The Sixth
TW: Disturbing content, violence, murder
One thing Bradley always says is, “To catch a serial killer, you must take the route they follow and arrive at the destination before they do.”
He says it like it’s something learned, something practiced. Like it doesn’t come naturally.
Bradley is my partner on the force. A hothead, I must say. He joined years before me and knows the ropes inside out. He’s a large man—bald, with a thick, overgrown moustache.
I, on the other hand, am an average guy. Not intimidating. The kind you can walk past on the street and never think twice about.
I joined the force about eight years ago. It was a decision I’d carried with me since I was a kid—ever since my dad went missing. Still a mystery to this day what happened to him. My mom raised us—my sister and me. We didn’t have much back then. She took odd jobs here and there just to make ends meet.
I don’t talk to her much now. I went my own way after high school—got a scholarship, left home, and never really went back.
The city breathes differently at night.
It exhales.
The lights hum, stretching thin over the streets, leaving the alleys to swallow what they can’t quite reach. People move slower, or faster—it’s hard to tell which. There’s a rhythm to it. Something almost hypnotic.
The chill air bit at my skin as I walked down the sidewalk. Tall buildings loomed over me, watchful. I wonder if a killer is less likely to get caught in daylight—or if night is when people stop paying attention.
It’s easier to slip through the cracks of the night crowd. Everyone’s dazed, caught in the hypnotic rhythm of it all. The restless movement of nightcrawlers. Honking taxis with petulant drivers.
With a serial killer on the loose, following their route is almost impossible. We’re up to five victims in the last two months. All found in alleyways near their apartment buildings. All women in their twenties. Bound with shoelaces, beaten in the same pattern. Gagged with their own hair. No signs of sexual assault.
The only pattern: brunettes with long hair.
No witnesses. No DNA. No leads.
The case consumes me. But tonight, I’m taking a break. Tonight, I’m meeting someone.
I met her three weeks ago at a crime scene. She lives in the same building as the victim. We spoke to a few tenants, including her. She didn’t know the victim personally, but said she’d seen her around. She was cooperative—offered to call if she remembered anything else.
We’ve been out a few times since then.
She has a roommate she’s always arguing with. She’s an only child, raised by a single parent. On our first date, we went to see a horror movie. She has this thing she does when a jumpscare is looming—she looks down at her popcorn.
I noticed it.
It’s... cute.
A group of drunk people spills onto the street, laughing, stumbling over each other like gravity has suddenly doubled. They nearly bump into me as they pass.
I’ve been to her place a few times. She has a large window that overlooks the street. I told her how easy it would be for someone out there to watch her. She didn’t care.
I like that about her—how she doesn’t seem to care. Like she lives on the edge. She likes being seen.
Still, with a killer on the loose, I wouldn’t want her becoming a target.
She dyed her hair blonde recently. I guess that puts her off the radar.
Finally. I hurry down the street to the diner we’re supposed to meet at. I know I’m late. It’s 9 p.m.—she said 8.
You know how people talk about love at first sight? I don’t think this is love. But it’s something. Something close to it.
I was thinking of telling her tonight.
Telling her how I feel. How I want her to draw her curtains at night. How I don’t like the idea of anyone looking at her.
She’s… leaving.
She looks upset.
I stop across the street, watching her walk away. I want to go to her. Apologize. Hold her. I shouldn’t just stand here and watch her like this.
A strand of hair falls across her face. She doesn’t brush it away. She’s hiding.
A tear, maybe.
Her shoulders slump. Her hands fold in front of her. She glances over her shoulder—like someone’s following her.
I turn too.
Then I start walking behind her, careful not to be seen.
I know she wouldn’t want me following her.
There’s something she said the third time I saw—she doesn’t like the city. Said her roommate slept with her boyfriend. She cried that night.
I remember how it felt to watch.
Like I wasn’t supposed to be there.
Like I’d seen something I shouldn’t have.
When I was thirteen, they found dad’s body in a drained lake. People talked about it for weeks. Detectives came by the house, asked questions—never to me. I was three when he disappeared.
I know they suspected mom.
I think she did it too.
She never spoke about him unless it was to talk about what he did to her. How he ruined her life. How he hurt her.
Is murder ever a solution?
She took our father from us. And we paid for it.
Sometimes I wonder what it would have been like to have a dad.
We turn a corner. Her apartment building comes into view.
Her roots are showing—dark brown beneath the blonde.
I close the distance between us.
I want to reach out. Tell her I’m here. That I’ll protect her. That the man who stood her up isn’t worth it.
That her boyfriend is lying—he’s with her roommate right now.
I know because I care.
I want to tell her that even if she doesn’t know me… I know her. Better than anyone ever could.
She buzzes herself in. I slip through before the door shuts.
She doesn’t notice.
I follow her upstairs.
The thought settles in my mind. This time, I don’t push it away.
She unlocks her door.
And I know—this is the only chance I’ll get.
The hallway is empty. Silent.
I move.
I can tell it's different this time. I’ve never really done it in their apartment before.
Her head hits the doorframe before she can react. She goes limp.
I drag her inside. Close the door behind us.
Sometimes I wonder what made me start doing this.
What went wrong.
I can never figure it out.
I hate it when they don’t struggle.
It feels like something is missing. Like skipping the part that matters.
That’s why I bind and gag her. I wait for her to wake.
I want to see it—the fear. Feel it settle in.
Feel her skin against my fingertips.
I’m not like other men.
There are lines I don’t cross.
But I like watching them helpless. The tears. The pleading.
And the best part—the moment they go still beneath my hands.
Tomorrow, I’ll be back at the station.
Six victims.
No leads.
No one notices the man standing right in front of them.
This reminds me of The Bone Collector