Ethan stepped out of the shower and quickly dried himself with a towel. Steam still filled the bathroom when his phone buzzed. On the screen, a message from Phillips appeared: an address.
He frowned, got dressed quickly, grabbed his jacket and car keys. As he stepped out of the cabin, the crisp morning air greeted him. When he arrived, he recognized the address Phillips had sent. A black FBI Chevrolet van was parked at the corner.
He parked his car and walked toward the van, taking a sip of his coffee.
—Good morning —Ethan greeted, leaning against the door of the vehicle—. What's the plan?
—It's ten a.m. —Phillips said, checking his watch—. The dry cleaner's been open for just over half an hour. Only two people have gone in, and one's come out—maybe the doctor's seeing patients. Should we go in directly? What do you think, Hank?
As he spoke, he glanced at Hank.
—Ethan, this is your neighborhood, you know this street better than we do —Hank intervened—. What do you suggest?
—All the buildings on this street have back doors. If the guy tries to run, that's where he'll go —Ethan said—. We should split up: I'll go around the back in case he tries to escape. Wait five minutes, then go in through the front.
He tossed his coffee cup into a nearby trash bin and walked toward the back.
Phillips and Hank exchanged a look, then raised their watches simultaneously. When the timer hit zero, both stepped out of the van and headed toward the dry cleaner's.
Pushing open the glass door, Phillips looked around. An African-American woman in a red dress stood behind the counter near the entrance. The dry cleaner's wasn't very big, clothes hanging in plastic bags all around.
—Can I help you? —the clerk asked nervously, eyeing the two broad-shouldered men.
—I doubt it —Phillips replied coolly, fixing his gaze on the divider door behind the rack. Then he moved forward.
—Hey… —the woman in red leaned over the counter and said nervously, ignoring a waiting customer—. You can't just go back there like that.
—Thanks for reminding us —Hank said, turning to look at her—.
Even so, they approached the divider door and pushed it open without hesitation. Unlike the cramped exterior, the interior was clean and surprisingly spacious.
At a counter inside, a white man in a yellow plaid shirt was examining a woman whose chest was bare. He turned his head sharply when he noticed the two men behind him.
—What the hell! Who are you?! —shouted the man in the plaid shirt, letting go of the woman—. You can't just barge in here!
—And yet we just did. What are you gonna do about it? —Hank shot back, walking over to a nearby table and sitting down—. Lovely lady, you should leave. The doctor will see you another day.
The woman, there for a cosmetic checkup, hurriedly covered herself, grabbed her purse, and ran out through the divider door.
—Doctor Quick, right? —Phillips said, lifting a corner of his jacket to show the badge hanging from his belt—. Special Agent Robert Phillips… FBI. We need to talk to you.
Quick's hands trembled when he saw the badge.
—Doctor David Quick —Phillips repeated, pulling up a chair, crossing his legs, and sitting down—. Your record is… interesting. Several malpractice lawsuits, incomplete surgeries, serious complications never reported. And not only that—there are accusations of falsifying medical files and improper use of anesthesia. Some patients ended up with permanent damage.
Quick suddenly bolted, running down the hallway toward the back.
Just a few meters away was the rear exit. Phillips and Hank didn't even bother to move, watching his escape attempt with disdain.
—Bang!
Quick slammed into the door, and just as he opened it, a solid thud echoed. He staggered back a few steps and collapsed.
—Where were you headed, doctor? —Ethan asked, appearing through the back door. He lowered his raised foot and stepped in with a grin.
Quick tried to get up on his hands and knees, but Ethan grabbed him, dragged him back inside, and gently pushed him onto a chair.
—What's the rush? —Ethan inquired.
Phillips removed his sunglasses and smiled.
—Running like that already makes you look guilty, don't you think, Hank? He didn't even let me speak.
Quick looked at the three men staring him down and slumped into the chair, jaw clenched.
Seeing his reaction, Phillips nodded.
—I checked your records. Your medical license was revoked. Yet here you are performing surgeries in this place. That's a serious offense.
Quick brushed the shoe prints off his chest and took a few deep breaths.
—I'm not performing surgeries here —he replied—. She's a friend. She asked me to check on her post-op progress, that's all.
—I see.
Phillips brushed off his leather shoes.
—Then why did you run?
—I don't like cops —Quick said confidently, an idea flashing through his mind.
As they talked, Ethan looked around.
They were in an office—no file cabinets in sight. Nearby, there was a large frosted-glass door concealing whatever was inside. Its handle had a heavy lock.
Hearing the noise, Quick turned and shouted:
—You have no right to do this! Where's your warrant?
—Who said I needed one? I'm not a cop.
Ethan saw the keys hanging from Quick's waist and yanked them off.
Quick raised his hands and looked at Phillips.
—Aren't you FBI? Are you just going to stand there and watch?
Phillips pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and calmly cleaned his sunglasses.
—What are you talking about? I didn't see a thing.
Quick's temper flared.
After a few tries, Ethan quickly found the right key. When he opened the door, he saw a small operating room. On a table next to the surgical bed were seven or eight pairs of silicone bags arranged from smallest to largest.
Ethan smiled at Quick and began searching.
—This is definitely an illegal operating room. Are you sure you don't want to change your answer?
Hank walked up behind Quick and patted him on the shoulder.
—I know my rights! This is illegal!!
Quick's forehead was soaked with sweat, and he couldn't take his eyes off Ethan in the operating room.
—Listen, we're not here because of your little side business —Phillips snapped his fingers a few times, getting his attention—.
Hank grabbed Quick's face with both hands, forcing him to look at Phillips.
—I'll let you go —Phillips said, raising his voice slightly— if you can answer a few questions. If I like your answers, I'll pretend I didn't see a thing… deal?
—Fine —Quick muttered, giving in as Hank held him—. What do you want to know?
—Body modification. Specifically, subdermal implants… still doing those?
—From time to time —Quick replied indifferently.
Phillips crossed his legs and stared him down.
—Any cases where you implanted horns on someone?
—Yeah, a couple of guys —Quick said, shaking his head—. People these days are so crazy they do things you wouldn't even want to imagine.
Phillips stood, walked up to Quick, and looked him in the eye.
—I'm going to need your medical records.
—You're kidding, right? —Quick stared back without fear—. How could I keep medical files if I do this kind of work? My clients come here because of my reputation. I take cash only and never ask for personal info. Whatever it is you're looking for, you won't find it here.
—You think I'm buying that crap? —Phillips said, dragging a chair and sitting in front of him—. I know you've got records somewhere. Tell me where, or my friend here will tear this place apart until we find them.
Quick reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.
—I'm calling my lawyer. I'm not saying another word until he gets here.
—Forget it. He's not talking.
Ethan stepped forward and patted Phillips on the shoulder.
—Looks like he doesn't know anything. Let's go.
He gave him another pat. Phillips, a bit puzzled, stood up. Based on experience, he knew Quick was hiding something, but this wasn't the time to argue with his partners. He could come back later.
—I'm very dissatisfied with this conversation, Doctor Quick.
Phillips took a card from his pocket and handed it to him.
—Be smart. I suggest you call me.
Quick set down his phone, took the card, and scoffed at Phillips.
Hank followed them, and the three of them left the dry cleaner's. Ethan stopped when they got back to the black Chevrolet.
—Why did you pull us out?
Phillips spread his hands, indicating he had plenty of ways to make him talk.
—That guy didn't show a hint of nervousness —Phillips said calmly, looking toward the door the man had disappeared through—. He knew we wouldn't chase him, and he didn't seem afraid we'd find anything… because he's not keeping it here.
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small digital camera, waving it in front of them with a faint smile.
—Not worth wasting any more time with him —he added—, but this little thing might tell us what he doesn't want to.
Hank extended his arm, taking the camera.
—Nice work.
—Yeah, well, criminals aren't exactly the brightest. They always think they'll never get caught —Ethan replied, bumping fists with him before turning on the camera—. And if there's one thing I've learned, it's that they're dumb enough to keep evidence.
Hank powered up the camera, and the photos on the screen flipped by quickly.
They were all post-operative images, the kind that helped Quick evaluate healing during follow-up visits.
As the three men stared at the gruesome photos, their expressions hardened.
—In my opinion —Hank said, tapping the screen—, every single one of these people has the potential to be a serial killer.
—We can't investigate that many. We need to narrow it down —Phillips said, scrolling through the images, trying to build a suspect profile.
—Maybe we should go back to that bar from last night. The bartender might recognize someone —Ethan suggested.
Following his lead, the three men and two cars returned to the bar they'd visited the previous night. The place looked completely different in daylight. A faint breeze blew, stirring the trash on the ground and making everything seem even more disordered.
The door was half-open, and silence filled the space. As they stepped in, they spotted the same bartender from the night before behind the counter, serving drinks with little enthusiasm.
—We're not open yet —he said wearily when he heard footsteps.
But the sounds came straight toward the bar. The bartender turned, irritated.
—Now, what the— —he stopped mid-sentence.
His expression froze, and he looked helplessly at the three men standing before him.
—Looks like he still remembers us —Phillips remarked, pulling up a tall stool and sitting down—. How about three beers?
Seeing the badge and the cash he placed on the counter, the bartender clenched his jaw, pocketed the money, and grabbed three glasses. He went to the tap, yanked the handle roughly, and muttered:
—Just ask what you need to know. I'll do what I can to help.
He set the three beers in front of them.
Ethan pulled out the camera and slid it toward him.
—We're looking for a psychopath who kills young women. I'd appreciate it if you took a look at these faces and told us if you recognize anyone.
—Alright —the bartender said with a pout, taking the camera—. I'll try. But don't expect me to know everyone who comes here.
Phillips grabbed one of the beers and took a long sip.
As the bartender scrolled, he occasionally pointed at some photos to Phillips, highlighting the most disturbing ones. One showed the dark-skinned man whose arm Ethan had broken the night before.
Ethan lit a cigarette and sipped his beer slowly.
Then, suddenly, the bartender's fingers stopped moving. Moments earlier he'd been indifferent to the images, but now his eyes filled with fear and disgust.
The change didn't go unnoticed by the three agents.
—Who is it? —Hank asked in a low voice.
The bartender turned the camera around, speaking tensely:
—That guy's a psycho. He almost beat a girl to death once. I kicked him out of the bar.
Ethan and the others leaned in. On the small screen appeared a white man, about thirty, with brown hair —and on each side of his forehead, two small bumps the size of thumbs.
Horns.
Ethan turned sharply, locking eyes with Phillips and Hank. The same thought crossed all their minds.
He tapped the ash off his cigarette and asked in a grave tone:
—What's this man's name?
—His name's Declan Bode —the bartender said after thinking for a moment.
Hank raised his beer.
—That Bode guy a regular here?
—Used to be, but not since I threw him out. He went nuts back there. The poor girl ended up in the hospital, though she didn't press charges —the bartender said, shrugging.
Ethan raised an eyebrow with a faint smile.
—So, you're saying this guy's so deep into his fetishes he even freaks out the others?
—Mind if I grab one? —the bartender asked, pointing to the cigarettes.
Ethan nodded. The man took one, lit it, and exhaled slowly.
—Most of them do it for predictable reasons —he said in an analytical tone—. They want to stand out, to feel unique in a world that ignores them… and yeah, these circles make it easier to meet others, especially women who share that same urge to escape or be seen.
The bartender added with disgust:
—But when you meet someone like Declan Bode, who takes it way beyond a harmless roleplay, people get scared —he said uneasily—. One night he got drunk and wouldn't stop talking about Lucifer. Swore he could hear him, that they had some "spiritual connection." The bastard was obsessed. And when I told him I didn't believe him, he ripped his own fingernails out with a damn knife…
He pointed toward a jar of alcohol where five human nails floated inside.
Phillips stared at his half-full beer and set it down with a sigh.
—Looks like we need to pay this man a visit. You got an address or any idea where we can find him?
The bartender gave him a look of disbelief and scratched his head.
—You're kidding, right? Why the hell would I know where that lunatic lives?
Hank finished his beer in one gulp and set the glass down with a thud.
—Alright then —Phillips said, sliding a business card toward him—. If you remember anything else, call us.
—Yeah, yeah… sure —the bartender replied indifferently, rolling his eyes as he wiped his hands with a rag—. Now, if you don't mind, I've got work to do.
Once outside, the three men stopped by the car.
—Guys, I'll bet a hundred bucks that Declan guy's our killer —Hank said with a challenging grin.
Phillips, leaning against the car door with his usual gruff look, let out a short snort.
—Come on, Hank. Just because he sounds like a nutjob doesn't mean he's the killer —he said calmly—. But he's the best lead we've got so far. I'll call my office in D.C. to see if we've got any record on this guy. If he's attacked women before, there should be something in the database.
Ethan, who had been silent until then, lifted his gaze. Deep down, all three of them knew Declan Bode's name hadn't come up by coincidence. The pieces were starting to fit together —and their instincts told them they were on the right track.
Suddenly, Phillips's phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out immediately and raised a hand, asking for silence. He answered in a tense voice:
—Phillips speaking.
As he listened, his expression barely changed, hardening slightly. He had sent the name to the FBI database a few minutes earlier, searching for any matches. If they were calling him back this quickly, it meant something had come up.
To his surprise, the response came much sooner than expected.
—This is Phillips…
A couple of static crackles buzzed on the line before he hung up. He turned to them, frowning.
—There's almost no trace of the man we're looking for, Declan Bode —he said, dropping the folder onto the metal table—. No address, no relatives, no license, no registered job. It's like he vanished off the face of the earth.
Hank crossed his arms, shifting his weight onto one leg.
—So we're back to square one?
Phillips shook his head with a sigh.
—Just one thing. He's got a criminal record: convicted of rape in Clearfield County eight years ago.
—And the victim?
—The name and details are sealed —Phillips replied, sliding his finger across his phone screen, searching for something else—. But I could try to access them if we get a warrant.
—Can you do that? —Hank asked, narrowing his eyes—. Maybe that woman knows something that's not in the reports.
Phillips nodded firmly.
—Of course. We just need the judge's authorization. If I reach the prosecutor and she can get the judge's signed order today, we'll have the data by tomorrow morning.
Hank let out a low grunt, his jaw tight with tension.
—Then do it. If Bode's the killer, he'll strike again soon.
Phillips was already typing on his phone.
—He won't —he said without looking up—. Not this time. We'll get to him before he can hurt anyone else.
In the middle of the discussion, Ethan's phone vibrated. Seeing the name "Jessica" on the caller ID, he stepped aside and answered in a low voice. A few seconds later, he hung up and walked back toward the old Chevrolet, his expression serious.
—Sorry, I have to go. Something urgent came up.
Phillips looked up, curious.
—Need a hand? —he asked, almost anxiously.
Ethan shook his head.
—No, nothing serious. You two keep at it… and catch that bastard.
Hank watched him for a moment, then nodded slowly and shoved his hands into his pockets, a faint grin tugging at his lips.
—Count on it.