ECHOES OF A SIGNATURE

The Profiler's Mask

Chapter 2: The Profiler’s Mask

The bloody handprint on the wall hadn’t been there that morning. Jason stood frozen, staring at it. The print was fresh. Wet. Real.

He scanned the apartment—silent.

No broken windows. No forced entry. No footsteps. Just him… and the bloody signature from a ghost.

He stepped back, heart hammering. His instincts screamed for logic, evidence—but his gut told a different story.

Someone had been in here.

Someone who knew.

Jason grabbed his Glock from the drawer, moved methodically from room to room—closet, kitchen, bathroom.

Empty.

No sign of a break-in, yet the handprint stared back like a curse.

He wiped it off with a cloth, fingers shaking, then burned it in the sink.

He couldn’t report it. Not yet. Not until he was sure he wasn’t losing it again.

8:00 a.m. – FBI Headquarters, Quantico

Jason walked into the incident room, caffeine and adrenaline barely keeping him afloat. The new murder case was already plastered across the board: the victim—a young woman, late twenties—found in a motel bathtub, eyes open, throat slit. No ID. No witnesses. And that same cryptic, six-fingered handprint.

"Morning, Holt." Agent Reyes waved him over. "Autopsy results just came in. Wanna see something sick?"

Jason nodded.

Reyes slid him a tablet. “Victim’s cause of death: exsanguination. But here's the strange part—the killer used a sedative. Same one your parents' tox report showed ten years ago.”

Jason’s spine stiffened. “You sure?”

“Same chemical fingerprint. Uncommon. Military-grade origin.”

Jason looked up, voice cold. “So this isn’t a copycat.”

“Nope,” Reyes muttered. “We’ve got a repeater who waited ten years to kill again. Or someone who never stopped but just started leaving signs.”

Jason’s head buzzed. “I need the motel security footage. And access to the raw crime scene photos.”

Reyes raised an eyebrow. “Digging deep?”

Jason nodded. “I’ve seen this before.”

2:35 p.m. – FBI Forensics Lab

The motel security footage was grainy, black and white. Jason watched it frame by frame.

1:03 a.m. – The victim entered alone.

1:27 a.m. – A shadow passed the hallway camera. No face. Just a tall silhouette.

1:42 a.m. – Camera static.

1:59 a.m. – The door to Room 17 opened slightly—then shut.

No one came out.

Jason paused. Rewound. Zoomed in.

On the hallway wall, during the static distortion, a faint glimpse of that handprint appeared. Only for a second—then vanished.

“What the hell…” he whispered.

Then a chill slid down his spine. There was something even stranger.

At 2:00 a.m., a second figure entered the frame. Hooded. Lean. Moving with familiarity. They reached into their coat and pulled out a phone.

Jason leaned in, breath still.

The figure typed into the phone.

The timestamp matched the moment he received the voicemail.

Jason had been watched.

4:45 p.m. – Jason’s Office

He shut the blinds and locked the door. The connection between him and the killer was no longer just symbolic—it was personal.

He laid out two crime scene photos—his parents and the motel victim. Side by side.

He noticed something subtle for the first time.

In both scenes, the bodies were arranged facing east. Their eyes—staring in the same direction.

Why?

Jason grabbed a compass and overlaid a street map of both crime scenes.

His jaw tensed.

The locations—his childhood home and the motel—formed a perfect line.

He traced it further across the map. His breath caught.

The next potential location… was his ex-girlfriend’s apartment.

7:12 p.m. – Emily Lane’s Apartment

Emily was the last person Jason had been vulnerable with before he shut the world out. A forensic artist. Smart. Brave. Left because he never let her in.

Now, she might be next.

He banged on the door. “Emily!”

Nothing.

His pulse climbed. He banged harder.

Then the door creaked open slowly. Unlocked.

The apartment was dark. Quiet.

“Emily!” he called again.

Jason stepped in, hand gripping his gun.

He moved cautiously down the hallway. Kitchen—clear. Living room—clear.

Then he reached her bedroom.

And stopped cold.

There, drawn across the far wall in blood:

“You forgot her too.”

A six-fingered handprint smeared underneath.

His stomach twisted.

Then—he heard it. A faint sound.

From the closet.

He yanked it open—

Emily was inside, gagged and tied, eyes wide with terror.

Before Jason could untie her, his phone vibrated again.

Blocked number.

He picked it up.

The distorted voice returned:

“Good, Jason. You're remembering. Now let’s see what else you’ve buried.”

Then the line cut.

Behind him, the bedroom window shattered.