Chapter 6: Ashes and Lilies

After the case wrapped, I didn’t hear from Marcus for months—until he called me out for drinks. Over beers at O’Malley’s, I asked, “Is the case really closed?”

We sat in a corner booth, the clink of glasses and hum of the crowd a small comfort. Marcus nursed his beer, eyes glued to the condensation sliding down the bottle.

“Closed. The ring’s gone. Brody and Nick—they were both taken out by the same people. But that bastard got off easy—just financial crimes. He’ll probably get life, but that’s it.”

His voice was bitter, raw. The injustice gnawed at him, and I felt it too—a sense that the story wasn’t really over.

I got it. The ring was gone, but the real monster slipped through the cracks.

I took a long sip, the beer suddenly tasting sour. Some victories just leave you empty.

Then Marcus slid an A4 sheet across the table—names written in neat rows: "John Park, Alex Wu, Nathaniel Carter..." I recognized them right away—they were last year’s serial disembowelment victims.

My breath caught. Those names were burned into my memory.

“They were all part of the organ ring,” Marcus said quietly.

The revelation hit like a sledgehammer. The cases were connected—every string tied back to the same rotten core.

I sat there, stunned—the two cases were one and the same.

I leaned back, trying to process it all. Months of chasing shadows, and it all led here.

“I never understood why the killer removed the victims’ organs,” Marcus went on. “Now I do. He was taking revenge.”

His voice was heavy, the words thick with regret and sleepless nights. The truth was worse than we’d ever guessed.

“You want to reopen the serial disembowelment case?” I asked. Marcus’s silence was all the answer I needed.

He stared at the list, jaw set, and I knew he wasn’t letting go—not until he got the whole truth.

A year and a half ago, a serial killer terrorized Maple Heights. Over two months, seven people were murdered—sedated, organs removed, left to bleed out. Six were medical staff; the seventh, a gangster. The killer left nothing behind, and the case went cold.

The details flooded back—crime scene photos, medical reports, families in pieces. The killer was a ghost, always one step ahead.

With this new lead, Marcus reopened the case. Short on manpower, he was the only detective assigned. I got my editor’s blessing to keep covering—and, in a way, investigating—the case with him.

We took over a corner of the station, files stacked everywhere, coffee cups breeding like rabbits. It was exhausting, but neither of us could quit.

We combed through files, looking for suspects among the victims’ families. One night, half asleep, I noticed a photo of a little girl on an operating table. Something about her face—a tiny tear-shaped mole under her eye. I checked my phone and found an old family photo of David Alvarez with his wife and daughter—the same mole.

My heart pounded as I compared the pictures. It was her—no question.

“Marcus, I think I found something...” I managed.

He checked the photos, then sprang into action. We drove to David’s hometown, arriving at dawn to find his family holding a funeral—he’d killed himself, and it was the seventh day since his death.

The house was hushed, the air heavy with sorrow. Relatives gathered in the living room, faces drawn and exhausted. The finality was suffocating.

A man in a suit approached, introducing himself as David’s lawyer. He handed us a sealed letter from David.

The lawyer’s voice was soft, respectful. He pressed the envelope into Marcus’s hand, then stepped back, giving us space.

The letter read:

Detective Reed, Mr. Turner:

By the time you read this, you must have traced everything to me. Yes, I am the serial disembowelment killer you’ve sought for over a year. I know my crimes are grave, and I am ashamed to face you. Let me tell my story this way.

On August 8, 2008, my daughter Sofia was born. My wife and I both had stable jobs—I thought happiness had begun. But it lasted less than six years. On June 12, 2014, Sofia disappeared. We searched everywhere, reported to the police, sought help online, but found nothing. Many children vanished in Maple Heights then. I formed the Child Search Support Group, hoping for help through publicity. But before Mr. Turner’s interview, I learned through a channel that my daughter had been abducted by an organ trafficking ring, cut open alive, all her usable organs taken.

To avenge her, I infiltrated the ring as their chief surgeon, gathering evidence of their crimes for years. The more I saw, the more horrifying it was. In 2017, my wife died of grief. I never told her our daughter was already dead.

After her death, I left the hospital, opened a small clinic, and studied criminal investigation every night. My goal: to kill my enemies and avenge my daughter. A year later, I killed the seven people directly responsible—six medical staff and one trafficker. I cut them open, taking from them what was taken from my daughter.

Afterward, I prepared to destroy the entire ring. I used the counter-kill case to draw your investigation to them. When you were stuck, I provided clues. Now, the ring is gone. My revenge is complete, but my hands are stained with blood. With no family left, only death awaits me.

Detective Reed, Mr. Turner, farewell forever.

David Alvarez

The letter was written in a steady hand, the words measured but raw with pain. I read it twice, my throat tight, vision blurring at the edges.

After reading, I was overwhelmed—David Alvarez was both a criminal and a tragic victim. He was the Seeker of Justice. Marcus and I had become part of his revenge, but I didn’t feel anger—just helplessness and sorrow.

We stood in silence, the truth pressing down on us. There were no easy answers—only the realization that justice is never simple.

Before leaving, Marcus and I left lilies at David’s grave. We couldn’t judge him—not really.

The cemetery was quiet, the grass damp with dew. An American flag fluttered near the marble bench. We stood for a long time, heads bowed, flowers trembling in our hands. It wasn’t forgiveness, but it was something close.

Back in Maple Heights, Marcus filed a brief closing report on the serial disembowelment case. I slept for days, trying to claw back some sense of normal. When I finally booted up my computer to organize my case files, a new email appeared. It contained only a photo—of Marcus and me leaving flowers at David’s grave. The sender: Seeker of Justice.

I stared at the screen, the image burning into my mind. For a long moment, I just sat there, heart pounding, wondering who was still watching—and what they wanted next. The city outside went on like always, but I knew nothing would ever be the same again.