Jim stood in the middle of the wet road, surrounded by the echo of his heavy breaths and fog creeping between the headlights of distant passing cars.
He didn't move.His body was rigid, as if time had frozen around him, and his eyes chased the void that had swallowed the killer—or the one he thought was the killer.
The question echoed in his head,unanswered:
Was the criminal the one running?Or the one behind the wheel? Or was this crime part of a network, where each thread led to another in a collective game whose rules he didn't yet understand?
The phone in his hand rang, and his hoarse voice vibrated through the air:
It was Em's voice—agitated,breath quick—saying:
"Jim! Did you catch him? Answer me, Jim!"
But Jim only heard static screaming in his ear, as if the phone had lost its voice or the whole world was choked into silence.
He hesitated for seconds,then whispered in a faint, broken voice:
"We failed... I mean... I failed, sorry."
Then he ended the call slowly, like someone cutting the cord connecting his heart to the world.
He moved away from the road,and the first raindrop fell on his face, followed by another, until he started running—running with every pulse left in his body—back towards the crime scene.
When he arrived, the place was swarming with cold police lights and sirens.
He stood for a moment facing the scene,then entered without speaking. The ground was muddy, and the metallic smell of blood was still fresh.
He approached the body,bent down slowly, staring at the stab wounds.
The same stab wounds.
Random,yet carrying a vague intent.
And a nail,carefully removed from the victim's left thumb.
In a corner of the place, a small mark on the dirt—a tire track—Jim caught it with his sharp eye. It was the same tires he had seen just moments before when chasing that shadow.
A faint sound behind him broke his concentration. Detective "Son" was approaching with heavy steps and said:
"You were right, Jim... This is a series of crimes. The same killer."
Jim raised his head without looking at him and said in a cold voice:
"Yes, his style is chaotic, but deliberate. I don't know the reason yet. As for the removed nail... it's his signature, we all know that. And moving the bodies after killing them isn't random; he wants us to see the art, but not the artist. He's a genius."
Son crossed his arms and said:
"What does that mean in your opinion?"
Jim answered as he rose slowly:
"It doesn't mean anything, just a killer's pattern. The victim's name?"
Son opened his notebook and said:
"Alfred. A professor in his forties.... It's the same."
Jim interrupted him with a faint smile and said:
"So it's a match."
Son raised his eyebrow:
"A match? To what?"
Jim answered with quiet confidence:
"To the case of the seven missing... or the six we thought were alive. They are alive, but not for long. These aren't disappearances; they're the start of a serial murder spree. And now, two of them are dead. We have to stop him before the number is complete."
Son nodded slowly and said:
"Yes, we reached that conclusion too. But I have one question, Jim... How did you get here? Who told you about the crime location? When we got the report from a homeless man, you weren't at the station yet."
Jim froze for a moment, then said:
"What did you say? Who reported it?"
Son answered, pointing towards the public phone in the corner:
"A homeless man. He said he found the body and called from that phone over there."
Jim's eyes widened suddenly, and he said in a trembling voice:
"Where is he now?"
Son pointed his finger towards the sidewalk:
"There... He's still sitting, watching."
Jim walked quickly towards the homeless man, stopping right in front of him. He didn't speak. He looked at him with a strange intensity, as if seeing something behind his face.
At first,the homeless man avoided his gaze, but after a moment, he raised his head, looked at the other, then smiled and said in a faint, hoarse voice:
"You're trying to change the outcome... but you forgot that every outcome has a cause. The cause that made you, specifically... chosen by time."
Jim froze, then took another step closer and said:
"What did you say?"
But the homeless man didn't answer; instead, he began muttering scattered, incomprehensible words.
Jim shouted:
"Answer me! What did you say?"
Then he grabbed him violently by his coat, shaking him and screaming:
"Repeat what you said!"
The homeless man screamed:
"Let me go! I'm just a child!"
But the homeless man wasn't a child. He was in his fifties, his features eroded like old ashes.
The police quickly intervened,pulling him away from the man.
Son shouted:
"What's wrong with you, Jim?!"
Jim, his eyes tense, said:
"He knows something... I swear he knows something."
Son calmed him and said:
"We'll question him later, don't worry."
As they were dragging the homeless man away, the man raised his head again and looked at Jim with red eyes, saying in a hoarse voice, slow as if the words were coming from an old grave:
"You... are the Hell's angel... I can see that."
Jim took a step back, then another, as if the ground had begun to swallow him.
But before he could retreat further,Son shouted:
"Watch out, Jim!"
Jim turned and found his left foot directly above the victim's head, centimeters from crushing it.
He flinched,then quickly moved away, while Son said to him in a firm tone:
"You need to rest tonight. Come back tomorrow in better condition."
But Jim shook his head and said:
"I won't rest until I catch him."
The next day, he was in the autopsy room.
The air was cold,and the white light shone on the silent corpse.
The forensic pathologist,"Yara," was working quietly, wearing her white coat and gloves, as Jim entered without knocking.
She gave a half-smile and said:
"You're still the same... entering without permission. Even when we were kids you did it. You created so many unforgettable, awkward situations."
He said, smiling faintly:
"I love surprises, sister."
He approached her, and they hugged for a moment. Then she held his face and said:
"What's wrong with you? Your eyes don't say you're okay."
He said:
"Tired... just tired."
Then he looked at the body and asked her:
"What did you find?"
Yara took off her gloves and said, contemplating the body:
"Repeated stab wounds to the vital organs. Bruises on the face and back. Wounds on the hand and neck... and a nail removed from the left thumb. There was no superiority over the victim. And this is what was supposed to be... if these are serial murders, it's strange, because the closest description of this situation is a fierce and evenly matched fight. It was violent. The victim didn't give up easily. That explains everything."
Jim shook his head, his mind racing:
"The killer I saw wasn't injured. He was in top condition... So he wasn't the real killer then. So he's just bait who knows how to run, but the real killer... is the person who was in the car."
Then he looked at Yara and said with a faint smile:
"Thanks, Yara, brilliant as always. By the way, Emily keeps pestering me; she misses you. Visit us soon, and bring Mom and Dad with you."
She said, smiling sadly:
"I will... and tell them I miss them too. Goodbye, Jim, and take care of yourself."
He turned to leave, but her voice stopped him:
"Jim... I'm going to stop this. You know why... It's not right."
He paused for a moment, then said without turning around:
"I know... Sorry I got you into this from the beginning."
In the evening, Jim returned to the station.
He stood in front of the whiteboard,wrote the names of the missing with a trembling hand, then hit the board with his hand and said in a sharp, loud voice:
"The killer is hiding in his den, devouring his prey, then throwing it out to be his message to us. He's smart... very smart, but he's not perfect. We are justice; we don't leave cases open... because our reputation, our names, even our faces are linked to the case, and we don't want to lose that trust."
Someone said in surprise, while everyone looked at Jim:
"And the victims!"
Jim asked,puzzled:
"What..."
The other replied with hand gestures and clear tension:
"You mentioned reputation...and forgot the victims!"
Jim said with a smile:
"Ah,the victims, of course... those seven... I mean five, depend on it too."
The team exchanged glances, the atmosphere heavy and unbearable.
Someone said:
"The only evidence we have is the car and the crime scene."
Jim answered confidently:
"Not anymore. He'll change his location; he's made his point now. We already know the type of crime, but we will reach him. We'll ask the families of the missing, and we'll search everything—even a drop of saliva. Nothing will be neglected."
Son suddenly asked him:
"Jim, why are you taking this case so seriously?"
Jim hesitated, then said:
"Because the lives of the innocent depend on us... isn't that so."
And as he was about to leave, Son asked:
"What will we call the case?"
Jim stopped at the door and answered without turning around:
"The Hell's angel."
Then he left, leaving behind a thick silence, as if the walls themselves understood the meaning before anyone else.