CHAPTER 3 - EYES IN THE WALL

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…”

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