Psycho
Killer

No one knew people were getting kidnapped then killed. Not until after the bodies were discovered. Some passerby, stumbling, would be met with the fear and agony of the victim in their last moments. Building walls can make the city seem cavernous. Echoes of a shrill scream bound back. A woman who would have been lovely to meet once, her body stumbled on where a pedestrian feet ahead might have done so first. And all before a missing persons report. Crime scenes as empty of evidence as the air from which the body seemed to appear.

Authorities wished it was a one-off. That the killer wouldn't return. But then another woman's body was found, this nearly on top of some grandpas playing chess. There was no connection. Authorities, their hands shaking, dialed up the number to bring in a specialist after the third victim.

Black and white units. Strobe lights of blue and red that glare off the rain-slicked tarmac where Private Investigator Samuel Rafferty takes the stepway off the private jet.

“Detective Rafferty. I'm Police Lieutenant James Doyle,” said a man, mid-length hair balding (wearing it), horn-rim glasses and a graying goatee; holding out a handshake.

“Well-met, Lt.” Rafferty shifted his briefcase to accept the handshake. He was in a long gray trench coat with a high collar. “Your assessments were thorough, to the point; a tad misleading. By how much remains to be seen. The best I’ve seen out of any public agency.”

Doyle seemed to know he’s good. Rafferty conceals his annoyance.

“All-in-all. They tell me there is no time to waste. The killer will strike again soon, and if we don’t stop him he won’t stop himself.”

“That is disheartening,” Doyle said, seeming to shrink into the high collar of his own long coat.

“Buck up, Lt. It is my desire to see this maniac safely behind bars before my wife can set up the lab equipment in those Pelican cases she's offloading.”

“Your wife?” Doyle had to scamper to catch up again. “Wouldn't it be better if she were with you?”

“Only slightly, Lt. Doyle. Contrary to appearances she's a headstrong woman. She’s beautiful and more than capable. Besides.” They were stopped now by the open door of a Lincoln Continental. “We're not going to get any trouble from your men,” picking away a loose strand from Doyle's suit, “or from you.”

“No.”
“No.”

Sirens of the police interceptors howl and yell while they go, speeding, escorting the Continental off the runway, past a guard station, and onto blacktop in the direction of the scenic lighted skyline of the City Core.

The soap is scentless. The smell of blood from the garbage bag of torn women's clothing was unmaskable. Trophies from his victims; numbering five now. His five slaves, Jeremy thought. It causes him to smirk. Because, as of yesterday's press conference, anyone with an inkling of awareness could tell the police chief was lying. And they were no closer to catching him than they were to catching the Abominable Snowman.

Whatever loose skin particulate still clung to him came off on the heavy towel Jeremy dried off with. The Bose system in the ceiling of the first and second floor of his townhouse was on. The snare-bass and haunting melody of “Missing” (Todd Terry Remix) by Everything But The Girl played.

Emotion doesn't show on the impassive features. Silk ties hung in the closet with the garbage bag of torn, bloody clothing. On the other side of that were six-gallon buckets of commercial grade latex.

He is dried and was selecting off his paisley duvet the clothing he had meticulously prepared the evening before.

His workzone, the hall door one over from his bedroom, was a clean space taped round with sheet plastic and illuminated harshly by floodlights. His instruments were ready on a medical cloth over a stainless steel gurney.

Jeremy finished dressing. He went to the landing to the stair. The duffle bag he picks up has duct tape, a box cutter, handcuffs, zip ties, a bottle of chloroform, a cotton rag, and a compact sub-automatic machine gun he had purchased from a dealer Uptown. A mirror on the way out has a reflection belonging to other than Jeremy Utridge. Other than the one shown in the bathroom mirror upstairs earlier.

Into the nighted early morning he steps. The seasonal rain before summer pattering off his jacket. Still he removes a horsehair brush to swipe off anything the police might trace.