The attack

The night air was cool and crisp as Emily walked briskly through the empty park. She loved this route; it was peaceful and a perfect way to unwind after a long day at work. Her footsteps echoed softly on the paved path, mingling with the distant hum of the city. She pulled her jacket tighter around her, shivering slightly.

 She glanced at her phone, checking the time. It was later than she thought. The park's lampposts cast long, eerie shadows, and she quickened her pace. The feeling of being watched crept up on her, but she shook it off, attributing it to an overactive imagination.

 Suddenly, she heard a twig snap behind her. Emily spun around, her heart racing. The path was empty. She laughed nervously, turning back towards the exit. Her relief was short-lived when she heard the footsteps again, this time faster, closer.

 Panic surged through her veins as she broke into a run. She didn't dare look back. Her breaths came in quick, shallow gasps, her feet pounding against the ground. She turned a corner, hoping to find someone, anyone, but the park was deserted.

 The footsteps were right behind her now. A hand clamped down on her shoulder, yanking her back. Emily screamed, but the sound was swallowed by the night. She struggled, kicking and clawing at her attacker, but he was too strong. The last thing she saw was the glint of a knife before everything went dark.

 The next morning, the park was bathed in the soft glow of dawn. Joggers and dog walkers were beginning to fill the paths. It was Mrs. Jenkins, an elderly woman out for her morning stroll with her golden retriever, who found Emily.

 The dog tugged on the leash, barking frantically at a cluster of bushes near the path. Mrs. Jenkins frowned, trying to pull him away, but the dog was insistent. With a sigh, she followed his lead, peering into the undergrowth. Her eyes widened in horror at the sight before her.

 "Dear God," she whispered, her hand flying to her mouth. She backed away, fumbling for her phone. Her fingers trembled as she dialed 911, her voice shaking as she spoke to the dispatcher. Within minutes, the park was swarming with police officers, the area cordoned off with bright yellow tape.

 Curious onlookers gathered, murmuring among themselves. A jogger who had been passing by stopped to see what the commotion was about. He approached Mrs. Jenkins, who was visibly shaken, her dog now sitting obediently at her feet.

 "What happened?" the jogger asked, concern etched on his face.

 Mrs. Jenkins shook her head, her voice barely above a whisper. "I found her... a young woman. She's dead."

 Detective Harris arrived at the scene, his face a mask of grim determination. He ducked under the tape, approaching the cluster of officers and forensic team members who were already at work. The sight of the body, partially concealed by the bushes, made his stomach churn, but he pushed the feeling aside.

 He knelt beside the body, his eyes taking in every detail. The victim, a young woman, lay sprawled on the ground, her face frozen in an expression of terror. The knife wounds were precise, methodical. This was no random attack.

 "Same M.O. as the others," Harris muttered to himself, standing up and motioning for the forensic photographer to take more pictures. He turned to Officer Reynolds, who was taking statements from Mrs. Jenkins and other early morning park-goers.

 "Anything from the witnesses?" Harris asked.

 Reynolds shook his head. "Just found her like this. No one saw anything suspicious last night."

 Harris frowned, rubbing his chin. "We need to canvass the area, check any nearby cameras. This guy is getting bolder."

 As Harris turned to survey the scene again, a group of reporters began pushing against the police line, trying to get a better look. "Keep them back!" Harris barked at a nearby officer. "We don't need them contaminating the scene."

 Officers struggled to hold the line as the reporters shouted questions and snapped pictures. The chaotic scene added to the tension, but Harris knew he had to keep his focus. The killer had left no obvious clues, but Harris knew that every killer made a mistake eventually. He just had to find it.

 Emily's body was carefully placed on a stretcher and transported to the laboratory for an autopsy. The room was sterile, the harsh fluorescent lights reflecting off the steel surfaces. Oliver, the lab technician, prepared his instruments with meticulous precision.

 Detective Harris entered the lab, the smell of antiseptics sharp in his nostrils. "What do we have, Oliver?"

 Oliver looked up from his work, his face serious. "I've just started, but there are some immediate findings. The stab wounds are precise, almost surgical. This isn't just random violence; it's calculated."

 Harris nodded, leaning in to look at the body. "Any signs of sexual assault?"

 Oliver's expression darkened. "Yes. She was assaulted before she was killed. The wounds indicate a high level of control and intent."

 Harris felt a wave of anger. "So, he's not just killing them. He's displaying them, sending a message."

 Oliver carefully examined Emily's nails, his eyes narrowing. "Hold on, I've got something." He used tweezers to extract a small strand of hair. "This doesn't belong to Emily. I'll run it for DNA."

 Harris watched as Oliver meticulously processed the hair. The lab was silent except for the hum of equipment and the occasional beep of a machine. After what felt like an eternity, Oliver turned to him with the results.

 "The DNA match is partial. It's a 70% match with a known individual, Sean Matthews. He has a history of drug trafficking."

 Harris frowned. "Drug trafficking? Doesn't sound like our guy, but we need to check it out. What about the time of death?"

 Oliver glanced at his notes. "Based on the body's condition, I'd estimate she was killed between 10 p.m. and midnight."

 Harris nodded. "Alright. Let's bring Sean in and see what he has to say.

 Detective Harris and his partner, Detective Jeff, pulled up to a rundown apartment complex on the outskirts of the city. The building was a maze of graffiti-covered walls and broken windows. They climbed the stairs to the second floor and stopped in front of apartment 204.

 Harris knocked on the door, and after a few moments, it creaked open. Sean Matthews, a scruffy man in his early thirties, peered out, looking annoyed. "What do you want?"

 "Sean Matthews?" Harris said, flashing his badge. "We need to ask you a few questions down at the station."

 Sean's face twisted in confusion and anger. "What the hell for? I haven't done anything!"

 "We have some questions regarding a recent incident," Harris said firmly. "Please come with us."

 Sean tried to protest, but Jeff grabbed his arm and cuffed him. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law."

 As they led Sean out of the building, he continued to shout. "This is bullshit! I didn't do anything! You've got the wrong guy".