Soulless
Chapter One: You'll Be Sorry You Caught My Eye
Rating: PG-13 (I think)
Word Count: 1,346
Disclaimer: I own Crossing Jordan. Um, right. That was a lie. I don't own anything. Except my own insanity. I can't even claim to own DVDs for Crossing Jordan.
Summary: A serial killer takes a twisted interest in a certain detective.
Pairing: Woody/Jordan
Author's Note: While my previous fics were more humorous than dramatic or suspenseful, this isn't. It's a pretty big divergence from the others. And my life is unbearably busy, so I won't be able to update as often as I have in the past. Tell me honestly if this sucks. I need to know if I should finish it.

You'll Be Sorry You Caught My Eye

She wore dark glasses. Not to be stylish, though she was always dressed impeccably. Not to be mysterious, though she left many people wondering. She wasn't blind. She wasn't hiding dark bruises or black eyes. She wore these glasses because she didn't have a soul. She knew that it could be seen through her eyes. The eyes had betrayed her before, made her parents turn from her in fear, made her husband avoid her. Though if he'd been smart, he would have left long before she helped him go.

She was cold, that was the excuse he gave her for his infidelity. She hadn't cared. He was a pathetic man, and she'd only married him to escape the mental hospital her parents had wanted to commit her to all those years ago. When he finally died, she was happy. It didn't last long.

Happiness never lasted. Not for her. She hated people. Everyone. She didn't care that the world was growing worse and worse by the day. It made sense. What bothered her were the people who fought against that tide, who were happy, kind, generous, and hopeful despite reality. Good Samaritans, philanthropists, she hated them. They were too good for this world. And she was willing to remove them. They had no place here. Not anymore.

Like the man who had held the door open for her. He was young, wholesome, with an odd innocence and genuine smile. She encountered dozens of men who fell over themselves in an attempt to gain access to her body, but he was only looking after her well-being. She could have been ugly, old, fat, young, tall, short, even odorous, and he would still have opened the door for her. If he'd been a pig like all other men, if he'd seen nothing more than the supple, youthful body that was the envy of her peers, it would have been ordinary, dismissible. But his kindness irritated her.

She watched him, filled with hatred. He'd been kind, courteous to the idiot taking the orders, even after three pathetic screw-ups. The woman who accompanied him had not been so generous, and he'd pulled her back, calmed her down.

"It's not that hard to be sympathetic, Jordan," he told her, helping her to a table. This Jordan was cynical, world weary, and dismissed without another thought.

"Sympathetic? We're not in Wisconsin, Farm Boy. This is Boston. And that pig deserved it."

"Sure. When he tries to kill you, don't ask for my help," the man muttered, reaching for his coffee. And Jordan smiled, unaware of their observer. Yes, the man had said no, but it was obvious that he didn't mean it. He'd go through hell for the woman by his side.

The woman with the dark glasses finally smiled. She had just found her next victim.

The call Woody got that interrupted his—and Jordan's—breakfast led them to an upscale apartment on the north side of Boston. This was the home of Gerald Brown, fifty-three, and his wife, Beatrice. Brown was a renowned philanthropist and businessmen. Two days ago, his wife had reported him missing. She had returned from her sister's this morning to find him here, dead.

"He used his key. No sign of forced entry," Woody commented, watching Jordan go over the body. She was good at this. Too good.

"Single stab wound to the heart, looks like your cause of death, but I'll need to make sure." That was Jordan. Never accepting the obvious. She studied Brown again. "Lividity's not set. He's still warm. Probably dead less than an hour."

"That fits with the surveillance," Woody agreed. "He entered the building at 7:56. Hit the eleventh floor at 7:58. Wife found him at 8:10. She came home for some necessities. She's been staying with her sister since her husband disappeared. She was still standing in the doorway when the neighbors reached her. Screaming. Never entered the room."

"That doesn't make sense, Woody. No one could have stabbed Brown and escaped in that short of a window. The door was locked, right? It's the eleventh floor—"

"No balcony. Fire escape is down the hall."

"And there wasn't anyone on the surveillance tape?"

"No. I don't think anyone's had time to tamper with it, but I'll have Nigel look at it just in case," Woody said, looking around the apartment. Brown was filthy. The apartment was pristine. Everything was so white it was near blinding, and the wife had been hysterical enough to scream at people to take off their shoes. "He must have been held somewhere…"

"We'll probably find something on trace," Jordan told him, standing to pat him on the arm reassuringly.

He nodded. She looked at him, sensing his mood, and he shook his head as he walked away. He didn't want to talk about it now. He knew that there was no way that Mrs. Brown had killed her husband. It was almost a locked room murder, but there was no way this could be suicide. No one had time to remove the knife, and there wasn't one near the body…or in the body, where it should have been if this was suicide. No one had been in the apartment before the scene was secured.

This kind of case was hell. Brown was revered. So was his widow.

Woody had better run down the missing persons detective who had the Brown case. When the discovery was made, Rhodes was out pursuing a lead. Woody hoped it helped solve the murder.

"Detective," Mrs. Brown called as he walked out of the apartment. She'd been taken in by her neighbors, unwilling to leave and not allowed into the crime scene. Reluctantly, he went over to her. She was still crying. "Why would anyone kill Gerry?"

"We don't know that, Mrs. Brown. We're going to find out," he promised, thinking that he should have been asking her that question. "I know you probably told Detective Rhodes, but…do you have any idea who could have been behind your husband's disappearance?"

She shook her head, bursting into tears. Woody felt like a heel just for doing his job. He let the woman neighbor who'd helped Mrs. Brown before usher her back into the other apartment and gratefully ducked into the elevator.

He was about to push the button when he stopped with a curse. "Jordan!"

She came out of the Brown apartment, frowning at him. "You bellowed?"

He pointed to the elevator. Her eyes widened, and she started working without a word.

She found it intriguing that the man she'd targeted that morning was a policeman. A homicide detective. How could he continue to be so nice, so optimistic and caring was unbelievable. Oh, she had seen sides of him that weren't as giving and generous as he vented his frustration and anger over her latest victim's confusing death, but at the core…He was a nice man. A gentleman.

It was a shame that she had to wait at least another week before killing him. She would have to be content with the other one. A real bleeding heart, Mr. Martin. Barely lived from day to day because he gave everything he had to his charities. Volunteered at a homeless shelter. Was a Big Brother. Was considered by many a saint.

She wanted him dead. Sadly, not as much as she wanted Hoyt dead. She paused. She had never cared about any of the other policemen who had tried to find her victims or solve their murders. They never came close enough to worry her. Hoyt didn't even know she existed.

She wanted him dead.

She wanted him to suffer.

She looked at Martin, his foolish good nature leading him to stop for the woman with the flat tire. She smiled at him, using her petite frame to exaggerate an innocence and helplessness that did not exist.

She knew how to torture Hoyt. More good Samaritans would die. And he would be the one trying to solve every murder.

With vicious glee, she hit Martin with the tire iron.