Page 28 of Cat and Mouse

"Detective, we've got another one. Looks like the Phantom's work," Officer Bennett's voice crackles through the line. There's a hint of dread in his tone, like he's already bracing for the shitstorm that's about to hit.

"Where?" I ask, already grabbing my coat.

"Suburbs. Nice little house on Maple Street. Victim's wife found him when she came home from picking up their kids. It's… bad, Kane."

"I'm on my way."

I hang up and shove my phone into my pocket as I rush out the door. The city's a blur as I drive, the streets quiet and almost peaceful, which pisses me off even more. Somewhere out there, the Phantom's laughing at us, at me, playing this fucked up game of cat and mouse. But it's not a game. It's real, and people are dying because of it.

When I pull up to the house, the place is already swarming with uniforms. The lights from the patrol cars cast eerie shadows across the lawn, making everything look more sinister than it already is. I spot Bennett near the entrance, talking to a distraught woman who's clutching two young kids to her side.The wife, I'm guessing. She looks like she's barely holding it together.

"Bennett," I call out as I approach, and he turns to me, his expression grim.

"Detective," he greets me, stepping away from the wife and her kids. "The victim's name is Robert Marshall. Forty-two. Accountant. Worked for a mid-sized firm downtown. No priors, no known enemies. From what we can tell, he was a pretty average guy. Wife found him when she got home. Took the kids to friend's house earlier in the evening, came back and found... well, you'll see."

I nod, not really listening to the details. It's the same every time. The Phantom doesn't care about who these people are, what they've done. He picks them at random, or at least that's what it seems like. But there's always a reason. Always a fucking reason.

"Where's the body?" I ask, needing to see the scene for myself.

"Living room," Bennett says, leading the way inside.

The house is painfully normal. Photos of happy family moments line the walls, and there's a faint smell of dinner still lingering in the air. It's the kind of place that screams safety, comfort—until it doesn't.

We reach the living room, and there he is. Robert Marshall, slumped in a recliner, his body a mess of blood and gaping wounds. The sight of him makes my stomach turn, but I don't let it show. I can't. Not here, not now.

"Jeremy's already here," Bennett says, nodding toward the coroner, who's crouched beside the body, examining the wounds with a clinical detachment that I envy.

"Jeremy," I greet him, stepping closer.

"Detective," he replies, not looking up from his work. "He's been dead for less than two hours. Cause of death is pretty obvious—those slashes are deep, precise. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing."

"Any sign of a struggle?" I ask, even though I already know the answer.

Jeremy shakes his head. "None. Looks like he was taken by surprise, maybe even asleep when it happened. We're running the blood through the lab to see if there were any drugs involved, but I doubt it. This guy wasn't fighting back."

"Great," I mutter, glancing around the room. Everything's in its place, nothing out of the ordinary—except for the corpse bleeding out in the middle of it all. But something catches my eye, and I step closer to the body.

Carved into his arm, deep enough to leave permanent scars if he'd lived, are the words, "You're welcome, Verde."

The blood's still fresh, oozing from the letters, and it sends a shiver down my spine that I can't ignore. This isn't just a murder, it's a message. But who the hell is Verde? And why is the Phantom leaving notes now?

"Jeremy, take a look at this," I say, pointing to the words on the arm.

He leans in, squinting at the carvings. "Jesus, what kind of sick bastard...?"

"Yeah, no kidding. What do you make of it?"

Jeremy shrugs, clearly disturbed. "Could be a name, could be a code. Whatever it is, it's not random. The Phantom's trying to tell us something."

"Well, he can go fuck himself," I mutter, straightening up. "Anything else?"

Jeremy reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small folded piece of paper. "Found this in his hand," he says, handing it over to me. "Just a bunch of numbers, though. Doesn't make any sense to me."

I unfold the note, scanning the digits scribbled across the page. 4739 2184 1093. Nothing. It seems random, like everything else about this case. But I know better. There's always a pattern, always a code. The Phantom doesn't leave anything to chance.

I shove the note into my pocket, making a mental note to crack it later. Right now, there's too much to do, too many questions that need answers.

As I'm about to turn away, I spot Mike Russo, my partner, lingering near the doorway. He's been quiet, letting me take the lead, but I can see the concern in his eyes. He knows I'm close to cracking, that this case is getting under my skin in a way that none of the others have.

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