John sat on a dark-brown wooden bench, waiting for Mia. Fragments of his conversation with the detective were still flickering in his mind.
"Staying this close to them is dangerous. I need to limit our meetings. At least I know how little they know about me… for now."
His thoughts were cut short by a familiar voice:
"Hey, John, been waiting long?"
"No, not really. Just a couple of minutes," he replied, lifting a calm gaze to her. "Got delayed at the professor's. What's the plan?"
Mia paused for a moment, as if sorting through options, then suggested grabbing a bite at a nearby café. John simply nodded—calm, composed, as though he had already rehearsed this moment in his mind.
They walked to a small corner café, its fogged-up windows glowing with soft golden light. After ordering burgers and coffee, they went back to light conversation—little things, the previous day, classes. Mia laughed now and then; John answered in short, measured phrases, listening more than speaking.
The air smelled of fresh bread, roasted coffee beans, and something else—warm, domestic, almost comforting. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to sink into that normality.
But somewhere in the depths of his mind, the cold calculation remained. A reminder.
Meanwhile, on the other side of Chicago, a similar scene was about to unfold—only calling it "light conversation" would've been far from accurate.
Mark, after several exhausting days spent searching for a needle in a haystack, still hadn't found anything he could hold on to. Days dissolved in endless interviews with people who happened to be near the crime scene. It all turned into routine: the same questions—person to person, and the same answers. No one saw anything, no one heard anything.
In a city as large as Chicago, finding a witness who actually pays attention to their surroundings is nearly impossible. People live in constant rush—chasing work, time, money. They simply don't have the capacity to notice what happens beside them.
Now Mark was sitting in a small diner by the window overlooking a busy street. Outside, passersby blurred past, a few cars rolled by, and neon signs shimmered faintly. Mark wrapped his hands around a warm cup of coffee, as if trying to draw some calmness from it, and drifted into thought. He didn't even notice someone approaching his table.
A middle-aged man now stood before him. Short dark—maybe chestnut or light brown—hair combed neatly back. Faint wrinkles around the eyes and across the forehead matched his age. Near the crown, a slight thinning was visible.
Mark hesitated only for a fraction of a second, then stood and greeted the visitor.
"Hello, Frank. How was the trip?" he asked, his voice hoarse and tired.
"Mark, long time no see," Lundy said with a faint grin. "I'm used to it by now: wherever the FBI goes, long drives and awful coffee follow."
"Please, sit. I didn't order anything—I wasn't sure what you'd want. Let's eat first. I know you like to be fed before we dive into the case," Mark said, gesturing to the seat across from him.
They ordered sandwiches and, while eating, exchanged ordinary, almost mundane small talk. But beneath that surface lay a heaviness: Mark worn out by the case, Frank worn out by travel.
About ten minutes later, once they finished and silence settled between them, Mark was the first to break it.
"Any news, Frank? I've got nothing. Commissioner Lassard is sharpening his claws and will tear my throat out any day now."
"Before that," Frank leaned in slightly, "I need to see the case files, Mark. I think what you sent before… isn't the full set, right?"
Mark had already prepared the additional documents for the "Jigsaw" case—the folder was on the seat beside him. Hearing the request, he picked it up and handed it over:
"Can't say there's anything new or significant in there, nothing I didn't already send you. But here it is—everything we've collected."
Frank took the folder and, noticing how thin it was, shot Mark a strange look. Mark caught it, frowned, and said:
"This is all we have, Frank. I told you—we're at a dead end on every front. Not a single lead."
The agent opened the folder. The first thing he saw was photographs of the mechanism that appeared at the very start of the case: the "reverse bear trap." The shots in different angles showed metal, straps, clamps, structural details.
"You know, Mark," Frank said as he flipped through them, "the first thought I had when I saw this device… Serial killers usually kill for the sake of killing. But this—this is too elaborate. Too much effort… just for someone to die? I've never seen a signature like this."
Mark's expression dimmed.
"So… he's a new serial killer? But how?" He struck the table with his fist, then quickly pulled himself together. "We found nothing at the crime scenes. Absolutely nothing! No fingerprints, no shoe prints, no hair, no saliva. Nothing!"
He almost growled the last word. A few customers turned to look. Realizing it, Mark sighed and continued more quietly:
"This can't be the work of a beginner."
Frank watched him calmly, almost sympathetically.
"Mark, you have to understand. Serial killers don't think like regular people. This one isn't killing for pleasure—at least not in the usual sense. He puts victims in situations where they can survive… if they're willing to sacrifice part of themselves."
He paused, choosing his words carefully.
"Psychologically, he's cold, rational, fanatically committed to his philosophy. He sees himself as a teacher, not a murderer. No emotions. Speaks calmly, logically. And he believes his actions are morally justified."
Frank flipped through a few more documents.
"He's meticulous, methodical. Plans ahead, thinks through every step. He has an engineering mind and excellent perception. He can read people. I'm certain he rehearsed these mechanisms for years before using them on anyone."
He paused again, then went on:
"A turning point in life could've triggered him. A divorce, a firing, a death of someone close. Something that pushed him off balance. He carried this for years… and finally snapped."
Mark said nothing, staring out the window. People outside walked past—each rushing somewhere, lost in their own small worries. Chicago lived, breathed, buzzed… and remained blind to what unfolded in its dark corners.
Returning from his thoughts, Mark looked at Frank.
"So, to sum up. He's a highly intelligent, methodical, emotionally restrained man of middle or older age. Avoids direct contact with his victims, operates through complex mechanical devices. Prefers distance and total control. Not impulsive. Doesn't seek to witness death."
Mark continued, as if reading from memory:
"Sees himself as a moral arbiter. Punishes, doesn't simply kill. Believes his victims deserve their trial. A fanatic.
Likely has a technical or engineering background.
Self-confident, remorseless.
Fond of symbols and messages.
Extremely cautious.
Plans ahead, avoids mistakes."
Frank nodded.
"Exactly. Based on the data you provided, that's the profile. And you need to understand, Mark: my hands are tied for now. Officially, I can't help you. I've done the maximum I can… for the moment. But it won't last. People like him don't stop on their own."
He lifted his gaze.
"Expect a third body, Mark."