Octavia Rose
The Onyx Oak Hotel is right in front of me, the building towering over my slim 5'7 figure. It's dark and enticing, totally in opposition to the golden linings on the doors and the cheery workers. Besides all the cheerfulness, the hotel lives up to its name with its black oak tables and stools near a bar packed with bottles of alcohol and guests jibber-jabbering. The third level of the hotel was evacuated for the night, the guests free to converse with each other and enjoy free drinks. The hotel's way of promoting good reviews before news of the dead body becomes public.
I saunter to the elevator and press the number 3. Becomes of its renovations, the elevators work at the speed of light and the floors don't creak. Much better than the musty motels that have the highest homicide rates. The rats, dust and odd smells are not something anyone wants to see and smell everyday. A dinging sound echoes and then the silver doors open. I step out, I'm already late.
I walk through the corridor of the hotel, lifting my jacket to take the FBI badge I've worked so hard for to show the man at the entrance. It's just a formality. At only 27, I've become one of the most well known special agents in the field. Holding it at eye view, he sees it and nods, letting me through the open door and into the hotel room.
The first thing I see is blood. Blood everywhere. The table is covered with a single bloodstained fingerprint and a blood bath sits on the bed, the clean sheets that this frequented hotel uses now have no trace of white. Only ruby red.
Scarlet droplets near my feet, a puddle underneath the body that lays on the edge of the bed... I've been here for mere minutes and I no longer doubt the metallic scent will coat my body and boots for a while afterwards.
I walk up next to the dead body, a few curls of blond hair falling in front of my eyes from the messy bun I put my hair in before walking inside as I lean in and call out for Anna to identify the body for me.
"His latest victim is Noemi Larson. Female. 29 years-old. Unemployed", the forensic science technician says. The documents in her hand shake as her nerves get the best of her. She looks revolted, and she should. Most serial killer kill out of sheer need. They need the thrill of the kill, the lust for power that threatens to weaken you if you don't get your next fix. They relish in the way the light leaves their victims' eyes until only soulless orbs remain.
Most female serial killers keep it simple: poison, stabbing at a particularly nasty place that kills them quicker like the throat, shooting them in the head or the heart, suffocation or drowning. But male serial killers? They love the hunt, the chase. That's how the FBI already knows this is a male serial killer. This particular sociopath has a unique way of murdering his victims.
Society would think this killer is a psychopath because he violates the rights of others, manipulates and hurts others, obviously feels gratification for his actions which would lead to thinking that he has difficulty with showing remorse and has socially irresponsible behavior. However, the lion's share of these traits are common with both. The real difference is that sociopaths are able to have remorse, they often rationalize their behavior and form emotional connections. Emotions means that they can control your actions if you're not in control of them, meaning they're prone to fits of rage.
"Cause of death?" I ask, curious to see if it's the same has all the other four victims.
"From first look, someone would think that the cause of death would be blood loss. However, if we were to run the body through forensics, I'm certain we would find cocaine in her system", Anna explains, her nose scrunching at the putrid smell that surrounds us.
The crinkling noise of tape rushes to my ears as agents work to secure the area of the homicide. I stand out with my black leather boots, black skinny jeans and red shirt compared to the FBI uniforms agents usually wear. At least the blood stains on my clothes won't be that noticeable. Today was my day off, the only day off that I took out of the month. I rushed here right after I received the call informing me of the latest body, the second one this month.
I inhale a breath through my nose, the smell not affecting me, and take the blue gloves that are offered to me. Noemi's body is only covered by a skirt and high heels, her white shirt with flowers discarded across the room at some point in the night. Her dull brown eyes staring at the ceiling, her brown hair still in a ponytail, her makeup smeared across her face. What tears my attention isn't the big angry slashes across her chest that form on her X or the sewed lips too common in the newest homicides but at the presence of the engagement ring on her finger.
It's a big diamond ring that doesn't fit the pattern associated with this murderer. All the other women, approximately the same age, have been single, unlucky in love. All of them appear to have died from the same cause of death, all had big slashes carved into their uncovered chest and sewed lips. The thread always red. It makes them look like they have bold red lips. And none were married.
"Is she married?", I question, trying to confirm my suspicions.
"Yes. Mrs. Larson was originally Noemi March. She is married to big tycoon Ken Larson. "
"Interesting."
If this wasn't the doing of our latest killer, I wonder why they wouldn't take the ring. Most motives are financial gain, attention-seeking, chasing the thrill and anger and that pretty little jewel would have snagged a good amount of money. If this was truly another one of his victim, I'd need to figure out this new pattern. And fast. I reach out a hand and inspect the broken nails and barely noticeable burns on her wrists and ankles.
Most victims run, try to fight their attacker and usually lose. A broken nail would have meant she scratched him, took his DNA and made my job a hell of a lot easier. That was how most serial killers were found. Once you had their DNA, all you would need is a database search and voila. This particular person, nicknamed The Tailor, had been very careful thus far.
"What were the possessions on her?", I ask. I hear arguing behind me and I turn my head just to see my partner coming towards me, a scowl on his face.
"Why didn't you call me when you found out about the body, Octavia?", Logan Brooke screams, walking straight towards me. He wears his FBI jacket and a pair of grey trousers. His green eyes are crinkled at the edges, from too much smiling at pretty girls and narrowing his eyes at me and all people who 'offend him'. When my superior had told me I needed a partner, he wasn't my first choice and he certainly wasn't in the top ten.
I smile smugly and say, "Logan, do I have to inform you of every body that shows up on the dirty streets of New York? Am I your assistant? No? Okay then."
I wave him over and return to staring at the married woman who's husband should have been notified already, probably grieving the death of his wife at a bar, looking down at a bottle of scotch. If he hadn't, he was probably worried sick. That is if he even cared for her. The harsh reality was that fancy businessman like Ken married young and then cheated on their wives with younger copies of them, imitating the people they once were before age wrinkled their skin and decayed those pearly whites. I bet she was the mistress, the age difference makes it a no-brainer guess.
I heard him put the gloves and shuffle to me. He folds his arms, the fabric of the jacket with the letters FBI illustrated on the back stretching to accommodate his muscles. "You don't always got to be so sarcastic, O", he says in my ear, his hot breath tickling my neck.
"Sorry for the foul, terrible, accurate things I say", I reply. He huffs a laugh and returns to the work at hand.
Finally able to get a word out, Anna calls out the possessions the target had on her. Purse filled with makeup, documents and a wallet with it's content still inside. Unsurprisingly, her phone is missing.
"Another one of The Tailor's victims, right?"
"Yep. The slashes, the lips, the gender and the age of the victim all point to him but one thing doesn't." He looks at me expectantly and I roll my amber eyes. I take her left hand and show him the diamond.
"Aside from this, a biopsy will determine if an overdose from cocaine is the cause of death."
Cocaine acts as powerful stimulant that users get highly addicted to. A moderate amount can get you feeling like you're on top of the world but a high amount can lead to disability and death.
"From the biopsies of the four other victims, I suspect she was tied up with some kind of material to a chair, gagged and cut up. On the edge of dying, she was transported to the bed and injected with cocaine which led to a stroke", I murmur. "The blood couldn't reach her brain, causing the brain cells do die."
There's one sure thing about this deviant. He wants to inflict pain. A stroke isn't painful but carving up your skin is...
Logan pushes her on her side so we can get a clear look of her back. Unlike the rest of her body, her back is unblemished, the spine curved at a bizarre angle. We look her over once more and then we search the room.
"How was the body found?", I overhear Logan ask Anna.
"A maid found her."
I perk up. She might have seen who came and left the room at the time of the crime. I tell her to schedule an interrogation with the maid for tomorrow. I scan the bed and the chairs that are in a perfect position around the circular table. I advance to the table and smell it, hoping it will reveal a clue of how he kept the room this clean of him. There's no trace of anyone else's DNA except Noemi in the chamber. No bleach or hydrogen peroxide chemical smell burns my nostrils.
"How did he get in the room?" I wonder aloud.
"It's quite obvious, is it not?", Logan speaks, "There are no signs of forced entry. That would have made too much noise and would have alerted nearby guests. The target would have more wounds if she'd fought with a male I presume is double her size. Facts are that she let him tie her up with a material that would have felt pleasurable and kept her mind at peace, kept her thinking she was safe with him. Secluded and alone. He lured her in with false promises"
I nod, a rare smile forming on my lips. He rarely impresses me. "Exactly what I was thinking. He must have been a lover or a confident for her to trust him enough to tie her up."
And that was the most intriguing part of all this. He could be anyone. A lover, a family member, a client, a stranger you met on your way to work. You will never know until they want you to know or they screw up enough for you to get a perspective on things. And if he had enough charm to seduce a married women that had everything money could buy, then you know to be open-eyed. Attentive. Because that could be you.
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Thank you so much for reading sweeties. Please vote and comment, it means a lot to me and it helps me understand that I actually have readers...
FYP this is a romance and thriller novel so there will be smut but it's a slow-burn. Also, the psychological smut will be intense... And the physical smut, read to see ;)