‘THE DOPAMINE KILLER’

'THE DOPAMINE KILLER'

IF YOU ASK ME about myself, 

I'd tell you my name's Davies Lionel Moore. Davies— as in my mother's paternal great-grandfather, who I was named after. I'd probably go on to add that he was a man of prestige. Lionel? my father's shitty brother who met his end speeding down some back road. And Moore... Well, Moore is my father—the man himself.

I'd tell you I was born in South Carolina. That's a fact.

And soon after my birth, my parents went broke and returned to my father's hometown, Good ol' Georgia, where they had my sister, but she didn't make it past two birthday cakes. Fire got her. Fire that got a chunk of me, too.

I'd tell you that's why I've got these scars running down my back.

I'd tell you I'm in my early twenties, that I grew up through the two-thousands— 'Look at me,' I'd say, 'I've got the looks to break hearts.'

I'd tell you I don't see myself in the dating poll anytime soon, and one-night stands are simpler. Less messy, less personal.

I won't tell you what I do for a living.

But if you're asking me on a deeper level, if you're asking who I really am,

I'd tell you my real name is Théodore Lionel Hernandez.

I'd tell you I wasn't lying about the middle name; it came from the same broken branch of family history.

I'd tell you we don't talk about my mother.

And that my father is the true delineation of a fire-breathing monster.

I'd tell you I love the sour taste of blood on a split lip, reminds me how bittersweet life can be.

I'd tell you my story can never be captured even if written as a novella.

I'd tell you what I do for a living...

'Come, come... come see this, Davies,' Officer Browns— it's always the robust-bellied detective and his crew. I almost roll my eyes, dreading this acquaintanceship before it even starts. 'Another one,' he continues, 'almost similar to the last three, but slightly different— this one.' 

'I doubt that.' I replied, half-wittedly.

'I'll tell you this, Davies, Same M.O as the last three, same rough cut through the larynx. But there's like a diversion right here,' he points to the chest, just beneath the left rib cage, a quick, bloody incision. 'Looks like a slight pause was made there.' He stands up, 'Whoever this guy is, he knows what he's doing.'

'What makes you think 'The Dopamine killer' is a guy?' Sameer, my partner asks. Finding the open guesswork hilarious.

Browns shrugs, 'I don't think a woman could do this much. Do you?'

'You'd be surprised,' I say under my breath before openly saying, 'Thanks, Officer Browns, CSIs will take over from here.' 

I step over the yellow tape, the room is dimly lit, the air buzzing with tension. Several police officers are scattered around, some dusting for fingerprints, others taking pictures.

I take calm and methodical steps into the room, but not before sharing a knowing look with Allyssa, she smiles, I fought to keep my expression flat, but I couldn't. I return the smile.

How did Allyssa and I become partners in crime and still somehow weave ourselves into the disguise of the law? A story for another day.

I scan the room, taking in every detail— what's left after the clean-up— I'm dressed in my very professional investigator's uniform: protective coveralls, boot covers, gloves, goggles, my favorite mask, and ID hanging like props in some very twisted theatre.

I approach the body, but keep a distance,

'Allyssa, Sameer, handle the victim's belongings. Priya, Sebastien, here with me,' I command coolly, maintaining control. 

I'm too gratified, I can't help the smile threatening to tear open my face. What's funny, you ask?

Investigating the same crime I committed. That's what's funny. 

'No hesitation. Precise. Almost surgical.' I say aloud, open to suggestions. I'm kind of curious what the others will make of it; just how close they'll get.

'The blood on the sheets has clotted, the victim's been dead for hours.' Priya provided, betraying no emotion.

Sebastien is the youngest of us; he still pales at the sight of blood. He keeps flinching. I don't blame him, though, the poor guy was recruited straight out of college. 

'What do you see, Sab?' I prod. he's a guy with very few words. I like him... like a junior brother.

'I... I think I'm gonna puke.' And... he's out of the room.

'Guess it's just us now.'

'No sign of self-defense,' Priya, 'And Judging by the foam around the mouth, the victim was drugged. like the others.'

'That explains the frothing, yes.' 'Take a look at this.' I pointed to his pelvic area. 'Victim's genitals look to have been severed from his body.'

Thing is, the Dopamine Killer is real— I would never understand that name— But that's not me. It's another killer who the police are currently after. A killer who's the perfect cover for my very long list of targets.

'Knuckles are cracked but not severed.' I already know that. Simon, my Golden Retriever, liked his dick very much.

I feel a silhouette hovering over me, I look up to see it's Officer Browns.

'Officer Browns is a good man,' a distant voice echoes in my head. It's unfamiliar. Prickly. 'Do you think you can be like him?' I shake it off. I don't pay mind to it.

'The reporters are raging. Mr. Hernández— gotta give them something.'

'Last I checked, Browns, that's your job, not mine.'

He smacks his lips, 'Well, the attack could be personal. No sign of forced entry. I think he knows his attacker.'

'It's always personal.' I reply, almost knowingly, my tone slips, careful. But Browns doesn't notice.

I shake my head, straightening up, 'Any progress finding the material used for the attack?' I pull my face to a frown. Feigning exhaustion. Though, if I'm being honest, I might be exhausted doing this all over again like it wasn't just two hours ago when Allyssa and I worked our asses clearing off every piece of evidence that could lead back to me.

The police received a call from the Hotel an hour later. 

Apparently, the real Juniper Day was found still lying unconscious in the janitor's closet, where I'd left him in a very comfortable position. I pulled a few moves I'd learned from back in my college days. A sensory overload tactic that led to the poor autistic guy being immensely confused. Soon, he was out of breath. What science would call a mental shutdown.

A co-worker found him there, who had dashed to Michael's room and then the Phone call was made.

I was in the middle of cleaning myself up when I got a call from the bigger men.

'Walk with me,' Officer Browns says instead.

We walk to the edge of the room, a window in front of us, a smear of blood visible on the sill, 'Not yet, but the boys are on it.'

He wanders off then again, to the balcony, I follow him.

'You find something?' he asks, lighting a cigarette, he takes a puff and passes to me, I shake my head, declining. because I don't smoke.

'Nothing they don't want us to find.' I reply, slightly distant.

My head is like a void. I can hear myself in there, but not in the usual voice, not in the usual tone. And definitely not the usual fueling rage. This one is rather... calmer, almost judgmental. And it's agitating.

I tug at my shirt for air even though winter's clearly rushing in.

Officer browns turns suddenly, facing me, uncertainty eating at him. he looks tired. 'This is the Dopamine killer, isn't it?' 

I hesitate, just for a beat, 'We can't be sure yet' I gave a tired sigh, just as he'd expect. 'It fits the pattern. But, yes, maybe.'

He stares into the distance, back at the body still lying on the bed. 'What if it's not? Something's not adding up.' He exhales slowly, his breath turning into mist in the cold air, 

Night's falling in.

'This isn't like any other case, I'll tell you that,' he drags in on his cigarette again, 'This is a fucking Hernandez, my guy, fucking Hernandez!' One can tell the pressure is on big time for him, he has to provide answers soon, whether he likes it or not. But that's kind of a pity, because that can't happen while I'm here.

I know— I know one wrong move from me, and I'd be exposed, put at the mercy of the law. But it doesn't stop me from saying my next words.

I draw back to lean against the railing.

I stare at the crime scene, and a wicked smile plays on my lips.

'Funny thing about Judgement, doesn't matter how powerful you are. It always finds you.' 

After all, only I know how close the line between the investigator and the killer truly is.