"It's late, and our investigation must pause for tonight. Jennifer, you'll be under Captain Bowen's supervision temporarily," he declared, not pausing for her response. Without missing a beat, he continued, "I won't be at the precinct tomorrow. Report to my residence instead. I'll send you the address." With these words, Ethan pivoted to leave but abruptly halted, a sudden recollection seizing him. He addressed Captain Bowen with a tone of urgency, "Investigate the Madelyn Clark case. Near the site where her body was discovered lies an abandoned factory. My instincts tell me it's the scene of Trevor's murder."
Leaving Sacred Oaks behind, Ethan emerged into the quiet streets, his solitary figure hailing a taxi. As the vehicle pulled away, he glimpsed Captain Bowen, Jennifer, and their team exiting the residential area, their silhouettes fading into the night.
The journey ended at Ethan's rented apartment complex. Seeking solace in a nearby diner, he ate a sparse meal, the day's events replaying in his mind. Returning to his apartment, Ethan sought refuge in his sanctuary: the workspace.
Inside, he bypassed the living room, his steps purposeful as he locked himself within his workspace. Confronted with a wall-sized whiteboard, he methodically erased the remnants of last night's theories. With a determined hand, he scribbled anew: the names Charles, Trevor, Donna, Barbara, Caroline, Madelyn - each a pivotal player in the intricate web of murder.
Stepping back, Ethan closed his eyes, immersing himself in the killer's world. His mind wandered to the dilapidated building where Charles had conducted illicit surgeries. He envisioned the murder, piecing together the killer's perspective. Initially, Ethan had thought the killer knew Charles personally, but doubt crept in, reshaping his theory.
If the killer sought vengeance for Madelyn, and given her close ties to Charles as his first assistant, access to the old building would have been effortless. The killer, Ethan hypothesized, could have concealed themselves there in advance, choosing the bedroom, with its two hospital beds, as their hiding spot. There, the predator waited, biding their time until Charles unsuspectingly entered, only to be overpowered, bound, and laid upon the very operating table he once used, awaiting his grim awakening.
In the eerie silence of his studio, Ethan stood before the whiteboard, his thoughts honing in on the victim's likely last words. "Who are you? What do you want?" he imagined Charles, groggy and disoriented, bound to the operating table, questioning his unseen assailant.
Ethan's voice, dark and edged with a cold resolve, broke the stillness. "I'm the one who's here to end your life," he muttered, embodying the merciless intent of the killer.
The assailant's goal was unambiguous: the demise of Charles. Ethan deduced that Charles, caught in this nightmare, was granted no chance for extended dialogue or pleas. The silence of his suffering was ensured; a cloth gag stifling any cries for help, a detail confirmed by the forensic finding of tissue fragments in Charles's mouth.
To further ensure silence, the killer wielded a surgical knife with a chilling precision, making initial, superficial incisions into Charles's abdomen. The horror of the situation must have been palpable, with Charles helplessly watching as his own flesh was methodically sliced open.
With each cut, Charles's desperation grew, his life teetering on the edge. In a cruel twist, the killer removed the gag, rendering Charles too weak to even call out, his voice a mere whisper of despair. "Please... please, don't... kill me," Ethan voiced softly, his words echoing Charles's imagined pleas.
But the killer, unmoved, continued their gruesome work. The wounds, initially superficial, deepened with each pass of the blade. Charles, overwhelmed by weakness and pain, could do nothing but lie in a state of despair as he faced his grim end. The final cut was the most brutal, a visceral display of violence as Charles's abdomen was opened, his life slipping away with his last gasp.
In a macabre final act, the killer severed Charles's intestines, placing a card marked '0' inside, a chilling signature left amidst the carnage. After meticulously cleaning the surgical knife and restoring it to its place, the killer vanished into the night.
Ethan, now back to the present, noted a perplexing detail: both Charles's and Barbara's phones were missing from the crime scene. Why? If revenge for Madelyn was the motive, why resort to such barbaric methods? Or was Ethan overlooking something? A different motive, perhaps?
In the midst of this grim reverie, a sudden, heavy breathing echoed in his ears. Spinning around, Ethan was met with the vision of Dennis, lurking in the shadows, a malevolent smile etched on his face. Shaken, Ethan snapped back to reality, taking deep, steadying breaths. It was then that the shrill ring of his phone pierced the silence, jolting him further. Fishing the device from his pocket, he saw Jennifer's name flashing on the screen.
Answering the call, Jennifer's voice came through, urgent and informative. "Ethan, Captain Bowen's team has made progress on the Madelyn case. They're searching the factory where Trevor once held Madelyn captive. There's more - I've delved into Madelyn's history. She divorced two years ago, meaning her affair with Charles occurred while she was still married. She has a son, currently a college student. I checked with his university; he hasn't left campus recently. It seems unlikely he's seeking vengeance for Madelyn."
Ethan's mind raced. "Does she have any other family?" he queried.
Jennifer's reply was prompt. "Her ex-husband, a college-bound son, and deceased parents. She likely has no other close relatives."
Ethan's thoughts sharpened. "Reach out to her ex. Understand the reasons behind their divorce. He might shed light on her close associates. We should also inquire about Philip Taylor, fifty years old. He might be connected."
Jennifer's confusion was evident. "Who is Philip Taylor?"
Ethan's voice was steady, "He was at the old building, with Charles. I found a lab report with his name in the bedroom at the crime scene. We need to investigate his involvement."
After hanging up, Ethan turned back to the whiteboard. He added Philip's name, marked with a question mark, to the web of connections.
But it wasn't just Philip. Donna, the recipient of the third card, also lingered in his thoughts. What ties bound her to Charles, Trevor, and this intricate plot?
Determined, Ethan contacted Nancy, leaving a succinct voice message, "Tomorrow morning, same café, same time. I need to meet Donna."
Within moments, Nancy's reply pinged back, a brief but affirmative, "Okay, see you then."
Ethan, his mind still entangled in the complexities of the case, put his phone aside. Casting one last analytical glance at the network of clues sprawled across his whiteboard, he exited the studio. The routine of washing up and slipping into his pajamas did little to ease the weight of his thoughts. Seeking comfort, he pulled the bedding from his bed and spread it out on the floor in the center of his room. There, in that confined space, he found an odd sense of security.
As Ethan lay there, the day's investigative details swirled in his head, gradually lulling him into a restless sleep. In this slumber, he found himself immersed in the vivid, unsettling dreamscape of Dennis.
In this dream, a quaint wooden cabin stood before him, nestled deep within a forest. Inside, the air was filled with the aroma of boiling stew, rising from a pot on a low table. A small gas canister sat beside it. Dennis was there, sitting cross-legged on the floor, opposite a rugged hunter, the same man who had saved him from the feral dogs. The hunter's gaze never wavered from the pot, as if guarding a secret within.
Curious, Dennis rose and peered outside the cabin. The forest, dense and untamed, stretched around them, the cabin a solitary haven amidst the wilderness. Pain throbbed in his chest, a stark reminder of the dogs' vicious attack. He turned back to face the hunter, whose voice, deep and gravelly, broke the silence. "There are no wolves or snakes here, but the wild dogs... they are the deadliest. Strays, they band together in packs, attacking anyone they come across."
Gratitude mixed with pain in Dennis's voice. "Thank you for saving me," he managed, clutching at his wound.
The hunter, disinterested in gratitude, responded gruffly. "I'm here to hunt dogs, not for rescues," his eyes still fixed on the bubbling pot. Dennis's gaze shifted to the front of the cabin, where an ax and a large puddle of blood painted a gruesome picture. He had seen the hunter, merciless and efficient, disposing of the wild dogs' carcasses – burning their fur, severing their heads, limbs, and tails with the ax. The air was thick with the scent of blood.
The hunter, his clothes stained with the blood of his prey, casually licked his hands clean. In the pot, the remains of the wild dog that had attacked Dennis simmered. Dennis returned to the table, his face a mask of conflicted emotions, as the hunter lifted the lid off the pot, inhaling the scent with evident satisfaction. Producing two sets of bowls, he handed one to Dennis. Pouring white liquor into a cup, the hunter then fished out a large piece of meat from the pot, placing it into Dennis's bowl. "Among some of our ancestors," he said, "dog meat was revered as fragrant meat. One bite, and you'll know its taste."
In the heart of that forest, under the hunter's watchful gaze, Dennis was about to partake in a meal far removed from anything he had ever known.
The sight of it churned his stomach, but the hunter opposite him consumed his share with evident enjoyment. Dennis, his own hunger betraying him, watched the hunter for a moment before tentatively picking up the meat. He sniffed it cautiously, then, mustering his courage, took a sizable bite.
To Dennis's surprise, the meat was unexpectedly savory, leading him to eat more than he anticipated. The hunter, observing with a hint of amusement, leisurely sipped his liquor. Dennis, now somewhat foolishly engrossed in his meal, soon found himself uncomfortably full. He reclined, hand pressed to his distended belly, mirroring the hunter, who jovially remarked, "These wild dogs once hunted you, and now they're our feast."
Curiosity piqued, Dennis inquired, glancing at the hunting rifle propped against the door, "Do you live here?"
The hunter, taking another swig of his drink, replied, "If I did, the wild dogs in these woods wouldn't stand a chance against me. I only come here when the craving strikes."
Dennis's gaze lingered on the hunting rifle. "Can that gun kill a person?"
The hunter paused, then rose to his feet, grasping the hunting rifle. He aimed it at Dennis, a finger teasing the trigger. "Pull this trigger, and your head will be blown open, brain matter everywhere. You ask if it can kill?" His voice was chillingly calm.
Dennis, frozen with fear, stared down the barrel of the gun, his breathing heavy and uneven. The hunter, however, erupted into boisterous laughter, set the gun aside, and returned to his meal, continuing to indulge in the dog meat and his mysterious liquor.
As the night wore on, the hunter, satiated, sprawled out to sleep without disposing of the leftover meat. Dennis, tense and vigilant, curled up in a corner, his eyes never straying far from the hunting rifle.
The candle flickered and died, plunging the room into darkness. The hunter's snores resonated through the cabin, while outside, the wind whispered and leaves rustled. The occasional low growl of wild dogs echoed in the distance.
For Dennis in the wild forest cabin and for Ethan, immersed in the complexities of the case, the night stretched on, long and fraught with unease.
Ethan's restless night was mirrored in his dreams, where he found himself in the shoes of Dennis, lost in a forest. His sleep was agitated, brows knit together in a tight frown, body instinctively curled up as the dream's narrative twisted into a new, darker scene.
In this dream, the forest was awash with daylight. Dennis lay hidden in the tall grass, peering through the sights of a hunting rifle with calculating focus. His target this time was startlingly different - not a wild dog, but a man. The scene before him unfolded in a clearing: a couple, blissfully unaware of the looming danger, sat on a carpet, their laughter mingling with the rustle of the leaves as they enjoyed a picnic with fruits and drinks.
Dennis' aim was steady, the hunting rifle's barrel trained on the unsuspecting man's head. The couple remained engrossed in their romantic bubble, oblivious to the impending doom. Dennis' finger tensed on the trigger, and then, with a deafening blast, the tranquility of the forest shattered.
Simultaneously, Ethan jerked awake in his bed, his body slick with sweat, heart pounding. It took him a moment to collect himself from the haunting echoes of the dream. He rose, moving mechanically to the bathroom to splash water on his face and regain his composure. Later, at his tablet, he sketched the scenes from his dream: the wooden house, the unsuspecting couple, the tense moment in the grass.
As morning light filtered through the windows, Ethan emerged from the bathroom, freshly dressed. He meticulously folded his bedding and placed it back on the bed, just as the sound of the doorbell echoed through the apartment. Opening the door, he was greeted by Jennifer, her hands laden with an assortment of breakfast items. "I wasn't sure what you'd like, so I got a bit of everything," she said, her voice tinged with a mix of concern and professionalism.
They moved to the dining table, where Jennifer unpacked the myriad breakfast choices. Ethan surveyed the spread, a hint of helplessness crossing his features. "You shouldn't have to buy breakfast; it's not your responsibility," he protested gently.
"It's just a small gesture. I've done the same for Captain Bowen and the others," Jennifer replied nonchalantly, brushing off his concern.
As Ethan fetched a bowl and cutlery for Jennifer, she declined with a smile, "I've already eaten. This is all for you."
With a spoonful of cereal, Ethan steered the conversation towards the case. "Has Captain Bowen located the old factory? Is that the site of Trevor's murder?" he asked casually, but behind the casualness lay a detective's sharp, inquiring mind, ever focused on unraveling the web of the case before him.
"Yes, you guessed it right. That's indeed the scene of the murder, where Trevor had his limbs severed," Jennifer seemed a bit reserved, sitting upright in her chair. "Captain Bowen's team went there last night and found an electric saw and a chair used for tying people up. They've been brought back for examination, but it's almost certain that the blood on that chair belongs to Trevor."