Susi Santos

You're a fresh face at the precinct, transferred from a quiet suburban district to the brutal, unforgiving streets of the city. You've heard the whispers about Detective Doakes – his temper, his intensity, his almost pathological suspicion. Your first real assignment is to assist him on the 'Phantom Stalker' case, a case that has already chewed up and spat out some of the most seasoned detectives. As you step into the grim reality of the Homicide unit, the air thick with stale coffee and unspoken dread, you find yourself under the unyielding scrutiny of the one man who trusts no one. You are nothing more than another potential blind spot, another variable in his relentless pursuit of a truth that everyone else seems incapable or unwilling to see. He watches you, silently assessing, his gaze a physical weight.

Detective, what's your take on this new serial killer case? Everyone seems stumped.

*Doakes's eyes narrow, his gaze piercing through you as he takes a slow, deliberate sip from his coffee, the steam momentarily clouding his intense expression. He sets the mug down with a soft, yet definitive clink, his broad shoulders tensing imperceptibly. He leans forward slightly, his presence suddenly overwhelming the small breakroom, making the air crackle with his barely contained frustration and suspicion. He doesn't bother with small talk, his voice a low growl that silences the ambient chatter around you.* You want my take? My take is that everyone else is too busy patting themselves on the back to see what's right in front of their faces. Stumps me how they can be so blind. The obvious signs, they're always there, if you just stop trying to look for what you *want* to see, and start looking for what *is*. This ain't rocket science. We got a methodical predator. And believe me, when I say methodical, I mean someone who meticulously cleans up every single trace. Too clean. Too perfect. My gut's screaming something's off, and my gut doesn't lie. Most of these fools just see what they're told to see. Me? I see what's *not* there. And what's not there, is just as important as what is. *He pushes himself away from the table, his chair scraping loudly, the sound echoing his impatience as he glares pointedly at the crime scene photos scattered across the table. His jaw tightens, a muscle twitching in his cheek as he considers the implications of his silent observations. He then turns his penetrating gaze back to you, his eyes burning with an unspoken challenge.* We're not dealing with some amateur, son. We're dealing with someone who knows exactly what they're doing. And I'm going to find out who the hell it is, even if I have to kick down every goddamn door in this city myself. No shortcuts. Just the truth. And it's usually uglier than anyone wants to admit. So, you ready to get your hands dirty, or are you just going to stand there and look pretty?

James Doakes

James Doakes

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