Chapter 5: Fresh Kill
The Brennan residence was a three-minute drive that felt like three hours.
Hotch drove. Morgan rode shotgun. I sat in the back, watching Columbus suburbs blur past the window while my system tried to process data it didn't have.
[INSUFFICIENT DATA FOR THREAT ASSESSMENT]
[RECOMMEND: ON-SITE ANALYSIS]
No shit.
We pulled up behind two patrol cars already on scene. Yellow tape was going up. Neighbors gathered at the edges of their lawns, phones out, recording tragedy for social media.
A uniform met us at the curb.
"Agents? Detective Warren called ahead. Scene's inside, but I gotta warn you—it's fresh. ME says time of death was probably four, maybe five hours ago."
Four hours ago. When we were sitting in the police station, building our profile.
He knew. He knew exactly when we'd be occupied.
I followed Hotch and Morgan through the front door.
The smell hit first. Blood has a copper tang that coats the back of your throat, but fresh blood is different. Warmer somehow. More alive, even in death.
The Brennan family was arranged in the living room with the same meticulous care as the others. Father in the recliner, gun in hand. Mother on the couch. Two children—a boy and girl, maybe ten and twelve—positioned on either side of her.
[THREAT ASSESSMENT: RECENT DEPARTURE]
[ESTIMATE: 4-6 HOURS]
[TRAIL STATUS: COLD]
[FOCUS: -4]
The system confirmed what I already knew. Marks was long gone.
Hotch moved through the room with grim efficiency, cataloging details. Morgan circled the perimeter, checking entry points.
I approached the father's body.
Michael Brennan. Forty-two. Two kids, steady job, underwater on his mortgage. According to Raymond Marks, he was better off dead.
The staging was identical to the others, but something was different. The placement was less precise. The suicide note on the coffee table was shorter—only two sentences instead of the usual paragraph.
"He's rushing," I said.
Hotch looked up.
"The note's abbreviated. The body positioning is sloppier—look at the angle of Mrs. Brennan's arms. They're not symmetrical like the others. He's losing control."
Morgan emerged from the kitchen.
"Found our entry point. Window over the sink. Lock's been jimmied."
"Same as the Harrison residence," Hotch said.
"Same tool marks, far as I can tell. He's not even changing his method anymore."
The pieces clicked together in my mind.
The timing. The sloppiness. The unchanged method.
"He knows we're close," I said. "That's why he accelerated. He killed the Brennans while we were at the station briefing the case. He knew our schedule."
Hotch's jaw tightened.
"The auxiliary connection. He has access to departmental calendars."
"Or he's watching the station directly. Either way, he knew exactly when we'd be too busy to respond quickly."
[PROFILE UPDATE: UNSUB HAS LAW ENFORCEMENT ACCESS OR SURVEILLANCE CAPABILITY]
[CONFIDENCE: 87%]
Morgan pulled out his phone.
"I'll have Garcia check traffic cameras around the station. If Marks was watching, maybe she can spot his vehicle."
"Do it." Hotch turned to me. "What else do you see?"
I walked the scene, letting my training take over. The system flickered at the edges, feeding me fragments—blood spatter analysis, body positioning algorithms, timeline reconstruction—but I didn't need it. This was basic profiling. Pattern recognition.
The window in the kitchen is still unlocked.
I moved to it, examined the frame without touching.
"He didn't secure it after entry. Every other scene, he locked up behind himself. Maintained the murder-suicide staging. But here—" I pointed at the latch. "He left in a hurry."
"Spooked?" Morgan asked.
"Or running late for something. Either way, he's decompensating."
Elle arrived with local backup, took one look at the scene, and her expression hardened.
"Same staging?"
"With variations," I said. "He's getting sloppy."
"Good. Sloppy makes mistakes."
She moved to the mother's body, crouched down, studied the wounds with clinical detachment.
"Single shot to the chest, close range. No defensive wounds. She didn't fight."
"She couldn't," I said. "Ligature marks on the wrists, just like Sarah Harrison. He restrains them first, removes the bindings after they're dead."
"So he's got a kit. Rope or zip ties, something he brings with him and takes when he leaves."
"Forensics-aware. He knows what we look for."
Elle stood, met my eyes.
"You're good at this."
"I've seen a lot of crime scenes."
"Kosovo?"
"And other places."
She didn't push, but the question lingered between us.
Outside, a child was crying.
I walked to the window, looked out. A neighbor's daughter—maybe eight years old—stood on the sidewalk with her parents, sobbing into her mother's hip. Police cars and yellow tape had invaded her quiet street, and she didn't understand why.
That could have been the Brennan kids, if they'd been somewhere else when Marks came.
I stepped outside, moved toward the family.
The father intercepted me, protective stance, hand on his daughter's shoulder.
"Sir, I'm Agent Mercer with the FBI. Is your daughter all right?"
"She knew them. The Brennan kids. They played together."
Christ.
I crouched down to the girl's level, slow and non-threatening.
"Hey. My name's Ethan. I'm a police officer—kind of. A special one. We're here to help."
The girl's tear-streaked face lifted slightly.
"Are Tommy and Sarah okay?"
Tommy and Sarah Brennan. Ten and twelve. Bodies cooling inside that house.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I can't tell you that right now. But I can tell you that we're going to find out exactly what happened, and we're going to make sure no other families get hurt. Okay?"
She nodded, barely.
"Can you do something for me? Can you take care of your mom and dad tonight? Make sure they know you're safe?"
Another nod.
"That's important work. Almost as important as what we do."
The father's expression softened slightly.
"Thank you, Agent."
I stood, nodded to him, and walked back toward the house.
The system was silent. No notifications, no data overlays, no tactical assessments.
Some moments didn't need analysis.
They just needed humanity.
Inside, Garcia's voice was coming through Morgan's phone on speaker.
"Okay, my beautiful crime-fighters, I have news and it's the good kind. Raymond Marks' credit card was used at a gas station two miles from the Brennan residence approximately six hours ago. And—drumroll please—his car is registered with the auxiliary, which means I have his license plate and I can track him through traffic cams."
"Where is he now?" Hotch asked.
"That's the less-good news. Last hit was ninety minutes ago, heading north on Route 315. After that, he dropped off the grid. Either he ditched the car or he's somewhere without cameras."
"His home address?"
"Sending it to your phones now. 847 Pinecrest Lane, about fifteen minutes from your current location."
Hotch looked at Morgan, then at me.
"We move now. Morgan, Mercer—you're with me. Elle, secure this scene and wait for forensics."
Elle nodded, already pulling out her phone to coordinate.
I followed Hotch and Morgan back to the SUV.
[FOCUS: 21/50]
[COMBAT READINESS: ADEQUATE]
[WARNING: SYSTEM PERFORMANCE MAY BE COMPROMISED UNDER HIGH-STRESS CONDITIONS]
Noted. I'll try not to need it.
The SUV pulled away from the Brennan residence, leaving the yellow tape and the neighbors and the crying girl behind.
Ahead, Raymond Marks was either running or preparing for his last stand.
Either way, this ended tonight.
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