Chapter Text
It’s February in Maryland; the weather is freezing, the air is dry, and the people are ready for the cool rain of spring to wash away the remnants of winter.
We begin this story with the sound of four individuals navigating the uneven, snowy, and wooded terrain of their most recent call. They follow the red flags tied to tree branches—their only guide to the crime scene.
“It would seem we have six more weeks of winter,” says Brian Zeller, eyes on the ground as he walks. A member of the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit, he acts as a crime scene investigator. He also steps carefully, mindful of patches of ice that might betray him.
In a more nasally tone, his team member replies, “You don’t actually believe in that groundhog superstition, do you?” asks Jimmy Price, fellow investigator and equally cautious as he hauls two heavy equipment cases. “And why am I carrying all the equipment again?” He readjusts his grip and trudges after Zeller.
Behind them walks their boss, Jack Crawford, and the ever-capable Beverly Katz.
“And if I do?” Zeller glances back at Jimmy. “Superstitions are superstitions for a reason, you know.” He huffs, nearly slips, catches himself, and mutters, “And you know my shoulder’s fucked up.”
“Oh, right,” Price rolls his eyes. “The pickleball incident.”
“Hey,” Zeller, the taller of the pair, makes a chopping motion with his hand, “it’s a high-performance sport, okay?”
“I suppose that would make you a high-performance athlete then?” The Jimmy says doubtfully.
“Yes,” Zeller replies flatly. “And you’d understand that if—” But he’s cut off as his feet fly out from under him. He lands with a wet slap on the forest floor, groaning as the air leaves his lungs.
“Ha!” Price laughs where he’s stands.
Katz smirks at the scene in front of her, “don’t worry, I’m sure it happens to Tom Brady all the time,” she mocks.
Crawford, the head of the Behavioral Science Unit, is not nearly as amused. “Are we, or are we not, here to investigate the murder of a mother and child?” The air becomes marginally chillier under Crawford’s gaze.
“Yes, sir,” the three other agents echo, properly chastised.
“Then let’s stop fucking around and get to the damn crime scene.” The large man lumbers past a sprawled Zeller, “and Zeller?” he asks in passing.
“Yes, sir.”
“Get your ass up,” the head agent demands. Price rushes to keep pace with his boss.
“Yes, sir!” Zeller calls, struggling to stand until Katz offers a hand and pulls him up.
“Thanks, Bev,” he says, swiping at his trousers. “What the hell crawled up his ass and died?”
“I heard that!” Jack booms. Zeller winces.
Katz shrugs, she swipes a leaf off the man’s shoulder, “You know the Rippers got him all torn up.” They begin to follow Crawford and Price. The Chesapeake Ripper, the most notorious serial killer in the country. “Jack’s been hunting the guy for two years. Then we maybe catch a break, and we’re pulled away to investigate this? He’s just stressed.”
Zeller guffaws. “The body found in the sewer last week? You have to be joking.” Beverly gives him a look. “No way!” He spins around theatrically, as if searching for a hidden camera. “That John Doe was beat to hell—probably some unlucky transient. Murdered, yeah, but definitely not by the Ripper,” he whispers. “No flair, no display, no missing organs, zero match in M.O.” He shakes his head. “What the hell is Jack thinking?”
“He had Will look at the scene. Said there just wasn’t something right about it. Apparently, the John wasn’t homeless, wasn’t a prostitute, or a drug dealer. His name is Josh Daily—a high-profile news reporter.” Her face bellies her confusion.
“Shit, yeah?” Brian’s earlier disbelief gone in an instant. “What was magic boys take on it?”
She glares at him for the nickname. “Will said the killer made it look like a run-of-the-mill tussle between homeless guys—on purpose. To disguise the kill for what it was.”
“He’s killed before.”
“Yep,” Katz nods. “So, Jack thinks there’s a link to the Ripper. We’ve always figured he was still out there killing.”
“He thinks he’s hiding his bodies in plain sight.” Zeller nods excitedly, “Okay, not crazy!” The man quickens his pace.
Bev huffs a short laugh. “What’s got you in a rush now?”
“Sooner we analyze the scene, the quicker we get back to Baltimore!”
“The Ripper’ll still be there when we get back,” she says—and winces as Zeller’s feet skid on wet leaves.
“Be careful—!”
Zeller lands on his ass with a thump. She sighs, good-natured. “We have got to get you some new shoes, man.”
When they do, finally, arrive on the scene it is a mess.
Agent Jack Crawford stood in the middle of it, red-faced and shouting at a pair of local deputies who looked like they’d rather be anywhere else. He gestures wildly. “And stop stepping on my damn evidence!” he roared over the sound of shuffling boots and aimless motion.
A dozen officers moved without direction, some ducking under caution tape that hadn’t even been secured properly. One eating a sandwich. Another leaned against a tree, looking as though he’d wandered into the woods by mistake. It was chaos—loud, uncoordinated, utterly useless.
The scene itself wasn’t much to look at. Just an old shack—weathered wood, sagging roof, one narrow window and a door that sat slightly off its hinges. The actual house—the main residence—was a mile back the way they came, tucked deep into the property. Out here, the only things to keep you company were cold wind, brittle trees, and the occasional hoot and caw of the local wildlife.
Beverly Katz zipped up her jacket and stepped through the crunchy snow with a sharp exhale. The air bit through even her thickest layers. She didn’t mind. She was used to it—this kind of cold, and this kind of incompetence.
“Finksburg. Population: five,” she muttered to Brian Zeller.
Jimmy Price approached them from the direction of the shack, glancing back at the circus in progress behind him. “Closer to ten thousand, if I had to guess,” he said. “But you wouldn’t know it out here.” He nodded toward the building. Two open equipment cases sat just outside the door, untouched. “Nice of you guys to show up. I set up a station just outside.”
“That was nice of you,” Zeller replied.
Ignoring Zeller, Katz attempts to get to the meat of it. “So, what’s the lowdown?”
Price turned toward the shack, leading the way. “Not too crazy in there. One body. Angela Basset, homeowner. Disemboweled while being hanged.”
“Not too crazy,” Zeller echoed, flat as ice.
Price just shrugged. “Come on, we’ve seen worse.”
They didn’t step inside just yet—just hovered near the entrance, letting their eyes adjust. Inside, it was a single room. Bare-bones. A hunting shack, probably used for overnight trips: window opposite the door, dusty cabinets on the right wall, table and chairs shoved against the left. Nothing cozy about it.
A splash of barely dried blood darkened the threshold.
“Hanged in the door,” Katz said quietly. “Just like the others.”
“Ms. Basset is already at the local morgue,” Price added. “Which Jack is, you know, thrilled about.” They glanced back to where Crawford was still chewing out a young cop who looked close to tears. His voice cracked through the air like a whip. “MO matches those murders in Pennsylvania. Except…no kid. Which is good. And bad.”
“All those Pennsylvania cases—kids were killed too, right? Left in bed?” Katz asked.
Price nodded. “Yeah. This time? Nothing. Local PD says they searched the house and surrounding woods. No sign of her. Living or dead.”
Zeller frowned. “Which could mean it’s not the same guy.”
“Or the kid’s still alive,” Katz offered, crossing her arms.
“But for how long?” Price added. No one had anything useful to add in reply.
They moved quietly for a moment, setting up their equipment and getting a feel for the scene. Zeller adjusted a tripod near the perimeter. Price walked inside, careful not to step where the blood was thickest. Katz turned toward Crawford, who was pacing now, she could see his attempts at even breathing.
On her way to Crawford she passes a local man in a faded camo jacket near the perimeter line. He looked nervous, standing there hugging himself. It’s an awful long way from town, or even the nearest neighbor. Beverly stops to talk to him.
“I knew Angela,” the man said quietly. “She was a nice lady. Just…wasn’t right. Having her up there like that.”
“You saw her,” she nods to the doorway, “up there?”
He coughs, looks disgusted for a moment. “Yeah, I can’t believe anyone would do something like that.”
“We’re going to do everything we can,” Katz replied, “can I get your name and contact information in case I have any questions in the future?” He’s probably just a concerned local but Beverly wouldn’t be good at her job if she let every lead slip past her. So, she takes down his information before continuing towards her boss.
When she did catch up to Crawford, he barely noticed her at first, but when he did, his expression didn’t soften. “Two possibilities,” she said. “First, it’s the same killer. But if that’s the case—why take the girl now when he didn’t before?”
“Maybe she ran,” Crawford said. “Went looking for help.”
“They canvassed the area. Nothing.”
“It’s dense woods out here.”
Katz narrowed her eyes. “Four-year-old girl? She knows how dangerous it is. She’s lived here her whole life.”
“Her mother gets murdered in front of her. Sometimes, you don’t have a choice.”
“No,” Katz said. “Something’s wrong.”
Crawford exhaled hard, fog curling from his mouth. The image of a focused and angry bull.
“Second possibility,” she continued. “Copycat. Someone using the notoriety of the Pennsylvania killer to hide an abduction.”
Crawford gave a humorless smile. “Town this small? If that’s the case—it’s personal.” Katz thinks of the man in the camo, the perfect picture of a saddened friend and neighbor.
A beat passes.
Then, from the shack—
A scream.
Price.