Mozart probably would have made a good villain if he'd invested his talents in less… conventional activities.
At least, that's what Jim has always thought. Such thoughts keep his mind occupied on slow nights. Or on nights like this one, when the excitement is just a bit too much, and he has to settle the anticipation in his gut by distracting himself. Its chilly, its dark, and some clouds hang low enough in the sky to hug the rooftops.
The city sings with life, despite the late hour. Laughing and sighing and moaning and crying. A never-ending symphony of noise and tears. Even Mozart couldn't come up with something quite so lovely.
Blue suit, slouched posture, pale skin and fluttering eyelashes. Jim smiles bashfully at a man passing to his right, who's eyes slide over his frame with a hungry expression.
Then again, maybe Mozart was just a killer who knew how to put on a disguise.
Did he compose with the blood of his admirers? It would've glistened bright against the yellow parchment. It was said that Mozart never made copies of his music. Did each composition reflect a different victim? Could you make a nib with the bone of a finger if you carved it just right? Music written to reflect them, written with their blood, their bones. Jim couldn't help but feel it wasn't like dying at all. He never got his hands dirty, but a giggle escaped his lips nonetheless.
A police car, siren blaring, lights flashing, sped past, and he was swept up in the color, which was just as magnificent. What if Van Gogh had learned to channel his sorrow into acts of violence?
Do you see now?
Do you feel my pain?
Sunflowers stained red and a starry night obscured with smoke.
Glorious, glorious.
He turns, passing through the revolving doors of a hotel. Something fancy. Nothing but the best for the guest of honor. He winks at the bellhop, passes through the lobby, second floor, room two-hundred-twenty-one. Fitting, so fitting. His guest is tied to a chair. A bit roughed up, but not on the face. Those were the orders. The man flinches at the approaching footsteps, and dark curls obscure his eyes, revealing only sharp teeth and lips pulled back in a snarl.
Sherlock Holmes, his magnum opus.