GHOST DETECTIVE

The Fifth

Rain pelted the crime scene like angry fingers drumming on metal. Blue tarps flapped in the wind as officers secured the perimeter, but nothing could block out the rot. 

The body had been found in an abandoned lot near the edge of the city—no theatrics this time, no public display. Just dumped, as if in a hurry.

Inside the forensics tent, the air was heavy with the stench of soaked earth and the sterile tang of chemicals.

Dr. Holt pulled the zipper down and paused.

The body was twisted, bruised, but not butchered like the others. 

No ritualistic signs. 

No bones cracked into symbols. No grotesque messages carved into the skin. Just a dead man, throat slit, eyes open wide in horror.

The team worked quickly. Samples, photos, fluid tests.

"We got something," one of the techs called. "Running it through now."

The printer hummed to life a few minutes later. A photo. A name. A file.

"William Krane," Dr. Holt read aloud. "Thirty-five. Warehouse worker. Has a record—small-time theft, nothing violent. Missing for two days."

There was a pause.

"Wait," Holt said, frowning. "That was fast. Too fast."

Laura nodded slowly. "Like it was meant to be found."

Holt leaned over the table. The man's hands were intact. No signs of defensive wounds. And under his fingernails—perfectly clean.

"He didn't fight," Holt whispered. "Or he was dead before he could."

Then he noticed it.

A faint mark. A small, faint brand just behind the ear. Circular, almost burned in. He snapped on a fresh glove and looked closer.

"This isn't from the others," he muttered. "This is different."

The branding was too precise. Too clean. And it was new.

Something intentional.

Something that said: I did this. But this one doesn't belong to them.

In the distance, under the dim streetlights, a woman watching the crime scene from behind a fogged car window dialed a number. Her voice was cold.