"He's not there. Be careful out there," Ray warned over the phone.
Scott ended the call just as he and Stephanie pulled up to the target location—a remote, silent compound nestled behind withered brush and a rusting gate. No lights. No signs of life.
They moved in quietly. Scott shattered the back window with the butt of his revolver, slipped through the frame, and landed inside with a low grunt. Stephanie followed, light on her feet.
Inside, it was dark and deathly still. Dust blanketed the furniture like a forgotten tomb.
Scott raised his revolver and moved with precision, Stephanie just behind him. They crept down a narrow hallway, the floorboards barely creaking beneath their weight.
As they pushed into the master bedroom, a sharp, chemical stench hit them like a wave.
"Jesus," Stephanie muttered, coughing into her sleeve.
The smell was unmistakable—formalin. Thick in the air, clinging to everything. It reeked of death preserved in time.
Then they saw it.
A lifeless body lay on the bed, perfectly still, skin pale and rubbery. Preserved. As if death itself had been put on pause.
Scott covered his nose and grimaced. "What the hell…"
Stephanie bolted out of the room, stumbling through the hall and into the front yard. She dropped to her knees and vomited, shaking.
Scott stared at the body. His eyes widened as the pieces clicked together.
It was Thomas Andrew.
Minutes later, flashing lights bathed the compound in blue and red. The forensic team got to work, setting up equipment and snapping photos. Ray and Frank arrived shortly after, already pulling on gloves and crime scene gear.
Scott joined them in the bedroom. "Mask up. Don't touch anything."
Ray scanned the room, muttering, "Place feels like a damn morgue."
Outside, Stephanie leaned against the squad car, still pale and trembling. She'd seen bodies before. But not like this. Not frozen like a wax figure—emotionless, preserved, lifeless in a way that screamed something deeper.
Inside, cameras clicked endlessly. Forensics combed every inch, brushing for prints, collecting fibers, photographing the grotesque scene.
Outside the perimeter, the circus had already begun—reporters crowding the gates, shoving mics at officers, trying to snap photos through gaps in the fencing.
Scott ignored it all.
A few hours later, the team was back at the precinct.
"You okay?" Scott asked, stopping just before they entered.
Stephanie hesitated. "I… I'm sorry for earlier."
"You don't need to apologize."
"I've seen dead bodies before, but this one… it just felt different."
Scott gave a slow nod. "It was different."
She looked up at him. "How do you get used to this?"
Scott gave a dry chuckle. "You don't."
Stephanie blinked.
"There's no getting used to it," he continued. "You just learn to focus."
"And how do I do that?" she asked, voice softer now.
He looked her dead in the eye. "By remembering one thing—catch the bastard who did it."
She nodded, lips pressed tight. "I'll try."
"Good. That's all I need."
Back inside, Frank waved them over.
"Forensic report just came through."
"Let me see it," Scott said, reaching for the file.
He scanned it quickly, then handed it to Stephanie.
She read the top line and froze. "The body's been confirmed… It was Thomas Andrew."
"This just keeps getting crazier," she muttered.
Ray leaned over her shoulder. "Wait—if Andrew's been dead all this time… who the hell did Jerry talk to?"
"Could he have lied?" Ray asked.
Scott shook his head. "No. We have other witnesses. All of them gave the same description—same face, same voice. That wasn't a coincidence."
Frank, deadpan: "So what, a ghost?"
Everyone turned and looked at him.
Scott exhaled. "No. A mask."
"A prosthetic mask?" Stephanie asked, wide-eyed.
"Exactly. Hyper-realistic. The military's used 'em. So have criminals."
"Why the hell didn't I think of that?" Ray said, running a hand through his hair.
The room went quiet—until the fax machine beeped again.
Scott pulled the fresh page from the tray. His eyes skimmed over the results.
A new name.
"Damien Quinn."
He handed it off to Stephanie, who read it aloud. Frank was already typing furiously.
"You got anything?" Scott asked him.
"Yeah. Pulling it up now."
Frank threw the profile on the main screen in the conference room.
"Damien Quinn. Former military police. Honorably discharged last year… well, sort of. Deemed mentally unfit after a psychiatric evaluation."
Ray scowled. "A military cop… Great."
"Family?" Scott asked.
"Parents still alive. But get this—he lost his wife and two kids in a house fire last year. Total loss. Right after that, he was evaluated and discharged."
Frank paused. "Also… he was close friends with Thomas Andrew. Real close."
Scott's jaw tightened.
Stephanie shook her head. "That explains how he slid into his life so easily. No one ever suspected a thing."
Scott stared at the screen, his voice like gravel.
"He didn't just take the man's name… He took his life."