"Didn't you realize an entire family was being murdered?"
Ariana and the security guard looked at each other and shook their heads.
This residential community was a very quiet place, so only one community security guard was needed each night.
As a guard, his job was to report any vehicles passing by during the night and to notify the authorities of any irregularities that might affect the neighborhood.
This particular guard, named Mike, was one of the many who volunteered for the job. Though he admitted he mostly did it for the lunch money.
Despite being a community job, Mike became interested when he found out he could earn money for one night a week. Plus, he could cover shifts for others who had last-minute issues.
That's why he claimed he made an effort to do things right. As part of his inspection routine, between 11:30 and 12:00, he would walk around the outside of each house and check that everything looked as normal as any other night.
If he didn't see a light on, spot a strange vehicle, or notice anything clearly out of place, he wouldn't act.
This night had been as ordinary as any other. He could even swear he hadn't heard a single sound.
According to Beverly, the surveillance cameras were currently under maintenance, but checking those outdated cameras was useless. With today's technology, identifying the killer would be nearly impossible.
There were purple vines planted along the walls on both sides of the community. It was far too dark, and everything was hard to see. Not to mention that even if something had been caught on camera, it would be of little use.
"Why would they plant so many things around here if they thought a night guard was necessary?"
"This is my fault. I should've prevented all this…" Mike murmured, visibly shaken.
Ariana tried to console him, but of course, words only do so much.
"Let's go take a look at the scene."
Larry had gathered enough information, so he and Max put on their inspection uniforms and walked onto the lawn, carrying boxes.
With Beverly leading the way, they reached the first crime scene and found the boy lying on his back, dead and covered in blood.
This blood hadn't come from a fall.
Instead, the wound was on the neck. The left side of the boy's neck had been slashed from bottom to top. The cut was so deep that the cervical vertebrae were exposed, though some skin and flesh still held together.
Larry took a deep breath as he glanced at the photographer, whose hands trembled while taking the picture.
"For God's sake... Not even the child was spared. What kind of deep hatred drives someone to this?" Though Max felt a strange mix of nervousness and adrenaline, he didn't let it interfere with his work. He immediately began taking pictures to document the scene accurately.
Seeing the grave expression on Larry's face, Max realized his superior's emotions were just as intense as his own. At that moment, the only thing they could do for the victims was to uncover the truth. Finding the killer would be the only justice they could offer the dead.
Larry crouched beside the small body and inspected the skull, which showed slight deformation. When he touched it, there was a dry crackling sound—fractured bones rubbing together.
"No subcutaneous bruising... this happened after death."
It was clear the body had fallen from the upper floor. However, although the fall occurred post-mortem, the impact on the ground must have made a considerable noise.
Unless it was very early in the morning and everyone nearby was deeply asleep, a noise like that would be hard to miss... even for a security guard.
"This is..." Beverly began to explain what she knew, but Larry cut her off with a firm voice:
"We're done here. Let's go inside."
Max motioned to the forensic team waiting behind them to place the body in a bag.
As he watched them line up the corpses on stretchers, Max's eyelids trembled slightly. It was the first time he had ever witnessed such a gruesome scene. Undoubtedly, this case would place itself among the darkest and most brutal files in the FBI's history.
Max quickened his pace to catch up with Larry, who had stopped in the hallway.
Following his superior's gaze, he noticed several bloody footprints on the floor. But these weren't the usual patterns left by shoe soles: they were smooth, flat—like those made by the protective booties worn at crime scenes.
The prints stretched from the entrance to a landing and then vanished. The only thing left was the mark of a bloody glove on the window sill, standing out eerily against the white wall.
"The killer is highly skilled at avoiding detection," Larry said in an analytical tone, then thought to himself, "Wearing gloves is common, but using shoe covers... that's unusual."
While speaking, he opened his toolkit.
"You may proceed," Beverly said, attentively overseeing the scene.
Larry nodded and climbed the stairs. There were no signs of forced entry. Upon entering, the first thing he found was a small foyer.
Next to the shoe rack lay the body of a young woman, curled against the wall, her head tilted slightly. The scene was as silent as it was disturbing. She was wearing a red nightgown. A large, arched bloodstain, along with numerous droplets scattered on the wall, was immediately striking.
However, what stood out the most was the strange posture of the corpse. When someone is gravely wounded or dying, it's unlikely they would consciously position their body in such a way.
Unless the killer had restrained the victim, covered her mouth, slit her throat, and then gently laid the body on the ground... What would be the point of going to such lengths?
To avoid alerting the others?
She was in her pajamas and had been attacked right at the entrance. Did that mean the killer knocked on the door and she knew him? Or did she simply trust him?
Larry stepped forward and examined the wound on her neck. The slash, from left to right, was identical to the boy's on the floor below. The killer had acted without hesitation, with lethal precision. If it was someone close to her, it could only mean one thing: he harbored deep resentment.
A large pool of blood had formed on the entryway floor, with the woman's body lying directly in the center.
Larry moved forward and stepped on the inspection panel to enter the main room.
The scene that unfolded before his eyes was heartbreaking.
The heavy stench of blood filled the air and was nearly unbearable.
Larry slightly pulled down his mask to catch his breath and inhaled deeply twice. As a forensic doctor, he was used to seeing one or two corpses at a scene, but what lay before him surpassed everything: four bodies, sprawled on the floor and over the couch. The visual impact was overwhelming.
There was blood everywhere: on the tiles, the walls, the furniture, the windows, and the sliding doors. A massacre, plain and simple.
In the armchair sat an older man, still staring upward, just like the woman at the entrance. His neck had been cleanly slit with a sharp weapon.
The couch and the coffee table were splattered with blood, and a pool had formed beneath the mahogany sofa, soaking the upholstery.
On the three-seater couch lay an elderly woman, also with her throat slit.
This time, the body was face down. Only a few drops of blood had reached the backrest, while two small puddles had formed beneath her face and on the floor. Most of the blood had soaked into the red satin cushion. On the floor, the accumulation was minimal.
Behind the couch, facing the entrance, a woman lay with her head pointing toward the stairs, as if she had tried to climb them. She had been stabbed in the back before she could make it.
The wound was precise, surgical. Even so, such a clean stab revealed details about the weapon used.
Larry quickly grabbed the round-tipped probe and carefully inserted it into the wound. The depth exceeded the length of the instrument.
Moreover, the penetration channel had a slight curve to the left.
Larry was momentarily perplexed. The blade of the weapon was curved… and the extraction involved a twisting motion.
The internal damage was less severe than the surface wound, which indicated a high level of skill. The killer had executed a precise and controlled technique. Too professional.
Once he had inspected the central area, Larry moved to the intersection between the stairs and the kitchen.
There lay the body of a young man.
Upon seeing it, the photographer—the same one who had been trembling earlier—was so startled he nearly dropped the equipment case he was carrying.
"This is so tragic..."
Beverly, who had always believed Larry had no emotions, changed her mind at that moment. Even she was deeply affected.
"Brutally attacked, no technique... just hate."
"I reached the same conclusion. Although there are signs of a struggle, he stood no chance against his attacker," Beverly said with a speculative tone.
"Yes, this person seems to have tried to defend himself, but he was no match for the killer. You can clearly see defensive wounds on his hands and head. His neck and upper limbs are covered in cuts and slashes."
"He has stab wounds all over his body: the abdomen, the chest... and the most severe one is on his face. Nearly the entire face was torn apart, only a thin layer of skin holding it to the skull."
The sliding glass door behind him was covered in bloodstains that spread across a wide area.
Larry had a few ideas swirling in his mind and headed upstairs.
He wanted to see from where the child had fallen. On the third floor, there were no open windows or furniture nearby. A three-year-old couldn't have climbed up on his own, so he could only have been on the fourth floor.
He climbed the creaky wooden stairs.
The shocking blood footprints continued up to the upper floor, and there was even a long smear of blood on the wall.
Larry nearly ran up the stairs. The door at the top was wide open, and clear bloodstains were visible on the bed.
The windowsill, the glass, the walls, the curtains, and the white sheets were all covered in droplets of blood of various sizes.
The window screen had been torn. It had probably happened when the child fell backward after being slashed, and the screen couldn't bear his weight, breaking into pieces.
Upon seeing the gaping hole in the window, flapping in the wind, everyone felt as though their hearts shattered into pieces.