“For now,” Riley said, making a turn onto a tree-lined street, “we focus on what’s in front of us.Two victims, origami figures, and whatever Detective Brookman can tell us about the scenes.”
Ann Marie straightened in her seat, already shifting into a more formal posture as they approached their destination.“I researched Brookman quickly before you picked me up.Twenty-three years with D.C.Metro, reputation for being thorough but impatient.Not known for welcoming federal assistance.”
Riley smiled slightly.Of course, Ann Marie had researched the detective in the brief window after their call.“Then we’ll need to tread carefully.Let me take the lead initially.”
The navigation system announced their arrival in half a mile.Then Riley saw the flashing police lights ahead, marking the scene they were approaching.She pushed thoughts of Leo Dillard and home security to the back of her mind, compartmentalizing as she always did.Right now, two victims needed her full attention.
The Bennett house sat nestled among similar upscale homes on a quiet street in Northwest DC, its Tudor-style facade now interrupted by the jarring presence of police vehicles and yellow crime scene tape.Riley parked behind an unmarked police car and surveyed the scene, noting the neighbors who lingered on adjacent properties, their expressions a familiar mixture of morbid curiosity and fear.Death had visited their sanctuary, shattering the illusion of safety their carefully manicured lawns and security systems had promised.She knew from experience that a few would be packing to move within the week, unable to bear the proximity to such violence, while others would install new alarm systems and deadbolts, clinging to the belief that better locks might keep evil at bay.
“Quite the audience,” Ann Marie murmured as they exited the vehicle, nodding toward the onlookers.
Riley signed the log presented by the uniformed officer at the perimeter, then held it for Ann Marie.“Death in the suburbs always draws a crowd.Everyone wants to believe it couldn’t happen to them.”
They made their way up the stone path toward the front door, which stood open, framing a broad-shouldered man in a rumpled suit who was clearly watching their approach.His posture—arms crossed, feet planted firmly—telegraphed territorial defensiveness before he’d spoken a word.
“Detective Brookman?”Riley asked, extending her hand.“Special Agent Riley Paige, FBI.This is Special Agent Ann Marie Esmer.”
Chester Brookman’s handshake was perfunctory at best, his dark eyes assessing them with undisguised skepticism.“Didn’t expect the feds quite so quickly,” he said, his voice gruff.“Especially since I only got the call to come in myself a couple hours ago.”
The statement was carefully crafted to establish hierarchy—he hadn’t requested their help, and he wanted them to know it.Riley had encountered this posturing countless times in her career.Local law enforcement often viewed FBI involvement as both a challenge to their competence and a threat to their authority.
“Special Agent in Charge Meredith thought we should respond immediately, given the potential connection to your earlier case,” Riley replied neutrally.“We’re here to assist, not take over.”
“Well, you’re here now.Might as well come in.”Brookman turned without waiting for acknowledgment, leading them into the house.“We think the killer jimmied a window open.The Bennetts have a security system, but it wasn’t activated.The husband says his wife often forgot to do that.”
Riley stepped through the doorway and immediately halted, struck by the sight that greeted her.The Bennett home was an origami gallery.Paper creations filled nearly every surface—delicate cranes perched on bookshelves, geometric spheres hung from light fixtures, and dragons with intricately folded scales guarded the mantelpiece.The skill and artistry were remarkable, speaking to countless hours of patient folding.
“Our victim was apparently quite the paper artist,” Brookman said, noting her reaction.“So was the earlier victim.Makes our killer’s calling card that much more twisted, if you ask me.”
Riley moved slowly through the space, taking in the details.“Victim’s name?”
“Rachel Bennett, 33.Marketing coordinator at a tech firm.Her husband, Rudy Bennett, found her when he returned from his weekly poker game around midnight.”Brookman gestured toward a hallway.“He’s in the guest room with a crisis counselor.Guy’s barely coherent—kept saying he should have been home earlier, might have saved her.”
The guilt of survivors.Riley had seen it consume people whole.“We’ll want to speak with him when he’s able.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem.He’s been pretty heavily sedated, though.”Then Brookman shrugged and added, “Maybe he’s just putting on a show.Wouldn’t be the first time a guilty husband tried to play the grief card.”
Riley resisted the urge to discuss that prospect right now, knowing Brookman was the type who would suspect anyone and everyone until proven otherwise.
Brookman led them toward a dining room that had been commandeered as a temporary command post.“In the meantime, let me show you why I think this connects to our case from two days ago.”
He laid out several photographs on the table, arranging them in sequence.The images showed a bedroom in what appeared to be an apartment, quite different from the Bennett home.On a neatly made bed lay a woman, her eyes open but vacant, her body positioned as if in peaceful repose.On her chest, positioned deliberately over her heart, was what appeared to be a folded paper fan.
“Brittany Hall, 30, found in her apartment two days ago by the building superintendent after her door had been ajar for hours,” Brookman explained.“Freelance data analyst, lived alone.No defensive wounds, no sexual assault.M.E.found a puncture mark on her upper arm consistent with injection.Tox screen came back with succinylcholine in her system.”
Ann Marie leaned closer to the photos.“A paralytic,” she noted.“Used in surgical procedures.”
“And virtually undetectable in the body after a short time,” Riley added, studying the images.The choice of drug suggested medical knowledge or access—another detail to file away.“What about the fan?”
Brookman slid another photo across the table.This one showed the fan opened, revealing neat handwriting along the interior pleats: “Do Not Unfold.”
“After processing the scene, we opened it and found that,” Brookman said.“A warning we couldn’t see until we’d already disregarded it.Seemed like the killer’s idea of a joke.”
Riley frowned, studying the precise lettering.There was something creepily playful about it, as if the killer were inviting them into a game with rules only he understood.“What about Rachel Bennett’s cause of death?”
“M.E.’s preliminary assessment is the same—succinylcholine injection.Same puncture mark on the upper arm, same lack of struggle.Body was transported to the morgue early this morning for full autopsy.”Brookman gestured for them to follow him upstairs.“I want you to see the Bennett bedroom.Everything’s still intact except for the body.”
They climbed the stairs in silence, passing framed photographs of Rachel and a man Riley presumed to be her husband—smiling on vacation, dressed up for what might have been a wedding, casual shots in their backyard.A life interrupted.
