Chapter 30

They called him The Good Doctor.

Not because he had a medical license.

Not because anyone knew his name.

But because every body he left behind had been… fixed.

The first victim was a woman found in her apartment, laid neatly on her bed with her hands folded across her chest. The cause of death was a single, precise stab wound to the heart.

The strange part came during the autopsy.

Her right wrist had been sprained for months. The ligaments had healed perfectly, better than expected. Whoever had manipulated the joint knew exactly how to set it.

The second victim was an elderly man who had disappeared after his nightly walk. He was discovered beneath a bridge, washed clean and dressed in fresh clothes.

He had died from massive blood loss.

But surgeons examining the body discovered something impossible.

The malignant tumor in his abdomen—the one scheduled for removal the following week—was gone.

The cuts were crude but effective.

No cancer remained.

Then came the diabetic teenager whose infected foot had been expertly amputated before sepsis could spread.

The woman with severe cataracts, her clouded lenses carefully removed.

The veteran whose shattered kneecap had been reconstructed with scavenged metal pins.

Each victim had been suffering.

Each victim had been healed.

And each victim had been murdered.

The media painted him as a monster. Others called him a twisted guardian angel.

Then Detective Elias Ward noticed something hidden in the reports.

The procedures were improving.

The first repairs had been messy.

The latest ones were almost elegant.

He was practicing.

Learning.

Getting better.

Ward stood in the evidence room long after midnight, staring at photographs of the victims.

A thought settled into his stomach like ice.

The killer didn’t choose healthy people.

He chose people he believed were broken.

People he thought needed fixing.

That same night, Ward returned home exhausted. He loosened his tie and sat heavily on the edge of his bed.

His phone buzzed.

An unknown number.

He opened the message.

Detective Ward,

You walk with a limp because your left knee healed incorrectly after the accident six years ago.

It hurts more when it rains.

I can help you.

His blood froze.

He had never released that information to the public.

Another message appeared.

Please don’t run.

Patients often misunderstand what is best for them.

Then, after a pause:

You don’t deserve to live in pain.

Ward heard a soft creak from somewhere inside the house.

Not the front door.

Not a window.

The floorboards in the hallway.

Slow.

Measured.

Like someone who knew exactly where every bone in the human body belonged.

And intended to put them back where they should be.