Chapter Text
The city never slept. Night, day, it didn't matter much; the streets were always crawling with something. Like a million little rats, festering and biting, there was always something new, something that rekindled a nauseous feeling Mills didnt think he was capable of feeling anymore. But he didn't sleep much either, not after John Doe, not after Tracy. He often found himself in a state of limbo between each case, floating around his apartment like he was the ghost of his former self, haunting whatever life had once bloomed within those walls. A few times, maybe, he found himself realizing how lonely he was, then another file was placed on his desk, another body was viewed, and he was reminded he liked it that way. There would never be another partner, another woman that could quench the guilt that choked him breathless in the dead of night, when he woke, catching whatever was left of her scent in the air. And each time he caught a glimpse of a picture, a glimpse into a past he would never get back, he was reminded of his shortcomings, the sin of failing. Sometimes he called their home phone to hear her voice. Sometimes he pressed the cool plastic to his ear and closed his eyes; she was off at work, was all. But once he forced them open again and was presented with the state of their apartment, the state of his life, one single life bred to spend alone, he knew he couldnt pretend.
That's how it was each time; it never seemed to change shape very much, it never seemed to evolve past the smudged images right before him. It was why he barely blinked when Somerset brought a new file from the chief; it was fresh. Though he would never admit it, Mills found himself glad that Somerset had stayed on; it broke up the long days and nights. He and Tracy hadn't been in town long before John Doe took her from Mills, and he hadn't bothered to branch out after that. In part, the man was right; almost everyone he met knew him as the man from the Seven Deadly Sins case. They would shake his hand and tell him what a hero he was for putting that man away, for stopping filth such as he from running onward. But he didnt feel like a hero, not when they grabbed his hand and gave him a sympathetic smile, not when he went home to an empty apartment at night. He was no more a hero than John Doe was a martyr; he knew that well.
The new case was some kind of copycat, a try at some neurotic statement of justice; Mills wasn't fooled. After John Doe, a few had tried to continue his work, but they were all caught before the media could catch on. This new man, this new disciple of God, whoever he may be, had taken his first victim’s eyes, then slaughtered them like it were no more than an act of mercy. The eyes had been a stipulation; law enforcement couldnt figure out where they went. The killer had removed them with near surgical precision, but they were nowhere at the scene. It wasn't until days later that they were mailed to the chief of police, the pristine box sitting in wait on his desk that morning. Inside, along with missing eyes, was a name. In an instant, the case was given to Mills and Somerset; it was familiar ground for them. At first, they thought it was a one-off, a message never to be uncovered. But then a second body bearing the same identity as that of the box showed up, then a third, and by the fourth, they knew it was no coincidence; this man was playing what he thought was a game.
The fourth set of eyes had led them to one Mazzi Lorriane, who had a clean record and no notable point of conflict. She was in close relation to the fourth victim, Clara Jones, whom the killer had snatched before they could get to her. Whoever this man was, he worked fast. No sooner had the eyes been discovered than Jones was found dead. Her eyes removed just the same. The only problem with this was that the other had been mailed within twenty-four hours. It had been two days, and no eyes had shown up. There were no leads, other than a phone number shoved into Jones’ pocket, scribbled on a crumpled scrap of paper, which had led them to Mazzi; it belonged to her home phone. There was no way to tell who the next victim would be, not without the eyes.
They brought Mazzi in anyway. It was for her own safety, Mills told himself, they had gotten to her before she knew Jones was dead; perhaps they could get something out of her before the killer changed his focus. Ask a few questions and find maybe they could send her on her way, but he wanted to play it safe. So there the woman sat in the interrogation room, not handcuffed to the table. Though it was a stretch to call her a woman, she couldn't have been more than nineteen. Mills paced back and forth, glancing at the very short file they had put together on Mazzi through interviews. Somerset had taken a position beside the two-way glass. Mazzi didn't know how many other eyes were watching her in that moment. She had very little idea why she had been picked up. At first, she assumed she had been made; they had finally caught her in the act. Then she remembered it was the middle of the day and she didn't have any clients till five. That gave her plenty of time to tell the Detectives what they wanted to hear and still get home to change.
“So,” Mills said, glancing inside her file. “Miss…Lorriane, you live at the Leyland Rise Apartments, do you not?” Mazzi watched the two men carefully, trying to keep her expression mostly blank, though she was intrigued by them. The Detective closest to her, Mills, was a serious man; an eternal frown had woven itself into his eyes; he seemed ready to be disappointed at a moment's notice. Despite these things, he spoke softly to Mazzi, his words blending with the soft whirl of the recorder on the table; it was the kindest anyone had spoken to her in quite a while. The other man by the door, Somerset, shared a few of these qualities, only something in his aged gaze was softer, more inviting. Mazzi found herself wondering why Somerset, the older of the two, was not questioning her. But she didnt have time to try to work out the hierarchy in the room. All she knew was that she was right at the bottom.
“Yes, sir.” She replied smoothly. Mills’ eyes flicked up to hers. He had stopped pacing yet again.
“And which apartment, Miss Lorraine, do you reside in?” Mills continued.
“Three twenty,” Mazzi said. “On the D floor.” The Detective nodded, taking a seat on the edge of the table. Outside, it was likely raining; it seemed it was always raining. Mills watched her carefully, her eyes tracing her face for any hint of deceit or even a fib. He wasn't exactly sure what he was looking for, but perhaps he could coax something of importance out of her. His first itch was to know how exactly Mazzi knew the victim, but they were slowly working their way there.
“Who do you live with in this apartment?” He asked. Mazzi stayed silent. On the way to the station, she had rehearsed everything she was going to say; she would be a natural with any question; she was prepared. But something about the way the Detective had asked such a simple question disarmed her; she was slipping. Mills noticed this, his eyes narrowing on hers. When her silence was prolonged her took charge once again. “Well, Miss Lorraine, I'm gonna go out on a limb here. I'm going to assume, and you just stop me if I'm wrong, that because you didn't tell Somerset or me to call your mother or father when you got in the car, they aren't around. Or, if by chance they are, you'd be in more trouble with them than us, whatever it is you're here for. How'd I do?” Mazzi’s eyes flicked to Somerset across the room, but there was no use sizing him up.
“I live with my brother.” She replied quietly. Mills cocked his head in an unbelieving stance. It was a rather fast response. Why hadn't she led with it?
“Your brother?” He asked. Mazzi nodded a fraction.
“Yes, sir.” She said.
“What's your brother's name?” Mills asked. The girl had begun to work her hands over in her lap; she just couldn't help it. There seemed to be something looming around them, something she couldn't name.
“Teddy.” She replied. Mills glanced at her file.
“Full name?” He asked. Mazzi tried to stifle the urge to make a face. He was digging too deep; he was reading into her much more than anyone else had ever tried to. If he kept going, he was going to find something he didn't like.
“Theodore Lorriane.” She said. The Detective stood, almost swooping in beside the table-top recorder. He brought his hand to his chin like he was considering something, but really, he had it all worked out.
“And he's your legal guardian.” He asked. Mazzi nodded. “Please, Miss Lorraine, state for the record that this Theodore Lorriane is your legal guardian.” She took a deep breath, forcing herself to keep her eyes from falling shut.
“He is my legal guardian.” She said, but the words sounded strange to her own ears. Mills kept watching for insincerity, but he found none. He kept on going; however, he knew there was something to be uncovered.
“How old is your brother, Miss Lorriane?” He asked.
“Thirty-three.” She replied almost too quickly.
“Thirty-three?” Mills asked incredulously. “That's quite the gap.” Mazzi’s gaze flicked up to his; she seemed to shrink in on herself a fraction.
“We have different mothers.” She clarified.
“Ah, different mothers.” He repeated, as if her answer was obvious. “Miss Lorriane, please state your full name for the record.”
“Maisie Lorriane.” The girl said. Mills ran his tongue along his teeth as she spoke, a hint of surprise working its way into his expression.
“Mazzi is a nickname, then?” He asked, glancing at her file. She nodded. He began to pace yet again. “Well then, Mazzi, please state your age for the record as well.” When she didn't reply right away, he made a shoddy attempt to soothe her. “We are building up your story, that's all.” It was mostly cocky.
“Seventeen.” She replied quietly. They had yet to tell her exactly why she was there.
“You are quite young to be left alone so often,” Somerset added, still poised by the glass. Slowly, he stepped forward, he and Mills watching as something flashed in Mazzi’s eyes. Fear, maybe doubt? Likely, Somerset had unintentionally hit a nerve; he was making an observation, was all. “We interviewed a few of your neighbors and your landlord. That's what they said. Everything is in order, but they hardly ever see this Teddy. Only you.” Mills nodded, flipping her nearly empty file back open.
“Your landlord was quite helpful.” He said. “He confirmed that a Theodore Lorriane signed the lease three years ago, but he couldn't recall what your brother looked like. Your landlord said you always paid on time and in full, there were very few complaints that came in about you two, no unnecessary foot traffic, no parties or disturbances. Though the woman in three twenty-two said that sometimes it gets loud at night, the residents of three eighteen, three twenty-one, and your neighbors above and below in four twenty on E floor and two twenty on C floor confirmed this, though they assured us it was nothing for alarm.”
“My brother works a lot,” Mazzi said. “That's why he isn't home.”
“What does he do for a living?” Mills asked.
“Accounting.” She said, not for a moment hesitating.
“So he must not be home most nights,” Somerset said. “All the traveling and the workload.”
“I suppose that wouldn't exactly explain the male voice your neighbors report hearing, quote ‘Spouting off in the middle of the night after barging in.’ That's what the woman in three twenty-two said. Your downstairs neighbor in two twenty says they've heard what sounds like quote ‘If the boxing match on my TV was happening upstairs, shit is crazy.’” Mills said, watching her expression. He knew once her shoulders tensed, he needed to continue. “Mazzi, do you and your brother ever fight?” Quickly, she shook her head; they were onto her.
“No,” She said. “No, sir, we never argue.” Mills glanced back at Somerset; her file was falling apart.
“Well, Mazzi, I'm afraid there are some discrepancies in your story. If you claim that you and your brother never argue and that at the same time, he's never home, that leaves me wondering who this man your neighbors report hearing is.” He said, pausing to watch her expression closely. “I'm sure you'll tell me there is no man, won't you?” There was never anyone in the apartment long; there hadn't been for three years. Not her brother, not the man her neighbors had heard, not any of the throwaway friends she had made, no one. Because no one would come inside for any longer than it took to scream their head off at her, and because she never brought clients home. There was never anyone, not till recently, not any time ever again. But she couldnt bring herself to say it, she couldnt bring herself to look the man before her in the eyes and admit she was all alone, she just couldn't. So, like always, she deflected.
“Why am I here?” She asked quietly, placating to an image she could not upkeep. She shifted her hands in her lap yet again; a small patch of blood had soaked through her bandaid; she ought to change that. Mills finally retook his seat across from her, lacing his fingers together in a faux professional scheme that hid how much he wanted to do the honors on the man who had killed Jones and the three others. At present, he viewed Mazzi as a blockade, the thing stopping him from enacting justice as he had been taught. Sometimes, if he closed his eyes and focused hard enough, he could still feel the weight of his gun in his right hand the afternoon he held it to John Doe’s head. At present, he could feel the weight of the case files; he could hear all of Mazzi’s unspoken truths. Don't let it become personal, he told himself, don't let it take over your life. But there was something in the eyes of the girl before him that he had seen before, and it almost frightened him.
“I suppose I should get on with it, shouldn't I?” Mills asked rhetorically. “We've had you in here for quite some time, and we haven't told you why. Do you notice, Mazzi?” He began, pulling a few high gloss images from the folder before him. “That we don't have you handcuffed? Do you know why?”
“Because I'm not a suspect?” She asked in return. Mills nodded.
“Exactly.” He said. “I want you to remember, Somerset here and I are on your side.” With that, he laid one of the photos out before her. It was a still of Jones a few years prior, but she looked mostly the same based on the partial facial reconstruction the lab had been able to do. “Do you know who this is?” Mazzi felt the furrow leave her brow as she studied what the Detective had presented to her. She knew the face staring back at her, and suddenly, she felt guilty.
“That's Clara.” She said. Mills cocked a brow.
“Clara Jones?” He asked. Mazzi glanced up at Somerset, who remained a few feet away.
“I never knew her last name, but that's Clara.” She replied.
“But you knew her first name?” Mills asked. Mazzi nodded. Glancing down, he still had a few of the high gloss photos left, but he refrained from showing her. They were all from the crime scene; he hoped maybe he could get someone else to identify her, even with the white sheet covering her face. “Now, how did you know Jones?” He asked. Mazzi hesitated and mentally kicked herself for it; they were just waiting for her to screw up. On Mills’ side of the table, however, he had tried to push the prior knowledge of Jones out of his mind; he needed to hear what the girl had to say before he formed any judgment. Despite this, he could feel the ever-growing itch to come right out and demand. He had never done too well with patience, even less recently.
“Not too well,” Mazzi said. “I only talked to her a handful of times.” A blatant lie. But she had to protect herself; she knew Clara and the other girls would do the same. Or at least she hoped they would.
“So you wouldn't call yourselves friends?” Mills asked. Slowly, Mazzi’s gaze left his, landing on the high gloss photo before her. Mocking her. Friends. Clara and Maisie, the street whores. Friends, or women with a common enemy?
“No,” Mazzi said, feeling the shame burn in her cheeks. “No, we weren't friends.”
“How did you and Clara meet?” Mills asked. Again, her eyes went to the high gloss photos, then the one sticking out of the folder. Something was looming over them, or someone.
“When I was looking for a job, she told me she would refer me to her boss. But I never, uhm, followed up.” She said.
“What did she do for work?” Mills asked. Mazzie shrugged as if she was trying to get his gaze off of her.
“I don't know.” She replied. Another blatant lie. “I never followed up.”
“But you remembered her name,” Somerset said from his corner, yet he didnt move any closer. “Why is that?” Mazzi looked up at him, but she couldnt maintain eye contact. The room seemed to grow smaller, though she still was unsure how many sets of eyes were on her.
“She was nice to me.” She replied. “She gave me a chance.” Mills pulled the photo of Jones away, holding it idly.
“Yet you never spoke to her again?” He asked. Mazzi shook her head.
“Only in passing.” She replied. The Detective’s eyes flicked over her, once, twice, like he was truly looking at her for the first time. A liar.
“Only in passing.” He repeated. His eyes found Somerset’s, assured, calm, but he knew just as well as Mills what was coming. Reaching into the same folder, he replaced the former image and removed another that had sat tucked between the evidence. He placed it on the smooth metal table top, sliding it toward Mazzi silently. He watched as her expression grew pale, her mouth twisting up like she was resisting the urge to vomit. Whether she was studying the image or her eyes remained upon it for the sake of keeping herself together, Mills wasn't sure. Behind the girl, Somerset stepped forward, raising his arms to cross them over his chest. But she didnt move, she was frozen in horror. “We found the body of Clara Jones, twenty-three, two days ago, her eyes removed and her body propped up like she was praying. This.” He said, pointing to the high gloss photo of a security feed between them. “This is the last time she was seen. Do you know what this is a picture of, Mazzi? Do you know where she is?” Drawing in what little air she could, the back of her throat burned with guilt and knowledge she had pledged never to share. She heard Somerset take another step forward. He was right behind her then, and he was ready to restrain her.
“That's my floor.” She said, her voice sounding pitiful and defeated even to her own ears. She was caught, plain and simple. Her life was falling apart. Mills leaned back in his chair, unable to stop the smirk from forming on his lips.
“Smart girl.” He said. “That's the door to your apartment.”