I have never seen anything like this. Looking around at the crime scene, I take mental pictures of everything, along with physical evidence pictures. I take note of the surroundings: sterile white furniture and walls, the only color in the space is the deep red blood on the floor, how the girl's blood is only in one spot to show no struggle, lack of murder weapon, as well as the near OCD cleanliness of the room. I watched as the forensics team took away a small white body bag. What was I going to tell the family? How could I possibly tell them that their child was taken from them too soon?

Looking at my partner Tom, I asked, “Are you thinking what I'm thinking?”

“Yeah, I think so.” He responded sadly. We begin to explore all the details of the crime scene. While getting a closer look at the bloody footprints found around the body, all I can think is how the little girl was no older than 10, just 10 years old and already dead. We don't get to

know who she was. I do unfortunately know, she will never graduate, never get married, never have a child with her husband. So much life to live cut short. In my 10 years as a homicide detective this is the youngest victim I have yet to see. I tell myself I need to get my mind back into the crime scene. I have to bring justice to this little girl's family. To the little girl. 

My partner noticed a short black hair in the mixture of all the blood. This brought my focus back to the scene. The little girl had long thick blonde hair. Nothing remotely close to that in the blood. My walkie talkie goes off with a report, “We have a 187 southbound on 92 highway.” Tom and I look at eachother; that's the call location for a homicide. Another one in less than 24 hours. I’m hoping there is no connection, a serial killer with such little break in

between kills, means they might have suffered a mental break. Who knows what they could do next. Tom signals for one of the crime scenes analysts to bag the hair as evidence. Tom and I leave for the new scene. I need a break from this horrific scene in front of us, seeing such a young victim, is getting to me. We leave the scene in complete silence mentally processing and analyzing what we just inspected. I was hoping that call was going to give us that needed break, but to our dismay as we are pulling I’m starting to believe that's not the case. 

I note the scene so far is an old white house with a little bit of land. All perfectly clean

and crisp white on the outside and perfectly trimmed yard. Just like the crime scene I just left. We see ambulances, police cars, and fire trucks. Rushing out of the car I ran to find my Sargent. On my way to find her I stopped in front of the front door and looked inside. There was once again a white body bag being taken out and a couple of people were taking evidence pictures. The scene looks all too familiar. My earlier thought of a serial killer pops up. Looking away from the scene I see Sargent.

“What happened here?” I ask.

“Parents found their daughter here and called right away. She was stabbed just like the victim from before.” He stated

“Who’s house is it?” I question. 

“It’s hers. The parents went out to lunch with friends and left her home alone. They have solid alibis we checked.” 

“Okay, What was the victim's hair color?”

“Blonde, why?” Sargent Asked

“The last victim also had blonde hair. This is close to the same house of the last victim, and their ages are similar. I dare say we have a serial killer on our hands with such similar ritualistic victims.” I stated.

“Alright we’ll have people get on this ASAP. It seems we have a serial killer. Get the fingerprints from both scenes back to M-Tac.” Sargent barked at everyone around. I begin

collecting evidence, searching with hope we will find anything to help us catch the killer.

Time Jump:

It’s been five years since the crimes. Five long cold desperate years. We have found nothing. The killer had taken 2 more victims, the same as the last. The black hair that we thought we had a lead on ended up to be a wig. People say I've gone crazy but they just don't understand the desperate need to find the murderer. My partner has given up on the killings but I can’t; I have to find him even if it's the death of me. I go to check on the families of the victims once a while and something is off about them I can tell. They filed a restraining order against me so I don’t find their secrets. I just know it.