Chapter 4: The Dove

The bullpen was louder than usual that morning. Phones rang, printers jammed, and someone was cursing at the coffee machine again. The city never slept, and neither did its demons.

Marla Simmons stood by the evidence board, arms crossed, while Rory Wallace sat perched on the edge of his desk, flipping through the missing-persons files again.

Before either could speak, the glass door opened.

Linda Park stepped inside. She was in her late fifties, of Korean descent, her short black hair streaked with gray and neatly brushed behind her ears. Her clothes were casual but conservative — a plain beige cardigan over a floral blouse, slacks that had seen better days, and scuffed loafers. There was a kind of frumpy grace about her — not polished, but real. She looked like someone who’d been up since dawn doing something that mattered.

The detectives who didn’t know her lowered their voices as she passed. Linda carried an unassuming air, but it was the kind that quietly demanded respect.

“Detectives Simmons. Wallace.”

“Pastor Park,” Marla said, straightening. “We were expecting you.”

Linda smiled faintly. “I’d hope so. You’ve got five of my children on your board.”

Rory exhaled. “We’re doing everything we can.”

Linda stepped closer to the table, scanning the faces pinned to it — Patrick Sheehan, Brody Miller, Melissa Stockman, Tami Paulson, and Alicia Wilson.

“Five souls,” she said softly, more to herself than to them. “All too young. All too lost.”

Marla gestured to the chair near her desk. “Please, have a seat. We’d like to go over some of the details again.” Marla explains her theory about how these are connected. It has happened before in many cities where sex workers are targeted.

Linda sat, placing her leather folder neatly on her lap. “I appreciate your fervor and your instinct, but I just don’t see it.”

Marla blinked. “You don’t?”

“No,” Linda said, shaking her head. “The two boys — Patrick and Brody — yes. Their deaths share something. Brutal, intimate, ritualistic perhaps. But Melissa, Tami, and Alicia… they don’t fit.”

“That’s not what the data suggests,” Marla said carefully.

Linda looked up, calm but certain. “Detective, data doesn’t always tell the whole story. The boys lived on the street. The others didn’t. Melissa Stockman hadn’t worked the corners for years — she was a regular dancer at The Smoking Gun on Broadway. Tami Paulson never walked at all; she did her business through message boards, personals, and those new internet chat rooms. And Alicia…”

Her voice faltered slightly.

“Both Tami and Alicia could still be alive.”

Rory frowned. “That’s wishful thinking.”

Linda’s eyes were steady. “It’s faith. They are resourceful. Smart. I’ve seen girls vanish before and come back when they needed help. I pray that’s all this is.”

Marla shifted, a hint of unease in her tone. “So you’re saying we’re chasing separate cases?”

“I’m saying,” Linda said softly, “you might be chasing one killer for the boys, another for Melissa… and two souls still searching for a way home.”

Marla hesitated, then nodded. “Alright. But that still leaves one connection. They were all sex workers.”

Linda smiled sadly. “Yes. That’s what binds them — the one thing that makes everyone stop caring.”

Rory leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Then give us something, Pastor. Anything that can help us find them.”

Linda’s eyes moved from him to Marla, and her voice dropped low, almost like a prayer. “Promise me you’ll find whoever’s doing this to my children. Don’t let them become just another line in your reports.”

Marla held her gaze for a long moment. “You have my word.”

Before Linda could respond, Derek and Jaxson came out of the interrogation room. Derek’s blond hair was neatly parted, just beginning to recede, his tailored suit sharp enough to make half the bullpen glance up. He looked like he hadn’t missed a workout in ten years and hadn’t slept properly in five. Behind him, Jaxson moved with the kind of still confidence that drew eyes and suspicion in equal measure.

The moment Linda saw Jaxson, she froze for a slight moment.

Their eyes met — only for a second — but the silence that followed was enough to draw every detective’s attention. There was recognition there, something layered: history, maybe guilt, maybe grace.

Then it was gone and the two men left the bullpen.

Linda smiled at Marla and Rory, “Thank you, Detectives. I have to get to the church to prepare for today’s service. I’ll be praying for your work.” Linda gathered herself and left the bullpen.

Whitaker and Ray walked up to Marla and Rory’s desks. Only then did Rory exhale. “You catch that?”

Marla looked up from the files. “You mean her talk about multiple killers?”

Ray shook his head. “No. That look. Between her and Jaxson Lee.”

Marla frowned. “Yeah. I caught it.”

Whitaker, still standing nearby, set his coffee down. “Good. Then I’m not crazy.”

Mendez smirked. “Yet.”

Whitaker ignored him, eyes on the door where Linda had vanished. “Whatever that was — it wasn’t just recognition. It was history.”

Marla’s voice dropped. “Maybe both.”

© 2025 James William Jackson III. All rights reserved. “Jaxson Lee” and all related content are original fictional works created by James William Jackson III. Any resemblance to actual persons, events, or locations is purely coincidental.