Episode 11 — "Copycat"
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Cold Open
A janitor's closet. Bleach. Mop heads strung like scalps. The sound of water dripping from a faucet someone forgot to turn off.
Inside: Caleb Monroe (47), night custodian, one of the dozens on Ravenwood's payroll. He's tired. Always tired. Heartburn eating his chest, pills rattling in his pocket like dice.
He reaches for the mop bucket.
The lights cut.
"Not tonight," Caleb mutters. He's not the kind of man to spook easy. "I got two more halls, asshole."
From the dark, a whisper.
"Knock knock."
Caleb stiffens. "No…"
The whisper gets closer. "Knock… knock…"
His mop clatters to the tile. He grabs his radio. "Security? We got—"
The closet door slams shut. Lock clicks.
The mop handle jerks upward, jamming across the door like a bar.
Caleb backs into the shelves, heart pounding. The air feels thick, like someone's breathing with him.
He pulls his flashlight, flicks it on.
The beam catches the mask. White. Crack down the cheek. Inches away.
Caleb screams.
Thunk.
When the other custodians find him an hour later, his head is nailed to the wall with his own mop handle. His mouth stuffed with rubber gloves.
Written across the floor in bleach:
"Jason Hale's Lesson."
Black.
Title Card: THE STALKER.
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Act I — The Roster
Detective Vance tossed the stack of printouts on the table. "Custodial and maintenance staff. Everyone with a master key, a cart, or an access badge. Fifty-three names. Cross-reference them with contractors and subs, we're at eighty-six."
Jason scanned the list, jaw tight. "We're hunting a scar on a jawline, a limp, a shoulder hitch, and cheap cologne. That narrows it down."
Elena flipped through her notebook. "Scar sightings. Maintenance guys are invisible until they're not. Nobody looks at their faces."
Ryan rubbed his temples. "So what—we just… stalk eighty janitors until one of them smells like Axe Body Spray and bleach?"
Jason's voice was flat. "Yes."
Vance pinched the bridge of her nose. "We're not going door-to-door like a Scooby gang. We interview. Quiet. Background checks, shift records, alibis for each night of the killings."
Jason leaned forward, eyes sharp. "He's not missing shifts. He's not leaving footprints in the system. He's a pro at blending in. If he's on these rosters, he's perfect attendance."
Vance studied him. "You sound like you admire him."
Jason didn't blink. "I want to kill him. That's not the same."
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Act II — Interviews
They started with maintenance.
• Peter Donahue (52): Bald, big gut, smelled like cigarettes. Shoulder hitch—old football injury. But his limp was left side, not right. Ryan whispered "red herring" in Jason's ear.
• Andre Velasquez (34): Tall, handsome, smelled like expensive cologne. Too expensive. Jason clocked it immediately. "Not him. Our guy doesn't buy Dior."
• Gerald "Gerry" Knox (no relation) (41): Scar on the jawline. Jason's pulse spiked. Vance leaned in hard, firing questions. Alibi checked—he was on video at the hospital the night of Mara's death, mopping floors under two cameras. Wrong place, wrong time.
Jason nearly snapped the table in half when Gerry walked out clean.
Elena's notebook filled with names, alibis, contradictions. Her hand cramped, but she didn't stop.
Jason sat in the corner, lighting one cigarette after another, watching men sweat under fluorescent light. Each time he thought he saw the mask in their posture. Each time it dissolved into nothing.
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Act III — Jason's Slip
They were halfway through the list when Jason broke.
Interview: Darryl Henson (39). Right shoulder sloped, faint scar on his jaw.
Jason lunged before Vance could say a word. Grabbed Darryl by the collar, slammed him against the wall, crowbar pressed to his throat. "It's you. I know it's you. Say it."
Darryl's eyes bulged. "What the fuck, man?! I just fix the HVAC! I don't—"
Elena screamed, "Jason, stop!"
Vance ripped him back, fury in her face. "You want obstruction charges? Assault? I'll cuff your ass right now!"
Jason snarled, chest heaving, crowbar trembling in his grip. "He fits. He fits everything."
Darryl was sobbing. "I—I was in bed last night! Ask my wife! I got two kids, man!"
Vance slammed Jason into the table. "You're sloppy. You're one bad night away from becoming the motherfucker we're hunting."
Jason dropped the crowbar. His hands shook. He whispered, "Maybe I already am."
Elena's eyes burned. "Don't say that."
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Act IV — Copycat
The next body dropped that night.
Campus quad. Open space. No shadows. Which was the point.
Lily Chen (22), honors student, found strung up by the fountain. White mask tied over her face with duct tape. Crack drawn on with marker.
Crowd gathered, phones out, recording. Whispers: the killer's back, the killer's everywhere, Jason Hale, Jason Hale.
Vance shoved through the tape, face like stone. Jason followed, staring. The mask on Lily's face was wrong. Cheap. Halloween store.
Elena muttered, "Copycat."
Ryan swore under his breath. "So now we've got more than one psycho?"
Vance ripped the mask off Lily. Underneath: her lips sewn shut with fishing line, blood drying at the corners. She'd suffocated. The stitches were sloppy. Jagged.
"This isn't him," Vance said. "This is some wannabe. Some fuckhead who thinks murder's a costume."
Jason's jaw tightened. "Then the real one's laughing his ass off."
His phone buzzed. He checked.
UNKNOWN: Not mine. Amateur hour. But cute, right?
Jason's stomach dropped. "He's watching."
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Act V — Hunt in the Rain
They tracked the copycat first. He wasn't hard to find. Dumb kids always leave dumb trails.
Ethan Myers (19), freshman, obsessed with the killings. Police found the masks under his bed. Blood still under his nails. He cracked after ten minutes.
"I just wanted to be part of it!" Ethan sobbed. "Jason Hale's the center of everything! He makes the killer real! I thought—I thought if I copied it, I'd matter too!"
Jason almost broke him in half. Vance had to drag him out of the room.
"You see?" Jason shouted in the hallway, rain dripping through the precinct windows. "This is what he wants! He's spreading! He's turning me into a fucking myth people want to join!"
Elena grabbed his arm, voice breaking. "Then you fight harder. You stay you. You don't let him turn you into the story."
Jason looked at her, face pale, eyes hollow. "I don't know if there's a 'me' left."
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Ending Cliffhanger
Back in his dorm, Jason sat on the floor, crowbar across his lap, staring at the cracked closet door. Ryan slept uneasily. Elena sat at the desk, writing in her notebook, refusing to leave him alone.
Jason's phone buzzed one last time.
UNKNOWN: You're doing well, Jason. Even when you fuck up. Especially when you fuck up.
UNKNOWN: Soon, I'll let you pick the stage.
Jason typed back, hands shaking. And then I end this.
The reply came instantly.
UNKNOWN: You'll try. But you'll fail. That's the fun part.
Jason hurled the phone at the wall. It cracked. He buried his face in his hands, blood on his knuckles from squeezing too hard.
Elena crossed the room, crouched in front of him, cupped his face in her hands. "You're not him. Don't you fucking dare become him."
Jason lifted his head, eyes burning, tears mixing with rage. "Then help me kill him before he kills everyone else."
Behind them, in the mirror over Ryan's desk, a reflection moved that shouldn't have. A mask. Just for a blink.