The Deadly Sins Murders

In a place where pleasure had no limits, it was easy to forget that not everyone left the club alive. Behind the masks, the writhing bodies, and the heavy perfume, secrets lingered in the dark. Some were destined to die here—tonight could be her night.

Lust had a way of luring the naive, and the club thrived on it. She could feel the eyes on her as she moved through the crowd—hungry, predatory.

But it wasn't just desire she had to fear. There was something darker lurking in the shadows, something watching her every move.

"One bottle of Diva vodka," a girl purred at the bartender. He sized her up and smirked, sliding the bottle out from a glass cupboard. She was one of the new girls he'd seen around, and from the looks of her, he knew he’d have her eventually. He liked them young.

She took the bottle from him, pointedly ignoring the wink he threw her way.

"We should book a red room one of these days, " he told her, eyes glued on her chest. "Let me rock your world, baby."

Balancing the bottle and shot glass on a tray, she made a face at him. "Not even in your wildest dreams."

He laughed. "Don't worry, we'll see about that."

She walked away from the bar and made her way past the booths to the big black door, where two large bouncers stood watch.

"ID” - one of the bouncers said.

She glanced down at her pass wedged between her breasts. "You can take a look." She arched her back in, slightly pushing up her chest. If the man in black was enjoying himself, he didn't show it. Finally, he nodded and she pouted her lips and sent him air kisses as he let her in.

Inside, moans and grunts mixed with classical music trickling out of the speakers serenaded the hallway. She walked straight ahead and paused when a man, flanked by his entourage of nude dwarves, crossed her path, moving from one room to the opposite one.

Behind her, the door to this part of the club swung open and a man in a suit and dark shades walked in with two women in his arms. They looked Russian. Before she could steal another glance behind her, they disappeared into a room.

All the doors were open, silently pulsing with lights. As she passed, she caught glimpses of the pleasures within—one room had a woman bound in silk, her body arching in time with the crack of a whip. Couples tangled in dark corners, their lips locked in fervent kisses— slow, deliberate movements that made her want to watch.

High heels clicking on the tile floor, she walked past another room with a couple entwined in a merger of shadows and flesh. Two masked men watched her from the next room, their slow movements undeterred by her. She slowed down like a hypnotized bug, unable to stop herself from staring. One of the men grinned at her, then he flickered a finger— a single gesture for her to come in. She almost did, before remembering that she had an order to deliver first. Reluctantly, she walked past.

They were fleeting images like snapshots and could never get used to the things she saw every night. However, within her a realization was born and it grew more certain with every day she spent working here: she would soon become part of this— the lust was so palpable she could stick out her tongue and taste it in the air. And it had placed in her a new hunger. A raging one.

She walked on until she reached her final destination; a large, red door at the end of the hallway. This was the only room that was locked, its frame bigger than the rest. She knocked on the door.

"Come," someone answered from within.

Turning the knob, she slightly leaned against the door and pushed it in. Inside hung a chandelier with low, yellow lights that made everywhere look candlelit. She had never been to this room before, she had always assumed it belonged to the owner of the club; whoever that was.

Bundles of maroon and blue velvet strips with cushions lined the large room. The air was laced with the scent of incense and something. The room was empty except for a sole figure lounging on one of the chairs. She had typically expected to walk in on an orgy or something wild like that. Sometimes, she would be asked to join in and so far, she had declined all. In all her three months working in this place, she had never seen anything… normal here. Yet, if you subtracted the Madonna paintings along with the other artworks that displayed in bold graphics the art of sex, this room bore the semblance of normalcy in this sexually charged dungeon.

She approached a small, ornate table near the center of the room and placed down the tray. "Do you need anything else?" She asked him. He gave her no reply. She looked towards the seated man who sat still in his chair, facing away from her.

"Anything else?" She asked again, stepping closer, her chest pushed forward as she leaned in, trying to catch his attention.

Sometimes, there were men who ignored her; other times, she would have to run away from their groping hands. The thing in her head told her this was her cue to leave, yet she couldn't leave. It was as if she was being drawn once more, just like she'd felt with the men in the other room, but this time, she couldn't stop herself. There was an uneasiness with the way this man sat so quietly.

"Excuse me," she walked around the chair, standing in front of him and she froze. He was staring straight at her, lips slightly parted like he was breathing through his mouth. And his throat was slit wide open; a dark, jagged gash oozing blood that trickled down his neck and soaked into his shirt.

Shock hit her like a freight train and a gut-wrenching scream tore through her throat, piercing through the room's unsettling calm.

It was Beethoven's Lacrimosa that ushered in the madness. It echoed through the bloody walls like a path, leading you to a crescendo; an unlikely tune to hear in a place like this, yet again, anything was possible here. Detective Victor Kane knew that well.

It was Saturday, and he was sleeping when the phone call came around 10 in the morning. He couldn't have cared less about one more dead person until the woman at the other end of the call mentioned how much she'd be paying for his services.

"Who are you?"

"Evelyn Holloway. The dead man is my husband."

"I'm sure the police will handle it, you don't—"

"No! I don't trust the police. Please, Mr. Kane. You're the only one I can trust, please."

He found her confidence in him pretty excessive and her distrust for the police even more interesting, but he needed the money.

"Fine, but first, I need a down payment."

"I'll wire it."

He'd gotten out of bed, well aware of the type of arsehole that he was, dressed, and arrived at the crime scene, thirty minutes after the phone call. Listening to bloody Lacrimosa hum in the background, just as every step unfolded, the scene before him.

The air stank of stale alcohol and sweat and as he drew closer to the yellow tapes that marked the crime scene, he caught the unmistakable smell of blood.

Victor flashed his badge at a police officer who let him pass. And then, he took it all in. A man was lounging on a velvet chaise, one arm on the back, his legs sprawled out.

"Shit. Did he die while having a lap dance?" No one said a word to him in response. Tough crowd.

Victor took off his glasses and inched closer. The man's throat had been slit wide open and there was a trail of blood stains down his white polo shirt. His lifeless eyes stared up at nothing.

Victor watched as the forensics team took shots of the scene, bagging champagne flutes and other items surrounding the dead man.

"Any idea what type of knife was used to do this?"

“A straight-edged blade, probably a razor.” A woman walked past him and pointed at the open throat.“The cut’s too clean for anything else. No jagged edges, no hesitation marks.”

Victor nodded, "Of course." He gave her a crooked smile. "I'm Detective Victor."

" What the… I know who you are."

"Huh, that so? And you are?"

She shook her head. "Rachel Travis, Head of Forensics."

If she knew who he was, it was definitely not for good reasons.

Rachel returned to examining a small pool of blood near the chaise, her brow furrowed in concentration. She was a sharp contrast to the grittiness of this place—a clean presence. She didn't quite fit in here.

Victor imagined her in the club at night and immediately banished the images his mind conjured up. Clearing his throat, he asked, “Who's the victim?”

Rachel looked directly at him with disbelief. “You don’t know who this is?” She waited for him to respond, and when he didn’t, she sighed softly, as if she couldn’t believe that she was telling him this basic thing he was supposed to know. “This is Dr. Sebastian Holloway— famous therapist?"

Nothing, didn't ring a bell.

"Best-selling author of "Inner Peace?" Nobel Prize nominee?"

Victor shook his head. "What's a Nobel Prize nominee doing in a place like this?"

“Good question—the press will have a field day with this. Everything's a scandal at the end of the day.”

Victor couldn’t help but smirk at that. If he didn't know better, he'd believe she seemed to see the world through the same cynical lens he did. On the brighter side, thanks to Rachel, he now knew that this man had a lot of money; his price just went up.

"Who found the body?"

"One of the servers. The police took her in for questioning. Poor girl looked like she'd spent the night with a ghost."

"Well, technically—"

The look Rachel gave him cut the rest of his words short. Victor made a mental note to get transcripts of that interview before interviewing the server himself. He still had a few friends he could pull favors from in the force.

Crouching, Victor studied the body. "What were you doing here, Sebastian?" He thought to himself. More importantly, who wanted him dead? Victor noticed a thin, silver bracelet on the man's wrist and his wallet had been bagged for evidence. It had been found on a table with wads of dollar bills in it. So, not a robbery.

Or maybe something was stolen, they didn't just know it yet. Victor shifted his gaze down the man's chinos pants and a flash of white, barely visible, flashed from a pocket.

Victor pulled on his gloves and gently inserted his fingers into the pocket, fishing out a plain white card. It was blank, nothing on it, but it had a glossy, smooth surface. He dug his hands in again and felt something round and hard. When he pulled it out, it was a ring, and he lifted it up for a closer look. It was black with tiny studs around an imprint: VR. Signet rings were still a thing?

Victor studied the ring for a moment longer, then slipped both the card and the ring into an evidence bag, sealing it tightly. The other pocket was empty when he checked.

Standing up, Victor suddenly felt the suffocating air of the club closing in around him. He needed to get outside, away from the oppressive atmosphere.

When he pushed open the heavy door that led outside, he stepped into the cool morning air, taking in a deep breath. The streets outside were busy with people oblivious to the gruesome thing that happened beneath them. Victor leaned against the wall, running a hand through his hair as he processed the scene he’d just left behind. Did he really want to do this?

When the FBI had retired him early, he was so pissed off, he swore off investigations. He had given twenty good years of his life to the FBI, cracking the toughest cases. Heck, he even lost his family in the process. And what did he get in return? Not a damn shred of gratitude. Forced retirement.

Moments such as this, he wished he hadn't given up smoking; the nicotine would've calmed his nerves. The click of high heels on the pavement caught his attention, and he turned to see Rachel walking out of the club, her sharp eyes locked onto his.

"Victor," Rachel reached into her pocket and pulled out a business card, handing it to him. "You might need this. My direct line—if you find anything that doesn’t add up."

Victor took the card. "I'm sure you'll return the favor." He noted the slight smirk on her lips as she turned to leave. He watched her walk away, slipping the card into his coat pocket.

He was about to turn around when something caught his eye—a figure, dressed in black, standing across the street. The person’s face was obscured by a hood, but Victor could feel their gaze locked onto him.

For a moment, time seemed to stretch as Victor stared back, his senses sharpening. The figure seemed to realize they’d been spotted because the person turned to walk away, quickening their pace.

Victor’s heart pounded as he pushed off the wall, following the mysterious person. Killers were known to sometimes visit the scene of their acts to satisfy some strange desire.

Maybe this wouldn't take time at all! All he had to do was catch up with the fleeing shadow.

Victor began to run.