Victoria Gilmore got the call in the dead of night. “Gruesome scene,” they said. “Beheading.”

She stands in the door to the hotel suite—the Hyde Inn, not bad—still working on her coffee, which is burnt and tastes like ash and sewer. It’s not like she was really sleeping, anyway. She can’t even remember the last time she got a good-night’s sleep. This murder suits her just fine. Better than binge-watching another season of her new favorite criminal show (she’s amazed at how many creative liberties these shows get away with).

“Detective.” The young officer hustles over to greet her, but she’s already stepping inside, ignoring the guy. His face wrinkles inward in disappointment. Rookies. Still something to prove. 

There she lies, still in her clothing, just missing her head. The sheets are soaked in blood. A police photographer is documenting the scene from every angle. Already, tapes and tags are placed all over the place, marking potential evidence. 

“Simpson?” She barely gets the name out, realizing that she hasn’t spoken a word since she got ripped out of her failed attempt of finding some sleep. 

A slender man kneeling by the bed, examining the body carefully, is just now realizing his partner entering the room. He gets up and removes his nitrile gloves carefully, removing the second glove while still protecting his skin with the first. “Gilmore. Nice of you to show up.”

“Yeah yeah. What do we got?”

He walks her back to the entry hall of the expensive suite. “She has no I.D. on her, but the receptionist says the room is registered to a Natalie White.”

“Daughter of drug-pusher White?”

“Bingo.” God, who says that still? “She’s found by the cleaning girl. The door to the suite was open. She walked in to check out what’s going on, and cried pretty much until we arrived.”

“Any clues about the—"

“You’ll love this.” He shoves her towards the bathroom, where a big, brown puddle is spread before the toilet. The second she sees it, Victoria’s stomach tightens up, and the stench of the vomit punches up her nose. “Fuck, Simpson! What the fuck!” Suddenly, she misses the old coffee taste.

He chuckles. Not much, just a slight up and down of the shoulders, but enough to piss her off. “Anyway. It’s your guy.”

“What?”

“Security cameras show him walking in with Natalie White. Also show him leaving with a plastic bag and covered in blood.”

“What about the body?” Victoria tries not to get distracted by the fact that her favorite psychopath is involved in this murder. He’s been evading her for months, leaving all sorts of evidence behind, but remains completely unidentifiable. He’s a ghost, an assassin, and the bodies of his victims leave more questions than answers.

“No obvious cause of death. Preliminary says the head came off after the fact. No clotted blood. He didn’t touch her, no marks of violence.” 

This is the fifth victim that they can link to her mystery murderer. Victory knows—just knows—that this is just the tip of the iceberg. They can’t find the cause of death for any of the dead people. “They simply stopped living,” is all the experts could come up with. 

“So. What about that mess?” She points to the bathroom, gagging just by thinking about it. “Or did you just want to fuck with me?”

Simpson chuckles again. “It’s his. Seems like it, anyway. No evidence on the body suggesting she threw up.”

“Well. Keep it for forensics.”

They collected enough genetic material from him over the last months. Hair, mostly. They also have his fingerprints, his picture, his voice recorded. And none of it links them to anybody. He’s never been convicted, not registered anywhere. Completely off the grid. If money is involved, he either brings cash, or makes the victims pay. According to witnesses, including the receptionist of the hotel, the victims never struggle. Instead, they go with him willingly, without the slightest trace of something being wrong. And of course, there’s no connection between any of the goddamn victims.

“Why did he take the head?” Victoria looks back into the bedroom. “Mutilation wasn’t his thing. This is new.” Though, new or not, it doesn’t make a difference. As much as she hates to admit it, this case doesn’t seem to shine any new light on her guy, or his motives. 

“If you want to take a quick look at the security footage,” Simpson says more by-the-by than actually asking, “the guard on duty is in his office on the main floor.”

Victoria shrugs. “Why the hell not.”