"There's always something more to it," she thought bitterly as she closed her latest case. The killer had been the dullest all of the others before him - the usual crime of passion shtick they pulled when they had nothing else to give, when she had them cornered with enough material to put them behind bars for a good while.
There was always something more to it, always some other victim they'd kept hidden for years and years or someone who was next on their list. Something else, anything else but this drab one-off-and-never-before-or-since deal this guy was trying to pull. She wasn't falling for it, never had before and look where it had landed her - top of the department, of her field.
Everything about this guy set her on edge in the same way the others had. There was something about that guileless look they carried that never seemed to suit them, like they'd borrowed it from someone they'd seen on TV and didn't quite know what to do with it. This one had to be hiding something and she was going to find it.
She began by going back to the crime scenes, double checking for anything she might have missed like old blood stains, an unlicensed weapon, anything that might point to another body. This guy definitely had it in him to do it. People like him didn't just kill once, they killed regularly. Little people that wouldn't be missed just picked off one-by-one over the span of several years if they were smart, months if they weren't.
His house had already been swabbed clean by forensics, all known evidence taken, bagged and left to rot like all the other closed cases. She found nothing new until she began to move the furniture, or more precisely turn the apartment upside-down in the literal sense.
Seemed at first that his cheap thrift shop sofa was falling to pieces on the bottom, with the stuffing falling right out. It shouldn't have been that heavy though, at least not for the size of it. Taking the penknife she kept tucked away in her boot she cut the edge of the underside, just enough to stick her gloved hand through.
At first all she felt was stuffing and springs and something oddly too solid for a sofa. Cutting further and pulling at the foreign object her hand came back with a large clump of hair. She smiled and laughed with absolute glee. She was right yet again. She was always right, catching so many serial killers like this.
After calling it in, claiming she'd smelt something weird coming from the sofa in her last visit and chased it up, she backed away and planned her next steps. Of course she'd made sure to clean all of her prints off the body at first before she stuffed it into whatever furniture she'd found at the local dump. After adding a stint of new fabric to it and tipping off a good friend of hers that it was there of course it was bound to end up in a thrift store.
She didn't even recognise it at first, seems someone had redone her first attempt at covering the worn fabric beneath. It was honestly pure coincidence that her work had ended up at a crime scene but how she loved it when her little pieces came together so well.
There was always something else, there was her.
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