. “Vega, I called you in for an assessment, not to put you back out there. This case is going to swallow whoever takes it.”

“I know, and that’s exactly why it should be me. Whoever is behind this isn’t sloppy. They’re cautious. They want us to see their work. That makes them dangerous. You put the wrong man on the case, and they’ll be more bodies stacked before the week’s out.”

Captain exhaled, long and reluctant. “Fine,” he snapped. “But if you cost the department any more money, you’re fired.”

Vega’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t move. He knew exactly what Harper was alluding to. The name Tyriq Lawson still hung over the precinct like a curse, and Vega carried the blame for his victory in court like a brand.

Eighteen months of work unraveled in one courtroom. Tyriq had twisted witnesses, smeared Vega’s methods, and a killer walked free. The case didn’t just collapse. It detonated.

When Lawson turned around and sued the department, dragging Vega’s name through the mud in every headline, the brass needed a scapegoat.

Vega went from rising star to liability overnight.

His badge wasn’t taken, but his gun was locked away, and he spent the better part of a year behind a desk, filing reports and watching younger men take cases that should have been his.

Now, staring across at Harper, Vega’s voice was steady, but there was steel underneath. “I won’t make that mistake again. You give me this case, and I’ll see it through. I don’t care if it takes another eighteen months, and I don’t care if it takes my life.”

Harper studied him for a long moment, the fight between politics and instinct playing out behind his eyes.

Finally, he shook his head. “You’re either the best man for this job, Vega…

or the last one I should trust. God help me for not knowing which, but I’m going to let you have this case. Don’t screw it up.”

Vega’s mouth lifted into a smile. “You won’t regret your decision.”

“You better not. Now, get the fuck out and get to work.” Harper pointed at his door.