The morning comes with the usual surprises of a needy cat, my tired eyes, the fucking traffic, and Sam with a sassy remark as soon as I sit down.

"You had fun on your acid trip? What was it like?" He leans over my desk and pretends to listen with wonderment.

"Shut up. I was tired and I had a brain fart." I don't even look at him. Lisa comes round the corner with a coffee cup in and hand and chortles at Sam's comment.

"You disappeared for hours yesterday!" She says as she's going back to her desk. Great, now I have the peanut gallery in the office. However Simon does not seem to be interested in giving commentary as he's sleeping but still has his hand on the phone, just in case. Sam pulls back and continues to do something on his computer. That leaves me to stew in my own thoughts as I begin to try and fill out the report on the Reed case. The image of Cole Phelps is still deep in my mind and even when I close my eyes I can still see him across from me. Jeez, maybe Sam is right, maybe I did go on some drug-induced trip. I guess all the crap is starting to hit me and I guess it was a good thing that I got it off my chest, but a little weird that I wandered into the old man's home. I stop typing as soon as I think of the old man. Wow, he must be seriously chill because I totally just barged in and slept on his couch. Now, I'm feeling embarrassed but I can't let it show or Mister Funny Pants over there will make fun of me. The worst part is that now all I can do tirelessly look for a lead, which is time consuming and boring. I breathe in deeply and type Greta Reed into Google to get a quick overview. From the multiple sources that the Internet can offer, I begin to piece together Greta Reed's life. She was a manager at a boutique in Santa Monica but was fired six months ago. Since then she dropped off the face the earth and occasionally updating her Facebook profile. Before that, she would often post her 'dream vacations' of pictures of exotic places with lots of emoji's. David Rogers did mention her love of travel and the Egypt photo in her apartment but it really did mean a lot to her. Maybe the fact that she lost her job meant that she couldn't afford to travel anymore. I quickly search Derek Reed to see if he had an income but it looks as though his hasn't held a steady job since his DUI. Oh shit. Greta Reed was the breadwinner for a while and once she lost her job, no money was coming in. That still seems a bit simplistic to me but it seems likely. It's just a shame that she could only find solace in the comfort of alcohol. So the lingering question remains: why did the serial killer target her? The boxes are still stacked next to my desk and the one on the top is Celine Henry's. I crack it open and reach down to find the file on personal history or at least anything found in the investigation. As I skim the pages for anything, I find that Celine Henry used to be a pilot but then she was married to her husband. Suddenly, she too went into a depressive state and spent most of her time at a bar too. I lean back in my chair and rack my brain around that. So, that means that the killer has knowledge of the previous cases and he chooses his victims based on the similarities? Problem is that these cases are probably public knowledge and one could search for it on the Internet or even look at the articles in the newspaper of when the murders were reported. So, sort of back to square one. Still, it gives me an idea of who we're looking for next. I take the Henry case off the top and place it on the ground so I can reach into the next case. Deirdre Moller was the next to be murdered a week after Celine Henry. A few key features I pick out are that she was a mother, a housewife, and she was missing a golden broach and a ring. Greta Reed was missing a ring, I wonder if Celine Henry was missing something too. A quick glance at the coroners report and Cole's report shows that Celine Henry was missing a huge ruby ring. I close the files and place them carefully back in their respective boxes and stare out the window. While I don't know how the serial killer chooses his victims, I at least know what he's looking for. Problem is, there are thousands of women in the city who could match the same description as Deirdre Moller.

"Hey, crazy woman!" Sam jolts me out of my daze.

"What?" I ask annoyed.

"Got a call so let's roll." He motions with his thumb. Oh right, I forgot that people are shitty and are still killing other people. Why can't this city take a breather for a few fucking seconds!

Our victim was a bachelor who looked as though he OD'd on crack. Of course my first response was where were the narcotics detectives and of course they were late. Sam and I were busy doing actual work when we heard the boom of the door slam open. An asshole stood in the doorway that goes by the name of George Vickers.

"Hello Homicide!" He bellows and slaps Sam on the shoulder.

"What do we have?" He bends down and I swear he pretends to look at the body. I bend down to try and get on his level.

"Well his name is Victor Mann, and cause of death was ruled so far as an over dose on cocaine but it might have been tampered with so-" I get interrupted by hand in my face. Asshole takes away the hand and leans over the body to look at me straight in the eyes.

"Have you ever been told that you have a beautiful smile? What's your name?" He schmoozes. Two things: One, why is he hitting on me now. Two, why the smile? I thought he was looking at my eyes?

"Thanks." I mumble. That doesn't seem to satiate him as think he's now attempting to get closer to me by invading my personal space. Quickly, I get up and try and run away but he's in hot pursuit. I hurry into the bedroom but he stops halfway in the doorway and turns around to go speak to Sam. I stand there motionless for a minute and look around. Victor Mann seemed to be living the high life. Every piece of his furniture looks jagged and hard if you sit down on them. Also, for no reason, everything is grey but has a single color matt carpet draped across everything. The one noticeable thing is the amount of pills beside his bed. I peer down as lots of prescriptions to people other than Victor Mann. I can see that his favorite drug of choice is Adderall judging by the large amount of empty bottles. Before I can jot all this down, asshole comes back in and I swear slams his hand on my shoulder.

"You can go now sweetie, I can take it from here." He says with a confident grin. Well there goes my distraction. I reluctantly walk out of the bedroom and meet Sam at the doorway to the apartment. He greets me with a simple "Hey," but I raise my hands and start waving them around to get out my rage aside from punching the asshole.

"Yeah I get it! It sucks!" Sam agrees with me. I give him a stern look and charge out of the apartment. Fuck that asshole.

Even though we lost that case, Sam and I were still kept busy by more cases piling up that serial killings seemed distant. I walk into work and notice that Sam is sitting in his chair speechless but looks up at me with a worried expression.

"They found another woman." He says. At first I don't understand what he's talking about by my mind immediately flashes to that picture of Deirdre Moller lying naked in the dirt.

"Where?" I ask.

"That golf course, Wilshire Country Club." He states. I nod my head slowly and turn around to head towards the elevator.

All my doubts about the serial killer have been removed as I see the body of Helen Murphy. The killer decided to copy how Moller was killed, the strangulation marks, the boots dotting all over her chest, and the writing except it says CLOSE on Helen Murphy. Either that motherfucker knows that I know or he's playing with us, both are equally bad. Once again, something was ripped off her ring hand but whether or not she has a broach is a different story. Sam tells me that she was a mother and the address of their home, but I still look at her face even though Sam was long gone. I know there's nothing here for us and we have to move on but I think that if I stand here long enough I can find out what happened. I wonder if Cole did this too. Did he stand over Deirdre Moller and just think what the fuck happened or did he just move on and treat this like anything else. At least I know that I'm working with a sicko instead of an isolated incident. I notice the hoard of reporters being held back by the yellow tape, all craning their necks trying to get an exclusive shot of the body. A man with scruffy brown hair stands out as he just seems like some blogger and yet he's at the center of the chaos. I think he knows I'm staring at him as he focuses his gaze on me that gives me the shivers. Before I can leave, the owner stops me and gives me a furious look.

"How long is this gonna take?" He shouts. I shrug my shoulders and point over to some innocent patrolman. I should probably feel bad but I do have work to do and Sam is waiting. He waits patiently as I climb into the car.

"Did you speak to the coroner?" He asks. I shake my head.

"Did you look at her personal belongings?" He asks again. I shake my head again.

"For fuck's sake." He mutters as we drive off. Oh right, I forgot to be a detective.

Helen Murphy's house is much cleaner than Greta Reed's apartment. On the outside, it looks as though she kept a clean and tight household. I knock on the door several times before the door cracks open. A small person peers through but doesn't say a word. Suddenly loud stomping approaches and the door swings open to reveal a burly man with presumably his son next to him.

"What?" The father asks accusatory.

"LAPD sir, may we come in?" Sam replies. The man opens the door wider and herds his son farther into the house. We follow and the man points at the couches. We can hear voices from the back of the house while we sit quietly and wait. I decide this is the best time to sketch out our man with his receding hairline and growing beer belly. The husband appears from a corner and plops down on the couch opposite.

"Sorry, my wife isn't here so it's been a mess." He says frankly. Oh shit, he doesn't know. I look to Sam who is grimacing right now. He clears his throat.

"Um, Mr. Murphy your wife… is dead." Sam falls silent to let the husband have a moment. He buries his head in his hand and starts shaking.

"I knew! I knew something was wrong when she didn't return!" He cries. He rubs his forehead and looks down. Suddenly I see a little head peer round the corner.

"Dad?" His son squeaks. The husband looks up and his turn to glass.

"Go to your room young man." He tries to command but it comes out as teenage boy's voice cracking. The son doesn't move and looks at me. He can't be more than six.

"How old are you?" I ask sweetly.

"I'm five." He mumbles. Close enough. I get up and walk over to put my hand of his shoulder.

"That's so old!" I say surprisingly. The boy grins and puffs up his chest.

"What's your name?"

"Chris."

"Well Chris, I have a special mission for you. I need to you to watch the back of the house to make sure no sneaky people are listening to this important conversation. Can you do that?" I hope that was convincing enough. Thankfully it is as Chris nods his head and creeps slowly back around the corner and I hear a door slam. Now that's what I call excellent manipulation. I sit back down triumphantly but reality reels back hard as I see the pained expression of the husband.

"When did you last see your wife?" Sam asks immediately.

"Last night, she was meeting some of her friends at a bar I think." The husband croaks.

"A name?" I ask. He shakes his head.

"But," the husband returns "I can give you her friends, Agatha Benson and Danielle Rozanski." I flip to a new page to write their names down and leave enough space to draw their faces. Meanwhile, Sam is thanking the husband and touches my shoulder and points to the door. I stand up and as I am walking out the door I see Chris round the corner again staring at me with hurt. I know he knows but how can I comfort him?

I ease back down into m office chair and open up my email to look at the coroner's report. Cause of death was strangulation and time of death was around 1:30 in the morning. She did have alcohol in her body but this time no skin in her fingernails. So she was attacked and didn't even fight back. The killer must have taken her by surprise then; I wonder if he's getting better. A chill runs down my spine. I see that another email is commanding Sam and me to be downstairs in front of Naomi in whoa 10 minutes!

"The empress has summoned us." I announce.

"Isn't that offensive." Sam asks. I ponder for a second and half way shake my head and nod at the same time.

"Whatever, let's go." I add. We both get up to leave but before that I pull out the Moller case and rest it on my desk for later.

Naomi seemingly towered over us as we entered the lab. She grumbles something only to turn around to face the computer. She probably said something like 'welcome' or 'hello friends' but I guess she's not in the mood. Naomi clicks a thing and turns to us.

"Well I'm sure you know she was drunk." She quizzes us. We nod our heads.

"And that she was taken by surprise?" We nod our heads again. Naomi genuinely looks surprised as though she never expected to be… gasp cops!

"Well then you won't know that I found trace amounts of soil not found at the crime scene on her chest." She says smugly.

"What does that tell us?" Sam inquires. Naomi distaste returns with a vengeance as her signature scowl spreads across her face.

"It tells you the rough location of the killer." She says. I think she wants to add 'you dumb shits' but that's not Naomi's style. Instead she waves her hand to tell us to leave. I really don't like it when she does that but I guess I might do the same if I had to make sure that a certain place is clean everyday. In the elevator, I think about the two friends of Helen. Honestly, I doubt they know anything but it might be worth investigating; it might even lead to where that soil is. Wait, did Naomi ever tell us where the soil was?

"Did she tell us where the soil was?" Sam took the words out of my mouth. We stand in silence and suddenly turn to each other with wide grins. This time Naomi fucked up! Even though we had to ride the elevator twice, we managed to own Naomi by pretty much yelling at her that she messed up. She didn't particularly like that as she started yelling back (although she did calmly tell us where the soil was from) and somehow managed to summon a dark cloud as the atmosphere changed in the lab. Sam and I ran out, swearing that we'd never rub it in Naomi's face again.

After receiving the addresses of the two friends, we decide to first check out Danielle Rozanski who lives over in Santa Monica. Joy. I feel like that I'm beating a dead horse at this point but seriously what the fuck is LA traffic. Like I'm fairly certain fate just hates me because I feel like every time we are driving there is a problem. Finally we pull up to a quaint house with plastic toys and tricycles littering the front yard. Sam knocks on the door when suddenly we hear barking followed by a flurry of 'Mom!' escaping from the house. The door swings open to reveal a woman with dishevelled mousy brown hair.

"Yes?" she asks slightly tired but also annoyed.

"LAPD ma'am. We just had a few questions concerning your friend Helen Murphy." Who I can assume is Danielle Rozanski does nothing for a moment and simply leaves an opening in the door for us to step inside. She leads us to a living room where we decide to sit on the large beige couch while she sits on the opposite armchair.

"She's in trouble I know. We told her to stop with the drinking but she wouldn't hear it." She starts. I look down at my notebook while trying to find the right words.

"Mrs Rozanski, Helen was found dead this morning." Sam takes up the mantle of breaking the news. Danielle covers her mouth with her shaking hand. Her body goes into spasms and she begins to sob.

"I knew! I knew!" she cries. Well shit, I mean I do get her reaction. One day she was alive and now she's gone forever and that must be weird for our Danielle here but I can't help but feel that strange emotion rising to the surface. I imagine myself screaming at Danielle, telling her to move on and how we've all lost something, but that won't help the case or me. I need to pinch myself occasionally to remind myself that not everyone sees the world the way I do. Trust me, it's a challenge.

"How can I help?" Danielle has a fire in her eyes. I snap out of my trance and think.

"When did you last see her?" I ask.

"She left earlier than Agatha and me, with some guy she met! She was always loyal to her husband so I thought it was weird. I knew I should have called the cops, that man probably date raped her!" Danielle now covers her mouth with both her hands. Sam and I know that didn't happen but it's a warranted thought.

"Did you see the man?" I pressed on. Danielle shakes her head solemnly.

We leave the house and decide our next move in front of the car. On the one hand, we could just charge to the place where the soil is but we don't know a specific place, just an area. On the other hand, we could also go back to the office and analyse the Moller case and maybe we could find a clue there. I mean I know where I would go but once again Sam has stolen the driver's seat again and presumably is waiting for me to get my butt in the car.

"Where are we going now?" I ask, as I get comfortable in the passengers seat.

"Back to the office, we have some evidence to review." He says. I smile as buckle my seatbelt. I guess you could say that we just get each other.