Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Emily's POV

"This is a death investigation," Michael added more diplomatically. "Those items might be evidence."

"Evidence of what? Depression?" A balding man—presumably Christine's father—emerged from the kitchen. "Our daughter had issues. End of story."

I looked around at the half-emptied apartment. "This place is also 'her things.' Why not throw that out too?"

The woman's face tightened. "We're her parents. This apartment belongs to us now."

Their shameless attitude really infuriated me.

"Was Christine afraid of anything?" Michael asked, steering the conversation back.

"Don't know," the man answered impatiently. "She just wasn't popular. The pressure drove her to suicide."

"And she never helped us financially," the woman added. "What did we get? Nothing."

My disgust grew with each word. "So your daughter dies, and all you care about is that she didn't give you enough money?"

"Watch your mouth, young lady," the man warned.

"We need to check Christine's bedroom," Michael interrupted, placing a restraining hand on my shoulder.

A teenager—Christine's brother according to the file—was sprawled across the bed in what had been the second bedroom, engrossed in a mobile game. The room had already been partially converted into his space, gaming equipment scattered around.

Michael's attention caught on something else—a VR headset sitting on the desk.

"Was this Christine's?" he asked.

The boy barely looked up. "Yeah, found it in her closet."

Michael picked it up, examining it closely. "This looks exactly like the one we found at Brad Thornton's place."

"Did you look at what was inside?" I asked.

"Just a few videos, but I deleted them. Nothing else," he said casually.

"Do you remember what they contained?"

"I didn't watch them. Just formatted it directly."

Looks like we'll need to take it back to the tech department to see if they can recover the content.

"We'll need to take this as evidence," I told him, who just shrugged indifferently.

So far, this family gave me such a cold impression. As if the person who died wasn't even a relative. They could just continue living as if nothing happened. I was already beginning to silently sympathize with Christine.

In the bathroom, I noticed something odd about the sink. The porcelain rim had a faint yellowish ring around the edge.

"Look at this," I called to Michael. "This discoloration... it's like something was covering the sink for a long time."

Michael ran his finger along the edge. "Some kind of board or cover, maybe?"

We checked the kitchen sink and found similar marks.

"Did Christine cover the sinks?" Michael asked the woman standing in the doorway.

She seemed surprised by the question. "Yes, when she first moved in, all the sinks were covered."

Back in the hallway, preparing to leave, I turned to Michael. "Christine wasn't afraid of water—she was afraid of water in enclosed spaces. Like sinks, bathtubs..."

"And ponds," Michael finished. "So we have three victims, all with specific phobias, all found dead in situations directly related to their fears."

"And all with the same model VR headset," I added, nodding to the device in Michael's hand. "I'm betting that's how they were treating their phobias."

"How does VR equipment perform psychological treatment?" Michael wondered.

"The best way to treat phobias is systematic desensitization," I explained. "Basically, you gradually expose someone to what they fear in a controlled environment until they build tolerance."

Michael raised an eyebrow slightly—his way of showing interest.

"They create highly realistic fear-inducing scenarios without putting patients in actual danger," I continued. "Someone with claustrophobia could experience being in an elevator without actually being trapped. Someone afraid of heights could stand on a virtual skyscraper while safely on ground level."

"And you think our killer is using this technology to control victims into committing suicide?" Michael's voice remained level, but I could sense his growing concern.

I shook my head. "VR is just a tool. What matters is the psychological treatment plan behind it."

"That narrows our suspect pool significantly," Michael noted.

After returning to the police station, Michael had someone search Brian's home for VR headsets.

Shortly after, Thomas came in with news. "We just found the same model VR headset at Brian's place."

Michael's eyes met mine. "So all three victims had identical VR headsets."

"That's our connection," I said, feeling the familiar rush of putting pieces together. "Three victims with three different phobias, all treating them with the same equipment."

Michael immediately called Daniel to examine the devices. Twenty minutes later, the three of us were huddled around Daniel's desk as he inspected the headsets.

"These aren't ordinary consumer products," Daniel said, adjusting his glasses. "High-end configuration, cutting-edge graphics processing. At least $1000 each."

"Expensive therapy tools," I remarked.

Daniel turned one of the headsets over, pointing to a tiny serial number. "Michael, these three devices' serial numbers are extremely close. They're definitely from the same batch, with serial numbers not more than 30 apart."

"They were purchased together," Michael concluded. "Can you trace the sale?"

"I'll need to contact the manufacturer, but yeah, should be possible."

While Daniel worked on that angle, I returned to my temporary desk to examine the victims' phone records. The familiar sounds of the bullpen—phones ringing, keyboards clicking, officers talking—created a surprisingly comforting background noise as I scrolled through Christine Moore's contact list.

Daisy appeared with two cups of coffee, placing one beside me. "Thought you might need this."

"Thanks," I said, taking a grateful sip.

She lingered, eyeing my outfit. "Emily, that coat you're wearing today—isn't that Michael's? I've seen him wear something similar before."

I glanced down at the black jacket I'd borrowed. "Yes, he lent it to me. I should probably return it soon."

"It looks good on you," she said with a smile that suggested more than her words.

I rolled my eyes and returned to Christine's phone logs. After a few minutes, I noticed something—a recurring pattern of calls, always on Friday afternoons around 5 PM, to a contact labeled "Assistant Jenny."

"Got something," I called to Michael, who was reviewing reports nearby.

I dialed the number, putting it on speaker.