^^ The small station sits on the corner of Church and Main, a modest yellow brick one-story structure surrounded by a small, well-kept lawn. A narrow, winding walkway leads visitors to the front. There's a faded sign above the glass door, a reminder of the city's humble beginnings.
The interior is compact but somehow functional despite the crowded space. The work areas are neatly arranged in a semicircular fashion. Each small sector within the main floor is cluttered with case files and personal mementos. Ringing phones and constant chatter are heard throughout the station the majority of the day and long into the night. The constant clamor echoes down the dark, narrow hallway that leads to the interrogation rooms. Further down the sparse walkway sit three small holding cells.
Rachel is hunched over her desk, fingers flying across the keyboard, when the soft creak of the front door draws her attention. She glances up, startled, just as Joe steps inside, his silhouette framed by the fading afternoon light. I need to get a grip she thinks, as she falls back in her chair.
"I heard you caught a case today."
"It's more like it caught me." She quickly explains the call and what little she'd found out through their talk and at the scene. "We didn't find any blood at the scene, so he'd had to have dumped the body and staged the scene." She hands him some pictures. "The factory cameras haven't worked in years. I'm having the rookies check the traffic cams."
"Have you been able to ID her?"
"I didn't get any hits on her prints or facial rec, so I'm having the beat cops show her pictures around. I figure with Berryville being as small as it is, someone is bound to know her."
"You'd think." Living in a small town, everyone seems to know each other. The downside to that is everyone also knows your business." Sharon didn't find anything that'd help narrow your search?"
"She didn't have any dental work done, and she didn't have any tattoos or visible scars. Forensics did say that her clothes are from a brand Walmart sold a decade or so ago and that they'll have an approximate age on her soon, which will narrow my search down some."
"Could they determine the time of death?"
"Sharon said she died somewhere between two and six this morning, which correlates with what the caller said."
"Run her profile through missing persons and see what you can find."
"I'm working on that now."
Joe starts to walk away when Rachel says, "I think I found her."
He turns to find a six-year-old girl on the screen.
"According to my search, our victim was abducted from a Georgia mall in 1996." Rachel holds up the woman's picture next to the screen. Her features appear to match. "I'll have forensics do their photo magic to be sure," she says, reaching for the ringing phone. "Sergeant Bower." "I believe her name is Jennifer Barnes," Rachel says, putting the call on speaker.
"Nice try, detective, but you're way off base. If you would've searched a little further, you would've found little Jennie was found floating in a river a month after she was abducted and that her father confessed to the killing, saying he was saving her from becoming her mom."
She glances at the screen again and asks, "Who is the victim then?"
"You're a smart girl detective; you'll figure it out, but only if you narrow your search closer to home, say within a hundred miles of Berryville or so. Actually, I'm surprised you don't recognize her since she was headline news for months. Her followers were so heartbroken over her death that they started a GoFundMe so they could offer a reward."
"Is that why you killed her, because she was such a hit, a big star?"
"No, no, detective, you have me all wrong. I'm happy when people make it to the limelight. Especially when they rise up from nothing the way both you and she did. She was a small-town farm girl who shoveled manure for a living before she became a star. She should be admired for that and commended for her determination and drive."
"It sounds like you admired her."
"Oh, I did, Sergeant, but like many young folks these days, bad influences led her astray." He clears his throat before continuing. "To answer your original question, I would never dream of killing a law-abiding citizen, not that I can find too many of them around these days."
"So why are you doing what you are?"
"My mission is quite simple, Sergeant; I go after career criminals. The ones who blow every chance they get. There are a lot of those out there, you know. This one was so deep into drugs and other violent crimes that, like your Emma, there's no hope in her ever turning her life around."
"So you see yourself as a vigilante trying to clean up the world, make it a better, safer place to live?"
"I give them one last shot at redemption before I end their life. Unfortunately, I don't seem to be having much luck these days."
"And how is that?"
"After failing with her, I tried even harder with her friends, but sadly enough, I was unsuccessful once again. You'll find them close to where you were earlier today."
"Near the Tyson building?" She asks, glancing up at Joe. Nodding, he rushes away from her desk.
"It was such a thrill doing what I did, dumping the bodies and then staging the scene knowing you were nearby. An adrenaline rush, really, defying the odds, knowing I could get caught at any time."
"I was close to you?" she asks, trying to retrace her steps.
"I could smell your perfume drift through the stale air. It was a treat, really, going from that horrid chicken smell to your heavenly scent. I've always loved the smell of White Diamonds. I have since I was a kid."
"Did your wife wear White Diamonds? Maybe it was your mama, or perhaps it was both."
"You're good, sergeant, but I'm too smart for that."
"For what?"
"Your feeble attempt to get me to tell you about myself."
"So you have a college education. Did you go to NACC or maybe Arkansas State?"
"He laughs and says, 'You're tenacious, I'll give you that.'"
"It's only fair that you tell me something about yourself since you seem to know so much about me and my family."
He chuckles and says, "Until we talk again." The phone disconnects.
Hanging up, Rachel turns toward her crew and says, "Search for missing persons in Arkansas that have hit headline news. Check social media too. Kirk, you and I will check the abandoned houses on Freeman."
"I'll tell forensics to meet us there."
Jerry glances up from his computer. "He's right, Sergeant. The officer found Jenifer Barnes floating in the river exactly one month after she disappeared."
"So he's on social media and a true crime buff," Rachel says, writing that down in her book.
***
The old white house stands hunched at the end of a small, overgrown drive, its silhouette more haunted than abandoned. Nature has reclaimed much of its charm—twisted vines slither up its grotesquely disfigured exterior, and the wraparound porch, once proud and pristine, now sags as if exhausted from decades of neglect.
Inside the front yard, weeds and wildflowers collide in chaotic harmony, providing shelter for snakes and things best left unnoticed. The remaining paint peels like old scabs, flaking into the wind. Rachel feels the chill before she even rounds the side of the house, gun already drawn. She knows the look of a place hiding secrets.
She spots the pried-open back door and steps in. Her pulse quickens, though she keeps her face unreadable. Behind her, Kirk's thoughts wander—he wonders why Rachel always seems a few steps ahead, why the decay of places like this never rattles her. He doesn't know that she once spent three nights staking out a drug den in worse shape than this. She doesn't talk about those nights.
Dust hangs thick in the air, blunting the sharp scent of mildew. Cobwebs lace the corners like neglected memories; soot dulls every surface. Rachel notes the symmetry beneath the filth—someone had curated this ruin carefully. It's a crime scene with ambition.
Two women sit at opposite ends of a couch, poised as if watching the dated TV across the room. The screen glows with the twelve o'clock news. Rachel's eye lands on the timestamp: June 10th, 2014.
A third child was reported missing in the Berryville area late yesterday evening, says the commentator.
The screen blacks out.
I hope the clue I left you about the child abductions helps you ID these two, pipsqueak.
The nickname needles something old in her chest. Kirk hears it too and chuckles as he walks in.
"Pipsqueak?" He grins.
Rachel's mouth tenses. Kirk doesn't realize she flinched—but the medical examiner notices it, cataloguing not just physical evidence but behavioral tells. She files it away for later.
"It was a name Mama gave me," Rachel says flatly. "I was smaller than the other kids."
"Pipsqueak," he laughs again.
Her glare shuts him up. She plants her hands on her hips and snarls through clenched teeth, "Call me that again or tell anyone, and you'll be riding a desk for months."
Kirk holds up his hands. He's not really afraid—but Jeff is. He's seen that look before. "Yes, Sergeant," they say in unison.
They scan the room quickly. Rachel doesn't miss the meticulousness of the setup. It's staged—like the first. She turns to Jeff.
"Check the cameras on Freeman and Main."
"I'm on it."
The medical examiner returns, brushing dust from her sleeves. She thinks about her graduate thesis—staged death scenes in serial cases—and decides this one would make a textbook chapter.
"Based on body temp and rigor, they died around the same time as the first victim. But this time, facial recognition gave us IDs." She hands Rachel the tablet.
Rachel scrolls through their histories. "Petty crimes. A lot of them."
"Here's something interesting," Kirk says.
He's already dug deeper. He thrives on connections—lines others miss.
"They were both abducted at age six, a week apart. One was snatched near a school bus. The other walking home."
"Were they ever found?"
"No record of a conviction."
Rachel rubs her temple. Her gut twists—she's seen this kind of cruelty before. "Maybe whoever took them took my Jane Doe too. Let's talk to their parents."
"They moved to Missouri. One in Springfield, the other in Rolla."
"Makes sense. Some memories are too heavy for home. Kirk, find a link between them. Tell Jerry I want names—every child who went missing that year."
She turns to leave when her phone buzzes. Her breath hitches before she answers. "Sergeant Bower."
"Did you find the present I left for you?"
Rachel stiffens. Her fingers grip the phone tighter as her eyes flick to the table. A small package sits there, wrapped in pink with a heart-shaped bow.
Behind the call, a man leans back in his chair, listening to the silence he crafted. He imagines Rachel's reaction, down to the muscle memory—how her shoulder stiffens, how her lip curls just slightly. He likes controlling that.
"We found your victims," she says.
"I'm not talking about them. I'm talking about the perfume."
She eyes the package again, stomach coiling. She thinks of his last call, of the line he repeats now—
"I wanted to make sure you're wearing it when we meet again."
Rachel imagines dragging him into custody. She swallows her rage. "You said you only go after career criminals."
"That's right. Someone has to get the lowlifes off the street. You cops seem to be asleep. But it's not all your fault. The judges are lenient. Overcrowding—they always claim overcrowding. But tell me, how can prisons be full when the criminals are still roaming free?"
His voice is steady. Rachel suspects he believes every word.
"You seem to know our system well," she says.
"I'm very educated. That's why your academy tactics won't work."
"I don't know what you mean."
"You're trying to keep me talking. Hoping I slip."
She plays along. "You're clearly intelligent. Your crime scenes… they're meticulous. No evidence. That's something only a cop would know how to pull off. Are you one? Retired, maybe? Reprimanded over a justified shoot? Now doing what you always believed was right—getting scumbags off the street?"
He smiles. He knows she's fishing. "Nice try, detective. But like I said… your little antics won't work on me."
He disconnects.
Rachel lowers the phone, fingers trembling just slightly. Behind her, Kirk watches her face and wonders—not for the first time—what exactly this killer sees in her. He doesn't ask. Yet.