Blood of Gato

William was listening to the new Riders album with his friends when the message came: he was to report to the dean's office. Apparently, two detectives were waiting for him. Every fiber of his being longed to refuse, to walk away and never enter that room. The last interrogation had been more than enough. But refusing now would only fuel suspicion—and lately, suspicion was the one thing he could not afford more of.

Is it those two again? I thought I'd cut off any trail they could follow. Why drag me back into this? I had an alibi for the night Mateo died. And the mask—there's no way his girlfriend could recognize me. Then why do I feel like I left something undone, some fatal trace that's pulling them back to me? It can't be about Valentin's people. That's impossible. The bodies are buried deep. No one will find them. No... this must be about something else.

His mind swayed between paranoia and icy panic, whispering: It's over. They know. But the darker side of him— the beast crouched within—smothered fear beneath its heavy paw. He needed to remain calm, unremarkable. Just another student, nothing more.

When William opened the dean's office door, he found the two detectives seated comfortably, chatting idly over cups of tea. He recognized the woman with the ink-black hair instantly, but the balding man with the trimmed beard was a less familiar face.

"Excuse me… I was told you wanted to see me?" William asked, his voice uneven as he stepped inside.

Anna set down her cup, motioned him closer, and smiled with practiced warmth.

"William, thank you for coming. I hope you remember me—I'm Detective Anna. And this is Karl, also a detective. Ha! Not quite as sharp as Sam, but far from our worst, I promise." She winked at her colleague, who only nodded in reply.

"Yes, I remember you," William replied, forcing his lips into something that resembled a smile. "And your partner too. Last time, you asked me why my wallet was found at the scene of…" —he hesitated, as if searching for the right phrasing— "that gruesome murder." He tilted his head as though straining to recall details, though the truth was etched into him all too vividly. He remembered the sharp, frozen air of that night. The cruel quiet when teeth sank into a throat. He remembered everything, and more than he wished—but none of it reached his face. His mask was steady.

"Exactly." Anna inched closer, letting her hand rest lightly, almost casually, on his knee. "You mentioned then that you'd been mugged earlier. But you never gave us much detail. Has anything come back to you? Even the smallest thing could matter."

William knew the strategy immediately: the woman playing the good cop, coaxing him with gentleness, while the silent man bore down on him with his unblinking stare. He drew in a slow breath. His heightened senses unwrapped the subtle odors in the room—pumpkin-spiced coffee, underscored with mint and a bright note of citrus. Recognition struck him like a blade. He knew that blend.

"They talked to Sophie."

The thought surged up, cold and brutal, and the beast inside stirred.

"Um…" William shifted his gaze to Karl. The detective sat with his arms folded, observing—not so much his face as the silences between his words.

"That night… I was coming back from class. It was already dark, around nine, maybe. I cut through by the old warehouses—it's faster that way. Two guys ran up, I think. One stayed behind me, the other in front. Nothing unusual—they shoved me, grabbed my wallet, and bolted. I figured there was no point reporting it. It wasn't much money."

"Detectives, I really don't know what else to tell you." His fingers worried at the edge of the chair, as if it might splinter and collapse beneath him. "It was dark, I was exhausted, and that was a month ago. What's the point now?"

He buried his face in his hands—not only to shield his eyes, but to hide the flicker of a smile tugging at his lips. You want a performance? Fine. I'll give you one. He inhaled like a diver holding breath, then forced tears on the exhale. Properly done—dry sobs, small convulsions of his shoulders, a rasp edging his voice. His throat burned with exertion.

"You don't understand how terrified I am," he burst out. "That psycho could have seen my photo in the wallet—what if he comes after me? What do I do then? You… you keep spinning me in circles," he choked, blinking rapidly. "Every time I see the news, another victim, I imagine—it'll be me next. Or maybe he'll go after my family. And you want details… I don't know them, and I don't want to!" His voice cracked, splintering like brittle wood.

The chair screeched against linoleum as he lurched to his feet. His breaths came in ragged bursts, the vein at his temple hammering visibly. To them he looked cornered; to himself, he was simply gauging how convincingly the prey could bleed.

"Easy, kid," Karl lifted his hands, palms open. "Nobody's going to hurt you. We're just trying to figure out if you saw anything useful. Sit down, breathe. I give you my word—neither you nor your family is in danger. Be honest, and I'll personally drive by your house every night. Deal?"

Anna slid a tissue toward him and motioned toward the water pitcher.

"Here. Maybe some water?" Her gaze was soft, careful—but beneath the softness, the steel glimmered: How many more will it take? Guilt pricked her stomach, heavy with each case unsolved.

She touched Karl's forearm lightly.

"Let's give him a moment," she whispered. "And talk in private."

Karl nodded, then turned to William.

"We'll step outside. Collect yourself, alright? We'll be right back."

The door closed, cutting the world into two parts: inside, only his quickening breath and the smell of pumpkin coffee laced with citrusy mint; outside, muted footsteps, light switches, voices like distant ghosts. William exhaled heavily, relief flooding him like water breaking through a dam.

Damn it. They keep digging. That wallet—my one mistake. He cursed under his breath. On the desk—an empty gum wrapper, crushed to shining silver. In the seat's fabric, a pale strand of hair. Sophie had been here. They questioned her. His mind snagged, darkly. What could she have told them? Not much. We've been apart too long… although that night—she called to me, on the staircase. Heart-Eater. And the cop—he saw me. Perfect. If they bring a witness, I'm done.

The handle clicked softly. They were back.

Inside, the beast stirred—slow, deliberate, unfurling its tail. We could end this now. All of it. And walk away untouched.

William didn't let it surface. He straightened in his seat, palms resting neatly on his knees. His fingers shook with just the right tremor, as if wrung from fear, not calculation.

"Detectives," he said, voice barely audible, "please… can I go now? Talking about these murders… I really don't feel well."

The door shut softly behind them, and the room filled again with the sound of his own breathing. William pressed the back of his hand against his damp eyes, streaking away the false tears. His chest still hitched, perfectly timed remnants of the performance—convincing enough to echo in their ears if either of them was listening at the door.

Karl glanced at Anna. She gave a small nod, but didn't speak right away—she let her gaze sink into her cup for a moment before finally lifting her eyes.

"Of course, William. Just one question and we'll let you go, alright? Were you at Sophie's apartment three weeks ago in the evening?"

He nodded too quickly.

"Yes,"—his voice tightened, thinner. "She called me. Said she felt unwell. I… drove over to her. But Tyron was closer. He showed up first. I didn't stay, I turned around and went straight home. Is… something wrong?"

Karl tilted his head, eyes fixed on the laces of William's sneakers, staring at them with sudden, strange interest.

"What time did you head out?" he asked, with a tone of casual indifference. "Before ten?"

"About… eight-fifty-two, I think." William's jaw clenched just faintly. "I wasn't checking the clock. I could be off."

"I see," Anna said gently. "Tell me, did you notice anything unusual outside her building? A strange car, someone in a hood, flashes of light maybe? Anything, even small."

"No," William shook his head, pulling in a breath identical to the one he'd used moments ago—shallow, practiced. "Nothing. I'm sorry."

Anna studied his face a moment longer: damp lashes, the faint reddening of his nose, the slight tremor of his lower lip. All convincing details. Maybe… too convincing.

"Alright," she said finally, pushing the box of tissues toward him—though he'd already dried his face. "We won't hold you. But if something surfaces, no matter when—call us. Night or morning, it doesn't matter."

Karl stood, sliding his chair back carefully, deliberately, so it didn't squeal on the floor. Then, as if offhandedly, he asked:

"And, William… what do you think of the nickname Gato the journalists gave the second killer?"

Something in William jerked, a thread plucked taut. His vision darkened for a flicker of a heartbeat; a sharp pulse throbbed at his temple. Outwardly, nothing changed—only a tiny twitch beneath his eye. He drew in a slow, deliberate breath, just as a therapist might instruct, then smiled softly, revealing the dimple in his cheek.

"I think the nickname's stupid," he said evenly. "In Spanish it just means 'cat.' Why call a murderer a cat?"

Karl spread his hands.

"I agree—not much of a name. But they gave it to him because of his eyes. Cat-like pupils," he demonstrated by narrowing his fingers into slits. "They say the guy can see in the dark. And he's got claws…" Karl trailed off, then smirked. "Sharp enough to cut like a scalpel. Ha. You think he licks himself between the legs too, like a cat?"

"Karl," Anna raised her brow reproachfully—but couldn't quite stifle a smile.

They both laughed, briefly, that restrained kind of laughter people use to break tension when the silence gets too heavy.

William did not laugh. Beneath their chuckle, he heard something else—some subterranean vibration that pressed against his ribs like an animal growl only he could hear. And in his head, faces flared, voices screaming—too vivid, too raw to describe. Without realizing, he passed his tongue across his upper lip. A dry taste of metal bloomed in his mouth, as if from bitten skin.

"Amusing, detective," he said politely as he rose. "But excuse me, I've got chemistry class in ten minutes."

He left quickly, without looking back. Crossing the threshold in one long breath—as though stepping over a line where his restraint might snap.

For a moment, the office fell silent. Then Anna and Karl exchanged glances. Without a word, both slipped on light nitrile gloves. Karl lifted the paper cup carefully with two fingers and slid it into a clear evidence bag, locked it with a zip seal. Anna nudged the crumpled tissue into another bag with the edge of a ruler, her handwriting neat and precise as she marked the place, time, and initials.

"You saw how his face changed when I…" Karl searched for the word, then gave a dry chuckle.

"When you blurted out something about licking himself?" Anna arched a brow, lips pressed to keep from smiling. "Yes, I saw. But still, I think you're pushing it. We vetted him with Sam already. Clean. The night Mateo was killed, he was being watched. He never left his house."

"I know," Karl said quietly, running his thumb along the seam of the evidence bag. "But something about him doesn't add up. When I was at war in South America, I came across men like that kid. Bastards who could smile at you, soft as sheep, make you think they were the kindest souls on earth—right before they gutted you and your whole village. I don't know how to explain it better, but my gut tells me something's off with that son of a bitch."

Anna sighed, sliding the evidence bag into a flat envelope.

"Alright, gut instinct is good, but facts are better. We've got his DNA now. We hand it over to the lab, get it compared to the blood samples we found, and…" she trailed off, sealing the envelope shut with a strip of tape. "If anything matches, he's in our pocket. If not—we cross him off the list."

Karl narrowed his eyes, tapping his fingernail against the desk as though marking time against some private rhythm.

"Don't tell anyone yet, okay? Not Sam. Not the night shift. We don't need a third person in the loop right now. Let's keep this between us."

"Alright." Anna nodded. "I'll take it over myself. Tonight."

They sat in silence for a minute more, listening to the tick of a clock on the other side of the wall.

And neither of them knew a third person was already listening. William's sharpened hearing had caught every word.