Haphazard Explorations & Experiments In Fiction
The brown stains on her carpet, brown, crusty remnants of it on the coffee table, the couch, spattered on the curtains of her living room window. The blood was everywhere.
What the fuck happened here? he thought.
No one else was here anymore. The cops had sealed up the whole house, taped the doors shut with yellow strips you’re not supposed to cut, and they had all gone home. Joe never paid attention to the bright yellow tape they left behind though, not for the thrill of a good hunt. Not for the money either when you got right down to it.
Breaking into a crime scene like this one was nothing to Joe.
He’d done it a thousand times or more, or that’s what it seemed like when he thought back and couldn’t even begin to put a real number on how many silent death scenes he had gone over, always after the cops and forensic technicians were done with it. Best to have them out-of-the-way and out of the loop in his experience.
The women, eyes gouged out in a bedroom down the hall before she was fucked and brutalized in here, was at the morgue by now. Another place he would have to visit before the night was out, after office hours of course.
There was no money in it for him with this case but the perpetrator was all he wanted on hunts like this. Either for himself or for a bounty. The latter was good for money, especially for guys like him who only occasionally delivered the fruits of their labor to a jail. Far more often it was to a wealthy businessman or a drug dealer. This wasn’t for the money though.
Joe wanted this fucker for himself and not because he cared about the body count, at least not beyond being a measure of the animal he was trailing. Eleven and counting officially. Unofficially no one had a set number, only educated guesses of a much higher count.
No one sets to work on another human being with this kind of precision or flare unless they’ve had experience, trial and error, enough to have honed their instincts. Even a psycho might throw up after his first murder if he’s never seen a dead body before.
Especially if it gets messy. Walking the perimeter and taking in what was left of the carnage, Joe decided that this was most definitely messy.
Completely lacking any hesitation when he inflicted the injuries, the guy who did this had to have been glacially calm. Excited maybe, enjoying himself, but calm as a frozen over Alaskan lake in the dead of winter. He never lost his cool, never lost control of her.
The closer he looked at it, the more convinced Joseph became that this was going to be one for the books. One hell of a hunt and no guarantee at all that he would even succeed. Not that he cared. Everything about this murder – and the last ten with marked similarities – reassured him of the only thing he did care about. This was going to be a challenge.
This was going to be fun.