Cook County Morgue greeted him with the dry scent of formalin, the cold glare of ceiling lamps, and a silence that rang louder than any scream. The door shut heavily behind him, as if sealing off the world of the living from the world of the dead.
Medical examiner Dr. Hoffman was already waiting by the table covered with a white sheet. Beside it sat an evidence box, a metal container, and a plastic bag with the victim's blood-soaked clothes.
Frank Lundy walked in with a quiet, almost weightless step. In his hand — a paper cup of coffee, cold and untouched. He set it on the table.
"Show me," he said softly.
Dr. Hoffman folded back the sheet.
Maria Radford's body lay motionless, pale, almost as if painted.
Her abdomen had been opened by the pendulum — a deep, perfectly clean cut that nearly split her in half. On her wrists were the marks from the clamps: torn skin, shredded muscle.
And — just below her chest — a piece of skin carved out in the shape of a jigsaw puzzle piece.
His signature, Frank thought.
He examined it first.
"The size is… almost identical to the previous ones," he said, eyes fixed on the wound. "But the cut is cleaner. That means our killer's hand is steadier now."
"Or he's gained experience," detective Lindsay Hale added beside him.
Lundy didn't answer. He was already studying the injuries from the mechanism.
"The pendulum," he murmured. "Heavy, metallic. A perfect arc. The mechanism was well-oiled. This wasn't something built in a garage."
Dr. Hoffman nodded.
"The blade made contact with consistent force. The motor ran smoothly. No jumps, no rattling."
Lundy circled the table, leaned closer, studying the marks on her ribs.
"The pendulum wasn't designed to give her a chance," he said. "It was designed to kill her — slowly, but inevitably."
"A choice exists," he added calmly. "Die quickly… or slowly, in agony. Look."
He pointed at the wrists.
"To slow the pendulum, she had to put both arms into the screw mechanism. To feed them through the gears. The price was too high."
"She tried?" Sanders asked.
The doctor lifted a tablet with photographs.
"Yes. Her left arm — completely destroyed. Fingers crushed. But…" he flipped to another image. "The right one is only partially damaged. She pulled it out too early. The mechanism restarted."
"So the pendulum…" the detective began.
"Yes," the doctor confirmed. "It sliced open her abdomen. Death within ten to twenty seconds."
Lundy stared at the body without disgust. He didn't see blood — he saw craftsmanship.
"What about the skin?" he asked.
The doctor lifted the container. Inside lay the neat puzzle-shaped piece of flesh.
"It was cut out after death," Hoffman said. "Very clean. One swift movement."
"He wasn't in a hurry," Lundy murmured. "He was sure no one would come."
Lindsay folded her arms.
"And now what? He's killed a third person. And no one has the slightest idea who he is. All we have is his nickname: Jigsaw."
"He wants the connection to be obvious," Lundy said. "He wants his style to be readable. He wants people afraid. Because at any moment he can come for any killer."
He leaned closer to the corpse, running a gloved finger along the edge of the incision.
"Every element here is a message."
Dr. Hoffman lifted an eyebrow.
"And what is he saying?"
Lundy looked up with the same calm, cold gaze.
"That he sees himself as a judge. And believes he's doing what the system can't."
A pause.
"And that this isn't the last time," he added.
The doctor pulled the sheet back over the body. Lundy removed his gloves, tossed them into the disposal bin, and took his cold coffee.
At the door he stopped — as if listening to the morgue's silence.
"This killer is growing," he said. "And soon he'll be confident enough to move on to the next stage."
Dr. Hoffman frowned.
"To what?"
Lundy looked at the bright white sheet covering Maria's body.
"He may start playing with us."
Meanwhile, in his apartment, John sat calmly, leaning back in his chair, listening to quiet classical music. And in that moment he drifted into thought — back to the past.
The Morgan house late in the evening always sounded the same: the ticking of the clock above the kitchen table, the occasional whoosh of a passing car, and muffled voices from the living room. That night the rain tapped at the windows more persistently than usual — as if trying to get inside.
Debra was nine. She stood barefoot on the landing, peering down through the railing. She always tried to understand why she was kept away from her brothers. Tonight she desperately wanted to hear at least fragments.
Three sat below: Harry in his usual dark blue sweater; Dexter — quiet, tense, as if afraid to breathe; and John — the calmest, his face carved like stone.
Harry spoke softly, but every phrase seemed engraved into their minds.
"You two are special. And dangerous — to yourselves and others, if you ignore what you feel."
He looked between the boys.
"But you can channel it. Understand it. And most importantly — control it."
Dexter clenched his hands. John — on the contrary — simply listened, straight as a wire, as if this wasn't a lecture but a truth he had long known.
He always listens like that… like he already knows the answer, Harry thought.
Harry continued:
"There are rules. They cannot be broken. Ever.
First — never harm the innocent. Second — act only when certain. And third…"
"Never get caught," John said quietly, before Harry could finish.
Harry froze.
"That's right. How did you know?"
John offered the faintest smile.
"It's logical. If someone follows what you're teaching… they need a system. And a mask to hide behind so none of this touches the people close to them."
Dexter looked at him with admiration. Harry exhaled.
"Yes. A mask — and a life beneath it."
Debra wrinkled her nose — she didn't understand any of it. She didn't understand why Harry spoke to them so seriously. He never did that with her.
She stepped down a few stairs.
"Dad… what are you even doing? Why can't I sit with you?"
Harry lifted his head.
"Because this is serious, Debra. We'll talk later."
But John spoke — looking at Harry:
"Let her stay."
Harry frowned.
"John…"
"She'll hear it anyway." He turned his head slightly. His voice even. "And she's family. Like we are to each other."
Debra flushed — from embarrassment or gratitude, she couldn't tell. Dexter smiled at her.
Harry closed his eyes and nodded.
"Fine. But you listen — and stay quiet."
Debra sat beside them. Closer to Dexter, but her eyes never left John. There was something mesmerizing and foreign about him — sharp like a blade and calm like water.
Harry pulled a small wooden cube from a drawer. He placed it in front of the boys.
"This is a test. Not of strength. Of choice."
He opened the box — inside lay a piece of red cloth.
"Imagine the person in front of you has done something monstrous. A real monster. And only you decide what happens next. What do you do?"
Dexter swallowed.
"I… would follow the rules. Evidence. Preparation. Like you taught."
Harry nodded.
"And you, John?"
"I would offer the person a chance," John answered without hesitation.
Harry raised an eyebrow.
"A chance?"
"You said we can't touch the innocent. But the person you described isn't innocent.
But there is a difference between justice… and revenge. A chance is the boundary."
Harry studied him for a long time.
"And what if he doesn't take the chance?"
John tilted his head slightly.
"Then he made his choice."
The silence that followed was heavy and dense.
For the first time, Debra saw Harry truly troubled — not as a mentor, but as a man confronting something far bigger than he had expected.
Later that night
Debra couldn't sleep. Through her half-open door, she saw John sitting alone in the living room. He held the wooden cube, running his fingers over its smooth edges, as if fitting something together in his mind.
His silhouette was still as a shadow.
Dexter approached quietly, sat beside him.
"You really think… people can be given a chance?"
John looked at him — his stare deep, dark, as if decades older than he was.
"Not everyone. But some.
What matters is learning who is who."
He stood, set the cube back on the shelf, and walked down the hallway. The light went out behind his door.
Dexter remained alone.