COPS

Chapter IX: Empty

They moved into the dining room. The table was set for two, silverware perfectly aligned. The centerpiece—a bronze sculpture of a flayed man—caught Alex’s eye. Schultz noticed.

“Anatomical study,” Schultz explained casually. “Renaissance physicians often blended science with art. They believed the human body was a work of divine craftsmanship… and corruption.”

Alex nodded, unsure why the words lingered.

As dinner began, Schultz poured a deep red wine, letting the liquid catch the candlelight. “Lex, you ever worry about Ryan?”

Alex frowned. “Worry? No. He’s my brother.”

“Of course, of course,” Schultz said, taking a slow sip. “But sometimes the ones closest to us… change in ways we don’t notice. Sometimes they hide parts of themselves, even from family. Especially from family.”

Alex set down his fork. “What are you getting at?”

Schultz’s smile was faint, knowing. “Oh, nothing specific. Just… you police officers, you see so much darkness. It seeps into your lives. It changes people. Makes them unpredictable.”

Alex leaned back, unconsciously defensive. “Ryan’s not like that.”

Schultz gave a slow nod, as though agreeing, but his eyes betrayed him—just enough to plant the seed. “I’m sure you’re right. Still, perhaps… keep an eye on him. If not for his sake, then for the people he cares about.”

The conversation drifted elsewhere, but the doctor’s words clung to Alex like a burr.

Meanwhile – Ryan’s Apartment

The candles had burned low. Mary laughed softly as Emily dozed off on the couch, a blanket pulled over her small frame. Dinner was over, dishes stacked neatly in the sink.

Mary approached Ryan, smiling. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had a night like this,” she said, brushing her hand along his arm. “Why don’t we…” She leaned in, pressing her lips to his, testing the space between them.

For a moment, Ryan kissed her back. Then he pulled away.

“Mary… I can’t.”

She blinked, surprised. “Can’t… or don’t want to?”

Ryan forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I just… I don’t want to rush things.”

She tilted her head. “Ryan, it’s been months.”

“I know.” His voice was low, almost pained. “It’s not you. I just… don’t want you to see what I am.”

Mary frowned, searching his face for meaning. “What are you talking about?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly, looking away. “Forget I said that.”

She didn’t press, but her smile was gone now. She turned to tend to Emily, the warmth of the evening fading into a quiet, unspoken distance.

Ryan sat alone at the table, staring at his wine glass. The reflection staring back at him wasn’t a man. It was something empty, something hollow.

And in the dark recesses of his mind, he knew—Schultz was right about one thing. People like him couldn’t keep love. Not without destroying it.

Crime Scene – Abandoned Apartment, Tenderloin District

The girl hung from the ceiling by a frayed cord, toes barely grazing the air. The windows were shut, curtains drawn, the air heavy with the faint scent of alcohol and cheap perfume. A chair lay tipped over beneath her. On the table, a folded note—short, shaky handwriting, barely legible.

No signs of struggle. No defensive wounds. No missing organs. No theatrical staging.

This wasn’t art. This was despair.

SFPD Homicide Department – Late Afternoon Briefing

The hum of the fluorescent lights buzzed over the low murmur of voices as the team gathered. Sergeant Julian Stewart stood at the front of the conference room, her hands clasped behind her back. Her expression was unreadable but firm.

Around the table sat Alex and Ryan Lassiter, Dr. Hans Schultz, Detective Warren Price with a half-empty coffee cup, and Forensic Analyst John Jacobs with a stack of crime scene photos.

“Alright,” Stewart began, “the girl’s name was Tanya Reaves. Twenty-three years old. Unemployed. No criminal record. No connection to either the Bay Area Ripper or our Fan killer—at least none we’ve found so far.”

Jacobs slid a few photos across the table. “No forced entry. Her fingerprints are all over the cord and the chair. The suicide note matches her handwriting based on a notebook we found in her dresser.”

Price leaned back in his chair, sighing. “So… an actual suicide? Feels rare these days.”

“It’s not ours,” Stewart confirmed. “No decapitation. No organ removal. No swaps. No riddle left behind. Just a dead girl and a bad story.”

Schultz’s voice was smooth, analytical. “Sometimes the most tragic deaths are the simplest. Not everything fits the patterns of our… specialists.”

Ryan leaned forward, his tone calm but deliberate. “This isn’t either of them. Not the Ripper, not the Fan.”

Stewart glanced at him. “Confident, Lassiter?”

“Very,” Ryan replied. “The Ripper works with precision. Every victim is chosen for a reason. The Fan? He’s messy, theatrical. Wants to be noticed. This—” he gestured to the photos “—this is personal pain, not performance. There’s no message here.”

Alex gave his brother a sideways glance. “You sound pretty sure.”

“I am,” Ryan said flatly. “Whoever did this… was only killing themselves.”

The room went quiet for a moment. Even Schultz studied him carefully, as though savoring the certainty in his voice.

Price cleared his throat. “So we close it as suicide?”

“For now,” Stewart said, gathering the files. “But if we find even a whisper of connection to either of our killers, we reopen it. Until then, this isn’t part of our mess.”

As the meeting broke, Schultz lingered behind, eyes fixed on Ryan with that same knowing glint.

Both Monsters Locked Eyes.