I hadn't fully grasped the gravity of the situation back then. I knew I wasn't going to get anything from her—not then, not anytime soon. Perhaps, deep down, I should have understood it better than anyone else. Cassandra wasn't ready to drop her shield. It was a defense she'd built for years, and I had anticipated as much. Some things about her were predictable, like the way she held her cards close to her chest, refusing to reveal even the slightest vulnerability.
I had been in Los Angeles for three years—long enough to see the city at its darkest. The number of cases had been rising steadily: unexplained disappearances, brutal homicides, robberies that spiraled into bloodshed, sexual assaults that shattered lives, and hit-and-runs that left families forever fractured. It was a city plagued by shadows, and it seemed like no one was untouched. Over the years, I had solved a number of them, and with each success, my reputation in the homicide bureau grew stronger. But nothing could prepare me for what lay ahead with Cassandra.
Her case, like so many others, had become a part of the growing pile of unsolved mysteries. There were too many similarities and too many dissimilarities in the cases to make any clear connections. It was as if we were working blindfolded, grasping for any thread of evidence that could lead us to something, anything. On top of that, the AIDS epidemic had created a fog of confusion. The widespread panic had turned many disappearances into routine missing person reports, masking the true nature of the crimes. The real killers hid in the background, and the noise of the epidemic drowned out their presence.
But women like Cassandra—if she was indeed one of them—were a different breed. Her actions didn't follow a predictable pattern; there were no obvious motives or connections. The city had been shaken by whispers of a killing spree, but every lead I followed seemed to turn into smoke. No suspect. No relationship to the victims. No trace. It was as though she existed in a different dimension, one where the usual rules didn't apply.
The only case that seemed remotely similar to hers was the one involving a serial killer who had been terrorizing the streets for nearly two years. A vicious-looking street man, elusive and cunning, who had managed to slip through the cracks of the system at every turn. He had no clear pattern, no discernible connection to his victims, but the similarities in his methods—his brutality, his precision—were hard to ignore. Yet, even that case raised more questions than answers, and it was impossible to say whether it had any relevance to Cassandra's killing spree.
However, the killer was eventually captured and taken into custody—but it wasn't by my hand. The arrest had come under the guidance of my boss, a stroke of luck that I hadn't been a part of. It felt like a subtle reminder of how often I was just a step behind, waiting for a break that never seemed to come.
The more I dug, the more it felt like I was chasing shadows. But I couldn't stop. I couldn't let Cassandra slip through my fingers like the others. Something in her case called to me—whether it was the chilling detachment in her demeanor or the way she seemed to be playing a game with us. I had to know her. I had to crack her. But it seemed clear now: I wasn't going to get anything from her—not yet.
I stood up, letting the tension linger in the air, and asked plainly, "Do you want some coffee?"
The room was cold, the smoke swirling between us like an impenetrable fog. I didn't expect her to answer.
"Let me guess," she said, her voice smooth, dripping with an almost cruel amusement. "You're the type of man who does favors, expecting something in return. Aren't you?"
The words hit harder than I expected. It wasn't just a casual remark; she was prodding, baiting me, dissecting me with every syllable. A part of me wanted to snap back, to deny it, but another part of me, the part that had learned to read people like books, knew she was right. She saw through me, always. It was as if I'd been laid bare, exposed under her cold gaze.
I forced a tight smile, doing my best to keep control. "You know, normal working-class people like us value subtle gestures—something I'm sure someone like you, a rich killer… oh, sorry, accused—might find hard to understand." I muttered, the words coming out more bitter than I'd meant. "And honestly, I didn't want someone just watching me have coffee. There's something called human decency."
I couldn't help but feel a strange satisfaction as I watched the shape of her lips curl, like I'd struck at the most sensitive part of her deadened emotions. For a brief moment, her expression shifted—her face, usually so impassive, betrayed a flicker. Her eyebrows twitched in anger, and I almost laughed at how I'd managed to provoke her.
"Human decency," she echoed, her lips curling into a fake, plastered smile that gave me jumpscares. "Is that what you call it?"
She wasn't interested in the coffee. She wasn't interested in anything but making me feel small. It was her game, and I was just a pawn.
"So, you're not getting any favors from me," she said, her voice colder now, her eyes narrowing. "Is that clear, Lorr?"
I sat back down, the weight of her words pressing down on me. It wasn't about the coffee. It wasn't even about the conversation anymore. It was about her proving something—her control over this room, over me.
I reached for another cigarette, the motion automatic, trying to ground myself. But she had already won this round.
"I heard you've been a pain in the ass for your defense attorney too," I said, the words slipping out, more out of frustration than anything else. "Not just me."
She raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained. "I'm not biased," she said, her voice cold, almost too rehearsed.
But I could hear the challenge in her tone. She was baiting me again, making me play into her hand. She'd turned the conversation back on me, once again making me feel like I was the one under interrogation.
I exhaled a cloud of smoke, letting it swirl around me, masking my frustration. "Aren't you stopping your excessive smoking habits?" she asked suddenly, breaking the moment of silence. "Your smoke is affecting me too."
"If you made it short, I wouldn't have to," I replied, trying to hide the irritation in my voice.
Her eyes flickered with the faintest trace of amusement, but she quickly masked it. She wasn't done with me yet. And I knew, deep down, that this was her game all along.