A Gut Feeling

My first impression of her was that she killed twelve people.

The report was dropped on my desk on a foggy Tuesday morning, a centimeter thick and crawling with evidence. Even then, despite all the words against her, I knew something was wrong. Call it what you want- detective’s intuition, a string of fate- it didn’t matter. The proof of her crimes was strong, though something in my gut clenched as I read over the details of the many victims’ demise. The hair so carefully placed, the shoe print so perfectly printed on the rug, the few drops of blood left on the victim’s shirt… all of it damning, yet so out of place at the scene of the crimes.

I was only brought onto cases when finding the perpetrator was nearly impossible- at least, for the rest of the force. This meant that the press loved to press me for details, try to get inside the head of the master detective. Usually, I abode their requests as much as possible. For the first time, I found myself lying to the crowd that took all of my words to heart.

“While I have been working tirelessly to catch the criminal behind these attacks, no significant progress has been made in this investigation.”

I knew they were shocked, devastated even that a criminal had finally managed to outsmart the famous, the brilliant, the ever successful Detective Anderson. The seed of doubt was planted in their mind, doubting my abilities for the first time since I joined the force all those years ago. For once, I didn’t care about the glory or the praise I would receive- I cared about justice. And the girl staring up at me from the report was just as innocent as the previous twelve victims.

Weeks passed after the press conference, and I was no closer to finding the true monster behind the murders, yet the evidence against her seemed to be piling up. After the thirteenth killing, a gruesome thing involving a towel, a kitchen knife, and a suspiciously placed fingerprint, a package appeared outside my apartment door with no shipping label on the outside. All that resided in it was a note.

What are you waiting for?

The letters were printed as if from a computer, with no sign of any human influence on the curve of the letters. I checked for prints or any sign of life, but found nothing. Whoever sent this package was meticulous and careful- just like the criminal I was searching so hard for. I tore the note to pieces and threw it into the garbage, my heart racing and my skin beginning to flush. After endless sleepless nights and careful examinations, the man I had been searching for had been right under my nose, and I hadn’t even noticed.

I picked up the closest item to me- a glass award I received after catching a serial killer two years ago- and chucked it against the wall of my kitchen. The award shattered on impact, sending shards all across the room and into my skin, but I couldn’t find it in me to care. What had I done to deserve an award if I couldn’t catch one measly criminal that came to my door of their own free will?

I stepped onto my balcony, lighting a cigarette and greedily inhaling the smoke. The city was busy as ever beneath me, but the sight didn’t relax me as it usually did. Somewhere out there was the person I was searching for- the truly guilty one behind these killings. The note was good for that, if nothing else. As I watched the cars move below me and allowed the cigarette to burn my fingers, I pondered the information I had so far.

This woman was being framed for the murders, that I was sure of. But it couldn’t be random- no, someone had a reason for framing her so thoroughly. But what could it be? The woman had no history in their databases, no name to her face except for an alias used once by a witness: “Storm.”

No one knew her, or if they did, they did a good job pretending. She was a ghost, the most clever disappearing act the world had ever seen, but I had never been looking for Storm. My sights had always been set on the true perpetrator of the killings. Stubbing out my cigarette, I decided to finally complete the job I was hired for. I would find Storm.

When I arrived at the office the next morning newly rejuvenated, it was to my supervisor standing at my desk wearing a frown I had never been subjected to but witnessed many times. He informed me that due to my lack of progress, they wanted to hand my case over to another organization. Fresh eyes, they said. I resisted, claiming I was on the verge of a breakthrough. I only needed one more week. He sighed, but said he would do his best. I knew that a week was limiting myself, but I couldn’t let anyone else lay their eyes on Storm’s case. No, finding her was my responsibility.

For the first time in my career, I was running out of time.

With all of the evidence burned into my brain, finding the clues I needed to track down Storm was child’s play. By the next evening, I’d traced her location to a run down neighborhood in the South part of town. I was frantic, peaking around every corner and into every alley. Something in me knew she was near, knew how close I was to ending this misery for us both. In the end, I was unable to find her, but she certainly found me. I was alerted that I was being followed by the rhythmic thuds on the roofs above me.

“Storm?” I called, looking up into the darkness between two buildings. Silence. I stepped further into the shadows. “You don’t know who I am, but I know you. You’ve been framed for the murder of thirteen individuals, I know this for a fact. I don’t want to hurt you or arrest you- in fact, I want to catch whoever is doing this. But you have to help me.”

No response. I stared at the roof for a few moments, almost imagining the outline of someone standing at the edge, looking down at me. When I blinked, it was gone.

“You’re wrong,” a voice said from behind. I spun around, spotting a girl leaned against the edge of the alley just behind him. “About me not knowing who you are.”

“Oh?” I couldn’t help myself, grinning slightly at her praise.

“You’re the one tasked to find me. Dead or alive, right? That’s what they said after the thirteenth kill.” Her voice was low, unlike any I had heard before. Her black hair was tied back, almost making her blend into the night in combination with her dark clothes.

“Yes. But I know it wasn’t you.”

“How are you so sure? How do I know this isn’t a ploy?” She stepped forward, and I saw her face in person for the first time. It was nothing like in the pictures I’d studied- no, they couldn’t capture the curve of her brow, the softness of her skin, the way her lips pinched when she talked.

A second too late, I realized I was staring.

“I… the evidence was planted.” She raised a brow. “Your blood, it wasn’t splattered anywhere else or found on any weapon or any part of the victim. Your hair was only found in one place on the victim’s clothes, and only one shoe print was found, and it was flawless. Nothing is that easy to find.”

“I was.”

“You weren’t.” I wanted to mention the other failed detectives, how none of them were able to track her down with such ease, but that felt like the wrong thing to say.

“You found me,” I decided. Her lips quirked up, and I knew that I had her.

Getting back to my apartment would have taken too long, so Storm led me through a series of winding alleys into a shabby room behind a bar.

“There aren’t many places to hide when you’re being man hunted,” she defended, shrugging off her jacket and tossing it into a chair, though I spotted flush growing up her neck.

“I think it’s grand.” She rolled her eyes and I felt myself grinning again.

“How did you know I was framed?” She asked.

“Like I told you, the evidence was all wrong. I’ve seen lots of crime scenes, I know what a fake set up looks like.”

“Then why find me at all?”

“Because I need to know who’s really behind it. Who would go through all of this to get you in trouble?”

She settled back in her chair, chewing anxiously at a spot on her thumb. As I looked closer, I could see the spot had already been abused.

“Her name is Harley. We went to the same high school. We started out as friends, best friends, even,” she said, the words leaving her mouth as a spit. “She was smart. Like, Ivy League smart. She wanted to be a detective or a police officer, something like that. Probably could have done better than you, even.”

“Why didn’t she?”

“Because I… I caught her harassing another girl in the bathrooms. It was horrible- the girl was covered in scratch marks and bruises…” she trailed off now picking at the same spot on her thumb with her other hand. I reached out, stopping her as the mark started to bleed.

“You don’t have to say,” I whispered.

She nodded, shaking her head as if willing the memory away. “Either way, it was sickening. I reported it to the Dean, the girl testified, and she was expelled, forced out for life. I graduated, moved here right after, got a job in the shitty part of town since no one would hire me, and I worked my way up to an okay apartment with the good locks on the windows.”

“Then the murders started,” I assumed.

She nodded slowly. “At first, I thought nothing of it. For the first few, nothing connected me to them. Or if they did, no one caught it. Then one morning I wake up and picture of me is plastered on the morning news. I remember when it was- I had left work late that night and left out the back door. But somehow, they got it in their heads that I had just killed someone. They never knew my name, but they found a better picture… and here we are.”

“We only knew you were called Storm,” I said, leaning forward on my knees. “You weren’t in our system, so your DNA and your footprints didn’t match to anything. All we had was your face and a nickname from a witness.”

“Storm,” she whispered. “I haven’t heard that name in awhile.”

“Where’s it from?”

“My name is Skylar. In high school, everyone called me Storm after a stupid article got published about some record I broke in softball,” she explained.

“So the witness knew you in high school?”

She blinked. “I… guess so?”

I dug into my pocket, pulling out my phone and opening the many files I had been sent on her case. In only a few moments, I found what I was looking for.

“Does she look familiar?”

Skylar squinted at the screen before nodding hesitantly. “Yes, yeah… we were in the same district, we played each other in sports, but I was never really close with her. Amy, her name was?”

“Yeah, Amy. Could she be connected to Harley?”

“I guess, but why would Harley have a witness tell them my nickname? She could report me herself and have me sent to prison.”

I stood, pacing the small space between the door and the bed. “Because she wants your face everywhere. She wanted you to become famous and be humiliated just like that girl was. With this last murder, you’re face is officially everywhere.”

“Yeah, I’m aware,” she said flatly, motioning to their dingy surroundings.

“If we find Harley, we can get her to confess and clear your name. But we have to do it soon.”

“Why? Either way, I have to hide out in here.”

“Because if I don’t bring someone in within the week, they’re sending out a specialized team to bring you in,” I revealed.

Her face fell, and she once again began picking at the skin of her thumb.

“Hey, stop that,” I said, crouching in front of her and grabbing her hands. “Do you trust me?”

She seemed to study my face, eyeing the serious set of my jaw and the determined look in my eyes.

“Do you trust me?” I repeated.

“Yes. I trust you.”

Despite the situation, I couldn’t help but smile. “Good. Will you come with me?”

“I will,” she said, more determined now.

I stood, pulling her up with me, and led her through the door.

“Wait,” she said, hesitating at the threshold. “I have a question.”

“Hit me.”

“How did you find me?”

I laughed, tugging her past the door frame.

“A gut feeling, I suppose.”