Static on the Line
Aiden’s POV
The smell of rain is in the air, along with the scents of metal, blood and the faint, pungent odor of cordite.
Marjorie Philips is gone.
She had been alive a few minutes ago -- laughing, thanking the officers, holding her son’s hand -- Cory, his name is Cory. And then a shot, a single, sharp crack, cut through the air, and everything went silent.
Now her body lies motionless on the floor next to the overturned cot, a bright white sheet is immediately covering her.
Cory is screaming. It’s not a wail; that’s a primal, animalistic noise that emits from a place too deep to be reached, and this one goes straight through my jacket. Forensics are yelling; cameras are flashing. It’s utter chaos outside on the street: wailing neighbors, uniformed officers, news corps corralled behind yellow tape, a veritable pack of microphone brandishing hyenas desperate for answers.
I can’t move. My feet feel glued to the wet concrete. It’s like something heavy is pressing down on my chest, the familiar weight of failure. Greta. Veronica. Amira. Now Marjorie. We're always one step behind." Dana’s voice cuts through the chaos “Aiden! Over here!”
She’s crouched behind aparked patrol car, phone to her ear, her face pale and streaked with rain. “Sniper shot. They believe the angle was from the building across from hers. Rooftop maybe. SWAT is investigating it right now.”
I nod and force my legs to move. "Any witnesses?"
“Not yet.
But his accomplice knew exactly when to deliver his blow. She was surrounded by people. It’s like he was waiting for everybody to freak out before he fired.”
“Psychological hit,”I muttered, my voice coarse. “He wanted to break everyone watching.”
“Yeah,” she says quietly. “Including us.”
Together we make our way to the command van, braving the bombardment of impulses. Inside it’s pandemonium—officers talking and yelling over one another, radios buzzing with reports filled with static, forensics streaming drone footage. A young tech, his face bleached out by the light of three different monitors, desperately types.
Dana’s voice cuts through. “Trace all nearby cameras. The shooter had a window. We need it.”
The tech nods, still not looking up from his keyboard. “He jammed most of the public cams for exactly two minutes, ma’am. Total blackout. The shot came right in that window.”
“He plotted this,” I say, the words gravel in my mouth. “Every second.”
Dana leans on the desk, shaking her head. “We had Keith. We had Ray. We thought this was ending. But now?”
“It’s starting again,” I finish for her.
My jaw tenses. “He’s taunting us. Greta, Veronica, Amira—all on the 13th. Marjorie’s death just fits the pattern. He’s obsessed with that date.”
“And the letters,” she adds, her voice low. “Tiny. Carved right behind the left ear.”
“He’s not just killing women; he’s tearing down what they built.”
Dana sits beside me on the desk. “Maybe the letters are names. Maybe they spell something.”
They haven’t found Marjorie’s yet, but they will.”
I exhale and everything seems to irritate me even the sound of the fluorescent bulbs and the traffic too.
"There's something we are missing. A connection. What does T-E-S stand for? It’s not a word. Not initials. It’s a code, and he’s the only one who has the key.”
Dana stares at the whiteboard dotted with photos—Greta Johnson, Amira Klein, Veronica Cheng, and now Marjorie Philips. Each smiling in their portraits. Each gone.
"They only thing they have in common," she says slowly, "is that they were all women who had power. Lawyers. Business owners. No nonsense. Strong women who stood for something.”
I look at her. “And that pissed him off.”
“Or scared him,” she says.
Hours later the precinct is calmer, bedding down for the wake
Most officers have left for the day, but blaring news and flashing lights still announce the headline: “THE 13TH KILLER STRIKES AGAIN.”
Dana hands me a cup of coffee. Tastes like ash. “You’ve been staring at that board for donkeys’ years.”
“I want to understand him," I mutter. “He doesn’t just kill. He wants to make a point. "But what point?” My eyes roam over the list of victims again. Greta Johnson, a badass lawyer in the court room, defended the rich and famous
. Amira Klein, the prosecutor who once took down the whole Rinaldi crew, one of her many successful cases. Veronica Cheng, the non-profit for at-risk youth she rescued. And Marjorie. She just beat City Hall on that zoning ordinance, saving her entire neighborhood.
They’re all builders. Fixers.
I shake my head. “Too easy. He’s not random. T-E-S. It’s leading up to some kind of grander plan.” I look again at the photos — each dated, labelled with crime scenes and particulars. There is a pattern, to be sure. just weak. hidden amongst balls of madness.”
Dana yawns, stretching. “Go home, West. You look like hell.”
I give a tired laugh. “You too.”
“Yeah, but I don’t have anyone waiting to yell at me for not eating dinner.”
I groan quietly, thinking of Ruthie.
“Oh, she already yelled.”
Dana raises an eyebrow. “Trouble in paradise?”
“She’s not my girlfriend,” I mumble.
“Didn’t say she was. But you look like you wish she was.”
I don’t respond. She’s not wrong, but I’m not absurd enough to say that aloud.
The ride home is a blur. The streets were wet from rain, the city lights bleeding into watercolor drips. The windshield wipers maintain a hypnotic, faltering beat to the drizzling rain. I grip the steering wheel tightly, thinking of Marjorie’s face just before the shot. How her son screamed. This job used to make me feel like I could fix things. Now it feels like I’m always showing up too late.
The precinct’s buzzing fluorescent lights dim, giving way to the silent dread of the apartment. I know she's mad. And I know I’m too tired to fix it. The apartment has darkened by the time I get there, but the lights are still on inside.
Ruthie’s home.
I ease open the door, moving inside quietly. The scent of coconut candles is in the air.
She’s curled up on the couch in her pj’s watching something on her tablet with her knees pulled up to her chest.
She doesn't so much as glance up.
“Hey," I say quietly.
Noncommittal, She hums .
Then there’s Ruthie and if she is silent, her yelling is worse.
I throw my coat on the chair and I rubbed the back of my neck. “Long night.”
“Yeah,” she mutters, still looking at her screen. “I saw. The woman from the news. That’s awful.”
“Yeah.” I drop into the armchair opposite her. “You okay?”
“Yes, she tells me.”
I’m fine.” “Are you okay?” “I’m fine,” she insists.
I look at her face. She’s trying to look calm, but her eyes are puffy. “You’ve been crying.”
She rolls her eyes, a sharp, defensive movement. “Don’t start, Aiden.”
Bitterly I sigh. 'You’re still mad about earlier, huh?' “Mad?” she laughs, a low, mocking sound. “No. “Just tired.” You think I can’t make my own decisions?”
“Ruthie, that’s not what I said—”
“You said Eliot can’t be trusted.”
“I said I don’t trust him There’s a difference. ” I “I said I don’t trust him.” There’s a difference.
She rises, arms crossed, the tablet left behind on the cushion. “You don’t even know him.”
I don't need to. Dudes like him—everything they say is as rehearsed as those lousy “Inspire more about Other People” talk commercials we all tend to get endlessly subjected to. He’s a vet, Ruthie.”
She interrupts me, her tone sharp and escalating. “You think everyone’s a suspect!”
The words sting, landing so precisely I have to catch my breath. Because they’re real.
I do. I see the angle, the motivation, the lie in the eyes. I can't just shut it off.
We eye one another in silence, all taut nerves.
The only noise is that of rain beating on the window pane.
Then she sighs, and her shoulders fall. “You know what? Forget it. I don’t want to get in a fight.”
I rub my jaw, trying to keep my own tone calm. “Ruthie, I just don’t want you to get hurt again.”
Her eyes soften just a bit, but she looks away, out to the blackened window. “You don’t get to decide who hurts me, Aiden.”
“Yeah, well, people should care what you think when you won’t.”
That does it. The softness is gone. She snatches up her tablet, her Jenny voice softer, frozen. “Goodnight.”
She strides toward her room, trailing the faint aroma of her shampoo in the air. The door closes gently.
And I’m staring at the blank sofa. The quiet she leaves behind is louder than the sirens.
I sink down and press my hands against my face. The apartment feels too quiet too cold. I attempt to concentrate on my notes again, but her voice reverberates in my mind. You think everybody’s a suspect.
Maybe she’s right. Maybe I just don’t know how to turn it off anymore.
My phone buzzes on the table. Hi Dana.
“Yeah?”
“,#Price, get some rest. We’ll regroup tomorrow. We’ll run the sniper trace in the morning.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
I hang up, still looking at the wall.
Sleep is not easy to come by. My mind runs over the day like a track on loop — the blood, the scream, the noise of that shot. Marjorie’s face. And Ruthie’s, the glimpse of betrayed in her eyes when I talked.
Then, softly, I hear footsteps.
Ruthie’s door creaks open a little.
I look back. She’s nothing but a silhouette in the faint light of the hallway, with her arms folded over her chest. She doesn’t come out.
She just stands there for a second, looking at me. Then in a whisper: “You didn’t eat dinner.”
“I wasn’t hungry.”
“Liar.”
In spite of everything I smile faintly.
She turns to go back inside, then stops. “Goodnight, detective.”
“Goodnight, Ruth.”
The door shuts again.
And that little, obstinate word — goodnight — seems to be the only peace I have had all day. The city beyond bristles with a low hum. Somewhere farther away, sirens alread
y are dissolving into the dark.
Tomorrow, we’ll follow another trail. Another ghost.
But for now, I let the silence stay.
Even when it hurts.