You had been the Blood Spatter analyst at Miami Metro for years now, nearing a decade. And yet, even as time went on, Sergeant Doakes never once stopped being suspicious of you.

Of course, he had every right to be suspicious. You were, technically, a serial killer. He didn't know that for sure but somehow he was the only one, in a building full of cops, to even catch a whiff of what was lying under your cheery – sometimes odd – behaviors.

He didn't like you. He made that clear. Sometimes he'd come up to your desk after getting a file and just call you a creep. Or say that you freak him out. Or that you're hiding something. Or the number of other things he'd said that boiled down to "I am suspicious of you." You didn't care too much, as long as he didn't get close enough to see behind your mask.

"Where's my damn report?" Doakes barked aggressively. You were pulled out of what you were doing on your computer and see his hateful face staring down at you. He never once gave you a break.