Chapter 1: The Gentleman Killer

Let me tell you, in all my twenty years wearing a badge, I’ve never seen a crime this airtight. Not once. Picture this: a guy who seems like the definition of harmless—soft around the edges, glasses slipping down his nose, the type who’d recommend a good novel or help you carry groceries—turns out to be a killer. He murdered his ex-girlfriend’s father, and get this, did it exactly seven days after burying his own dad. As if that wasn’t enough, he even drove me—the head of Maple Heights’ Major Crimes Unit—to the scene himself, like we were just heading out for coffee.

I still remember how the porch light flickered behind him when he walked me out to his car. He had that easy, trustworthy air—the guy you’d leave your house keys with, or call for a book suggestion. The moment I realized he was capable of something so brutal, it hit me in the gut. It was like finding out your neighbor’s golden retriever, the one that always wags its tail at you, had bitten someone. That kind of shock doesn’t fade quick. I just stood there, reeling.

And then, like clockwork, he struck again every seven days. Over the next twenty-eight days, each week brought another murder, until he’d taken out his ex-girlfriend’s whole family.

It was like he’d marked his calendar in blood, circling each week with another act of violence. Our little town, tight as a drum, started to unravel—folks locking their doors before sunset, eyes darting over fences, rumors flying faster than the wind. The local paper started running stories with headlines so dramatic, you’d think we were living in a true crime special. It was all “shocking tragedy!” and “unthinkable horror!” like they were competing for who could shout the loudest.

But here’s the thing: every single murder was executed with surgical precision. Not a fingerprint, not a stray fiber, nothing. And after each one, he’d seem to show up wherever I was—at the market, at the post office, even at the diner—like he was dropping little breadcrumbs just for me.

He’d pop up at the farmer’s market, give me a nod at the post office, or toss out a casual, “Crime rate’s up, huh?” while I was waiting for my eggs at the diner. It felt like he was playing chess while I was stuck with checkers, always just a move behind, no matter how fast I tried to catch up.

I couldn’t tell if he was trying to show off or just daring us—daring the whole damn universe—to call his bluff and catch him in the act.

Some nights, when the house was quiet and the only sound was the hum of the fridge, I’d replay every run-in with him in my head. I’d search for anything—a nervous tap of his fingers, a quick glance, a misplaced word. But all I ever found was the memory of his laugh, that soft, almost apologetic chuckle, like the kind you hear from a neighbor at a block party.

After it was all over—the last murder, the chase, the arrest—I sat across from him in the interrogation room. I let out a long, tired breath and shook my head. “Ethan Monroe, I get why you’re hurting, but that doesn’t make it right. You’re the sharpest criminal I’ve ever gone up against—your methods are genius, your planning is bulletproof, not a single slip! If you hadn’t come clean, we never would’ve had a shot at you.”

My voice was gravelly, worn down by exhaustion and—strange as it sounds—a grudging respect. The kind of respect you give a rival who almost knocks you out of the playoffs. The only other sound in that room was the old fluorescent light above us, buzzing like a wasp.

He looked up at me and grinned. “Confessed? I wasn’t confessing. I was just messing with your head—helping you see the big picture.”

He said it so easy, like he’d just answered a trivia question on Jeopardy, not like he’d orchestrated a string of murders.

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First Blood: My Ride to the Maple Grove Murder