Page 69 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

Rourke’s staring at the smoldering carcass of what used to be a warehouse like it might whisper state secrets if he glares long enough.

He’s got that look again—the one that saysmaybe.

And I hatemaybe.

Maybemeans we’re about to lose a weekend.

Maybemeans paperwork.

“You see a body?” I ask, flipping the folder closed and eyeing the structure.

“Maybe,” Rourke mutters.

I snort. Called it.

“And how is there a maybe-body in all that rubble?”

Before he can answer, a loud thunk echoes through the smoke-thick air.

Two firefighters are inside, wedging a long crowbar beneath something. For a second, I think they’re turning rubble. But no.

They’re working the warehouse’s foundation pad—what’s left of it—and as the slab shifts, a plume of dust explodes upward, dirtying the air with fresh soot and something sharper.

One of the firefighters straightens, waving us over.

“Okay, Lieutenant. Come take a look.”

Rourke sighs like he’s already dreading whatever we’re about to see. We cross the gravel, stepping over a collapsed beam and what might’ve once been a shopping cart.

It hits me before I even kneel.

The smell.

Charred metal and wet ash—familiar enough. But underneath it… copper.

That tang is unmistakable.

The cracked concrete is soaked underneath. A wide, dark smear bleeds outward from a central split, like something tried to claw its way through the floor.

The firefighter crouches beside it, pointing.

“This part of the foundation was shielded from the worst of the heat when the wall came down. But yeah. That’s blood.”

“A lot of it,” I murmur, squinting at the way it seeped. “How fresh?”

“Can’t tell. Fire compromised it. But it was definitely there before the blaze. Heat cooked it deeper.”

Rourke exhales slowly. “That’s too much blood for someone to’ve walked away.”

“You thinking someone was caught in the fire?” I ask, scanning the soot-drenched edges of the foundation.

He shakes his head. “No. I think there was a body here before the fire. Maybe right up until it started.”

I track the blast pattern across the concrete, zeroing in on a char trail leading away from the crack—toward what used to be the loading bay.

“Accelerant was poured, that’s for sure,” I say, nodding toward the black, scorched arc. “Maybe someone tried to burn the body.”

Rourke hums. “Addicts?”

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