"Ahhhhhhh! Damn!" Phillips hollered, stumbling back as his eyes locked on the lifeless body sprawled across the floor. His heart raced, and he clutched the doorway, breath coming in sharp bursts. His voice cracked again. "No, no, no..."

He had just come to visit a friend. Instead, he found a crime scene.

Moments later, red-and-blue lights flashed through the windows. Police sirens wailed to a stop. Officers flooded in, cordoning off the area with yellow tape. A crowd gathered, whispering, murmuring, some filming on their phones. Reporters shoved mics forward, hungry for details.

A black SUV rolled up. The door opened, and a man in his early 30s stepped out—calm, focused, dressed in plain clothes with a badge clipped to his belt. He flashed his ID. The officers nodded sharply and stepped aside.

"Detective Scott," one officer said.

Scott gave a tight nod and scanned the scene. His voice was low but commanding.

"What’ve we got?" he asked, stepping over the threshold.

"No forced entry," said Officer Ray, a younger cop with sharp eyes and a nervous energy. "Door was unlocked. What’s your read, sir?"

Scott’s expression tightened. He slipped on a pair of rubber gloves, crouched beside the body, and examined it closely. His face barely moved, but his eyes—sharp, calculating—took in every detail.

"Means the victim let 'em in. Willingly."

"So… someone he knew?" Ray asked, brow furrowed.

Scott stood and looked around the modest living room. Everything was in place—no sign of a struggle.

"Yeah. Someone who could walk right in, no questions asked."

Ray’s eyes widened. "Sir—you should see this."

"What is it?" Scott walked over, dusting off his gloves.

Ray knelt near the victim’s hand and gently pried it open. Inside was a folded scrap of paper.

"He was holdin’ onto this."

Scott unfolded it. His brow lifted.

"John 9:41," he read aloud, voice low, almost to himself.

"What do you make of it?" Ray asked, leaning in.

Scott’s jaw tensed. "Could be a clue. Dying grip like that? He wanted someone to find it."

Outside, the detectives turned to check the building's surveillance cameras. Scott peered up, squinting into the sunlight. A tech was already shaking his head.

"No good. Been dead for two weeks," he muttered.

Ray kicked the pavement in frustration. "Great. Just great."

Suddenly, Scott pointed across the street.

"That car. Hasn’t moved, has it?"

They jogged over. A neighbor stepped out onto his porch.

"Yeah, that one’s been sittin’ there for days," the man said. "Guy’s outta town. Back tomorrow, I think."

Scott sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"We’ll be back then," he said, already walking off.

Back at the station, a few hours later, Ray returned with the autopsy report. His face was tight, tired.

"Got the report, sir."

Scott flipped through it, eyes scanning fast.

"Same as the scene. Nothing new." He dropped the file on his desk and leaned back. "John 9:41… any idea what that means?"

"Maybe a code?" Ray offered, half-heartedly.

Scott snapped, tone clipped. "Code? C’mon, Ray." He grabbed his phone and made a call.

A voice answered on the second ring. "Long time, Detective."

"Skip it. I need a favor."

"Shoot."

"Check our database for anything on ‘John 9:41.’"

"Wait—like, the Bible verse?" the voice asked, confused.

Scott blinked. "The what now?"

"Yeah, it’s a Bible verse. Didn’t know that?" the guy chuckled.

"No. That helps. I’ll call you later."

Ray was already typing.

"Got it—‘If you were blind, you would not be guilty of sin; but now that you claim you can see, your guilt remains.’"

Scott stood slowly, processing. "That’s guilt. Judgement. He saw something he shouldn’t’ve."

"Saw what?" Ray asked.

Scott’s voice dropped. "A murder."

Ray’s eyes widened. "You serious?"

Scott didn’t answer. He was dialing again.

A few minutes later, a digital file popped up on his screen. He opened it, jaw tightening as he read.

A previous case. Two victims. Brutal stabbing. Blood smeared on the wall with the words Deuteronomy 20:10–12.

Ray read aloud again, slower this time. "‘If a man commits adultery with another man's wife… both the adulterer and the adulteress must be put to death.’"

Scott’s hand curled into a fist on the desk.

"Same damn signature. It’s him."

"You’re sayin’… this guy’s a serial killer?" Ray asked, voice low, almost whispering.

Scott looked him dead in the eye.

"Yeah. And he thinks he’s God’s damn executioner."

Scott pushed open the Chief Officer’s office door, walked in with purpose, and stood tall in front of the desk. The Chief looked up from his paperwork, brows furrowed, sensing trouble.

“You got a minute, sir?” Scott asked, voice low but firm.

The Chief leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing. “Yeah. Go on.”

Scott laid it all out—details, suspicions, everything he’d been piecing together.

When he finished, the Chief’s face went pale. He shot up from his chair, slapping the desk. “What do you mean, serial killing case?” His voice cracked with disbelief.

Scott didn’t flinch. “I’m dead sure about it, sir,” he said, locking eyes with him.

The Chief ran a hand down his face, muttering, “Damn it…” Then he looked at Scott again, more serious now. “Can you handle it?”

Scott nodded slowly. “Yes, sir. But I got a request.”

The Chief squinted. “A request, huh? Lemme hear it.”

“I wanna build a new team. From scratch.”

The Chief’s jaw tensed. He rubbed the back of his neck, clearly uneasy. “A new team? Ugh… alright, fine. You’ve got my support. I’ll back you however I can.” His voice was tense, his tone heavy with concern.

Later that day, Scott strode into the bullpen and dropped a manila folder onto Ray’s cluttered desk.

Ray looked up, his brows arching. “What’s this?” he asked, tugging the folder toward him.

“Take a look. Tell me what you think,” Scott said, arms crossed.

Ray flipped through the papers, scanning them quickly. A grin crept onto his face. “Oh damn… a new team?”

“Yeah. You in?” Scott asked, his tone casual but expectant.

Ray leaned back in his chair, tossing the file onto the desk. “Hell yeah, man. This is awesome.”

The evening was creeping in as Scott pulled into a modest precinct. Inside, he walked straight to Frank’s desk and dropped another file down with a soft thud.

Frank looked up, caught off guard. “Well, if it ain’t the legend himself,” he said with a grin. “Life treatin’ you alright?”

Scott chuckled. “Same ol’, same ol’. You busy?”

Frank picked up the file, flipping it open. “What’s this?”

“Read it. Let me know if you’re in. We kick things off tomorrow morning.”

Frank’s expression shifted. “Wait—official investigation? About what?”

Scott was already walking off, waving over his shoulder. “See you tomorrow, Frank.”

Frank frowned, flipping through the pages. “What the hell is this about…?” he muttered.

Later that night, Scott leaned against the side of his black sedan, parked near a quiet station in the outskirts. The breeze tugged at his coat as he waited.

A female detective approached cautiously, suspicion in her eyes.

“I heard you’ve been doin’ pretty well,” Scott said, arms folded, watching her with a faint smirk.

She eyed him carefully. “Who are you?”

Scott pulled out his badge and flashed it.

Her eyes widened and she stood straight, snapping into a crisp salute. “Sir.”

Scott handed her a file. “Give it a read.”

She scanned the contents, then looked up with a gleam in her eye. “I’m in, sir. Count me in.”

“Good. Don’t be late tomorrow,” Scott said, climbing into the driver’s seat.

She saluted again as he drove off into the night.

The next morning, 8:00 a.m. sharp.

Inside a freshly cleared-out section of the department, Scott entered the room where his newly formed team waited. The air was tense with anticipation. Everyone stood.

“Salute!” Frank barked, and the team straightened up and saluted.

Scott raised an eyebrow, slightly amused. “Well damn, you all showed. Let’s get started.”

“Yes, sir!” Stephanie responded sharply.

Scott looked to Ray. “Alright, Ray. You’re up. Brief us on what we got.”

Ray stood, walked to the front, and pulled up images and notes on the screen. The room dimmed slightly.

“We’re dealin’ with a real piece of work here,” Ray started. “Total psycho. That Bible verse—John 9:41—you asked me about? It’s tied into this case.”

Scott nodded, then began pacing slowly. “Here’s the angle. Richard Smith saw the suspect kill Ms. Peters and Mr. Allen. My guess—he got threatened into silence. But two nights ago, he tried to report it.”

“And he ended up dead,” Ray said grimly.

Stephanie leaned forward, eyes sharp. “So the killer was watchin’ him? Like… stalking him?”

“Looks that way,” Ray replied. “Knew exactly when he was gonna make that call.”

Frank scratched his head. “You think he bugged Smith’s place?”

Scott paused, then nodded. “Probably. It’s the only way he could’ve known. We traced an attempted call to the police around 10:15 p.m., just before Smith was found dead.”

Scott grabbed his coat. “Let’s hit the crime scene. Answers are always there.”

Without another word, the team followed him out, tension mounting as the investigation truly began.

They rolled out in a black surveillance van provided by the station.

The engine hummed low as the city blurred past the windows, the weight of the case hanging heavy in the air. No one spoke. Scott sat near the front, scanning files. Stephanie stared out the window, jaw tight. Frank cracked his knuckles while Ray tapped impatiently on his tablet.

At the scene, a modest suburban house sat under the clouded sky, eerily quiet.

The lawn hadn’t been mowed in weeks. A light breeze stirred a plastic bag near the fence.

Scott turned to Ray and Frank as they stepped out. “Go find the car owner. Get their dash cam recordings. Every second matters.”

“You got it,” Ray said with a nod. Frank tipped his head and followed.

Scott looked to Stephanie. “You’re with me.”

Inside, the air was stale—like it had been sealed for days. The curtains were half drawn, casting fractured light across the hardwood floor. Stephanie slipped on a pair of gloves, snapping them tight, and Scott did the same.

They moved through the house like ghosts. Every creak of the floorboards echoed in the silence. Stephanie crouched by a corner of the living room, her eyes scanning.

“Found one,” she said, plucking a tiny black spycam from a shelf behind a fake plant.

Scott glanced around. “Make that two. Here’s another in the TV cabinet.”

They swept the entire house. Two cameras in the living room. Two in the bedroom. One in the kitchen. One tucked above the bathroom mirror.

Stephanie let out a low whistle and muttered, “Geez... that son of a bitch.”

Scott’s face hardened. He stepped back, removing his gloves. “I don’t think we’re gonna find anything else here.”

Stephanie hesitated, squinting toward the kitchen. “I’m not sure if this is a coincidence but…”

Scott followed her gaze. “You see something?”

She pointed at a crumpled takeout bag on the counter. Bold letters read: JJ Spicy Chicken.

“This bag… it was also found at the scene where Ms. Allen and Mr. Peter were killed.”

Scott’s eyes narrowed. “That’s right. If the guy posed as a deliveryman, he could walk right through the front door.”

“Using a fake delivery to gain access. That’s clever—and practical,” she said.

“But that still doesn’t explain how he managed to bug the place without getting caught.”

“Exactly. Hopefully Ray and Frank got the dash cam footage. That might give us a timeline.”

They stepped out of the house just as Ray and Frank were returning.

“You get anything?” Ray called out, eyes wide with anticipation.

Scott held up a plastic evidence bag. “Cameras. All over the damn place. This guy was watching Smith for days.”

Stephanie turned to Ray. “And the footage?”

“Got it. All backed up. Let’s watch it back at the station,” Ray said, holding up a flash drive.

Back at the station, they dimmed the lights in the viewing room and pulled up the dash cam footage.

The timestamp read: February 13, 2022. 10:15 p.m.

Richard Smith’s neighborhood flickered across the screen in muted color.

Then—movement. A scooter pulled up to the curb. The rider wore a brown delivery jacket and full-face helmet. No plates. No identifying marks.

“That’s him,” Scott said.

At 10:20 p.m., the scooter pulled off, vanishing into the night.

They scrubbed back to February 10, 11:45 a.m..

The camera caught the same figure again—this time in broad daylight, sneaking around the back of the house. No helmet. Just a black cap and surgical mask.

“Smith was already at work,” Stephanie noted. “That’s when he planted the cams.”

“Right,” Ray added. “Means he was surveilling the victim for three full days before making his move.”

Frank shook his head, disgusted. “God... what a psycho.”

Scott leaned in, arms crossed. “Allen and Peter were murdered on the 9th. In a hotel room. Smith worked there—he probably saw it happen while doing room service.”

He paused, rubbing his chin.

“An untraceable number called Smith that same day. Likely a warning. The guy started threatening him immediately. And the second Smith got brave enough to report it—boom. Murdered.”

Stephanie exhaled sharply. “So the guy was lurking, just waiting for Smith to pick up the phone.”

Ray snapped his fingers. “Got the hotel CCTV too. The guy showed up there as a deliveryman. Same M.O.”

Scott turned to Frank. “Were you able to trace the scooter?”

Frank frowned. “Nope. No plate. No registration.”

“That scooter had to get caught on some street cam,” Scott said.

Frank sighed. “That’s the weird part. Both times—Smith’s murder and the hotel incident—no footage. It’s like the scooter was invisible.”

Stephanie raised an eyebrow. “Could he be local? Maybe he lives nearby.”

Scott shook his head. “Would make sense if all the murders were in the same zip code. But they’re not. He’s calculated. Precise. Plans his exits better than his entrances. We’re missing something.”

Frank leaned back in his chair. “So... what now?”

Scott stood, grabbing his coat again. “You and Ray keep scrubbing the footage. Stephanie and I are gonna pay a visit to the chicken joint.”

Stephanie grabbed her bag and followed without hesitation.

As they left, Frank squinted. “Man... why’s he always takin’ her?”

Ray smirked. “Probably ‘cause she’s better than you.”

Frank scoffed. “Get outta here. Then what about you?”

Ray grinned. “Someone’s gotta babysit you, right?”

Frank rolled his eyes. “Gimme a break…”