The Poet (Samantha Jazz)

I’m just passing a small apartment complex one block down from the crime scene, when the prickling sensation of being watched pulls my gaze left and right, with no source discovered. I’m just passing a small, yet-to-be-remodeled-and-developed complex when that sensation heightens and has me looking upwards toward a fire escape. The shadows shift and I swear someone fades into the darkness.

My hand settles on my weapon, but the street is busy and I resist my instinct to pull my weapon for fear of creating panic. Instead, I reach into my bag and remove my flashlight, scanning the fire escape to find no one present. I’m on edge, I tell myself. That’s all this is. I’m so damn on edge. I’m letting him get to me, and that pisses me off. I need to be at the crime scene, not playing peek-a-boo with an empty fire escape.

I slide the flashlight back into my bag and charge forward, the curious crowd of about thirty or more gathering at the roadblock overflowing to the sidewalk not far ahead. Preparing for the crush, I palm my badge and lower one shoulder, bulleting forward and holding my credentials in the air. “APD coming through,” I call out, repeating those words about half a dozen times before I’m at the first barricade, flashing my badge one last time at an officer, who motions me forward.

Free of the crowd, I walk toward one of the random stand-alone houses in this area, the place abuzz with law enforcement in various forms. I cross the lit-up and underwhelming front yard to the steps leading to the porch. Officer Jackson is there, easy to spot by way of his imposing stature and red hair, clearly waiting for me, while looking as stoic as usual.

“CSI and the coroner have yet to arrive,” he announces. “We blocked off the scene and shot some preliminary photos. You’ve got the scene pretty fresh. The body’s in the bedroom.”

“Who found the body?”

“Anonymous tip. Same as with the Summer case, if I remember correctly.”

“Interesting.” I pull a pair of gloves from my bag as well as a pair of booties, offering them to him. “Join me.”

He arches a brow. “You want me to join you?”

“You want to be a detective?”

“Hell yeah.”

“Then put them on and follow me, but don’t talk. That sounds cranky, but it’s a thing for me. I need to process and so do you. And be at the precinct in the morning. You’re joining our team on this case.”

“I am?”

“You are. I had it approved today.” I cover up and then arm myself with a crime scene camera I brought along as my extra set of eyes. “Do we know how the killer entered the house?”

“The back door was unlocked,” he replies, “but we can only speculate. There’s no sign of forced entry.”

Nor was there forced entry at the prior murder, I think. “I wonder if the victims invited him inside,” I consider out loud, but I don’t expect an answer. I’m just processing and already turning away from him.

I open the front door to a rather loud squeak, which tells me this was not the entry point, not unless I’m correct and The Poet was invited inside. Or was he just here and waiting? That feels right. He’s a planner. Planners want to be ahead of the game, set up, stage the scene and the murder to follow.

Jackson catches the door behind me and, even before I enter the house, the icy cold of an air conditioner turned to arctic conditions tortures my body. My mind goes to the Summer file and a reference I’d almost put out of mind. The apartment had been frigid. This could be The Poet’s way of preserving the body for us to appreciate his work. Or perhaps his way to torture the victim before he kills them. Summer was found naked. I’m guessing this victim will be as well. I power through the cold, entering the house to a wall several feet in front of me. A framed picture of the human skeletal system is the centerpiece. Something stirs in me, something dark and uncomfortable that I cannot name.

I shoot a photo of that framed image and then glance to the hallway leading to the right, toward the bedroom. I’m not quite ready for the body. I don’t know why. My mind pushes back against the idea when it should not. Instead, I glance left to the living room and open kitchen area. Basic discount-store furniture in shades of brown fills the space. This is a college student’s rental. Summer was a well-established businessperson. On the surface, the two would have nothing in common and yet they did: him. They both captured his attention, to their end.

A bookshelf, the only piece of furniture in the place besides a couch and coffee table, catches my attention. I walk there now and study the one row of six books. Medical books, all medical books. That dark, uncomfortable feeling is back, a snake slithering through me with some realization I dread with almost nauseating certainty. I shove it aside, as well as the shiver sliding through my body, and focus on shooting photos of the bookshelf, ensuring I capture every single title.