The Next Day

I snapped another shot of the gas station. The cops were blocking entrance to the crime scene, but I was able to get a few shots of the body inside. From what I could see, the body was that of a man in his mid forties, probably the owner and the unfortunate victim. I flipped through the pictures I had taken, zooming in on the body and trying to see what he had died from.

It wasn't a pretty sight. He appeared to have been gutted, his stomach completely cut open with internal organs spilled across the floor, a large puddle of blood pooling out from the body.

There was something else. His jugular appeared to be torn out but, unlike the rest of him, there was no sign of a weapon being used on the neck. Though there were marks, they weren't consistent with a knife or saw of any kind. In fact, if I had to guess, I'd say that the marks on his neck looked a lot more like teeth.

"Shit, that's quite a scene," someone said from behind me. "I don't get how you can stand to take pictures of this shit, man."

"Easy Malcolm," I reply. "I skip lunch."

Malcolm O'Hannigan chuckled. He was a colleague of mine at the local newspaper, The Sin City Chronicles. Malcolm always said that it sounded more like the name for an action movie, which I agreed with, more to seem normal than anything else. I was the one who went out into the field to get pictures of everything while he was one of the best reporters we had in the major crimes division of the paper. He was a nice enough guy to most people. A bit cocky maybe, but he was good at what he did. Perhaps that was due to the fact that his sister, Misti O'Hannigan, was the Lieutenant for the LAPD. He used that to his advantage whenever he could, sometimes getting lucky enough to get into crime scenes and statements from officers he manipulated with his last name and blood ties. It could actually be quite entertaining to watch.

"So whatcha think?" he asked. "It's homicide right? It's gotta be with all that blood. It's gotta be right?"

"Yessir," I replied, lifting the camera to my eyes and looking around the gas station for any possible clues.

"Fuck yeah!" Malcolm sort of shouted, sort of coughed. "I mean, that's horrible, obviously, but just look in there! This is a juicy piece, man!"

"So glad to see you two mourning the victim," a woman's voice said, sarcasm dripping from the words.

"Hi Keiko," I said. "Malcolm here was just saying some words for the victim. Weren't you Malcolm?"

Keiko Nakashima smirked behind me, pulling out the notes she had taken from interviewing witnesses. Keiko was another one of the best reporters for major crimes we had at the paper. She wasn't as cocky as Malcolm, but the two constantly butted heads as their personalities often failed to mix. While he was cocky and sometimes seemed to lack basic human compassion for victims, much like myself, Keiko was modest and often felt deep sorrow and compassion for victims. Malcolm was in the reporting business for many reasons, most of which were for his personal gain, such as becoming a famous reporter and perhaps to stick it to his sister. The two had a complicated relationship. Keiko however, always said she reported on crimes such as this because she wanted people to know, someone was doing what they could to bring forth the latest details on the criminals and, hopefully, bringing them to justice.

Malcolm might be a nice person, but Keiko was a good one.

"It's like I said Harrison, it's a horrible thing that happened," Malcolm said, tensing up at the sound of Keiko's voice. Turning to her he said, "What are you doing here anyway? I've got this one covered. Why don't you go report on kids shoplifting candy bars or something?"

"Matthews sent me out here as soon as he heard," Keiko said, completely ignoring the shoplifting comment. "You don't like that I'm here, take it up with him."

"God dammit," Malcolm muttered, walking away. "Fine. Whatever. I'm gonna go get statements."

"You two are getting along better than usual," I said, snapping one last picture of the scene. I'd check these out later and see if I could find any clues.

"Shut up," Keiko said with a slight laugh. "Witnesses say they found him completely disemboweled with chunks of flesh missing. Police didn't really give me anything to work with but one of the witnesses said they saw a crime like this somewhere else in the city."

"Really?" That interested me. After all, what are the odds of someone being a witness at two different, yet very similar murders?

"Yeah. Two murders with the same MO. What do you think? Serial killing?"

"Not yet. That would mean there's been three or more murders just like this."

"No shit," Keiko said, giving me a look.

"What about this witness?" I asked. "Did they give a name?"

"Actually, no," Keiko said. "He wanted to remain anonymous, in case the killer reads the story." She was quiet for a second before saying, "Harrison, you don't think that was the killer, do you?"

"I don't know," I said. "Serial killers sometimes like to taunt or play games. Jack the Ripper did it. So did the Zodiac Killer." It was certainly possible. Perhaps the killer wanted to stay in the vicinity and watch his own crime being investigated. It was a risky move, one that I had always been taught to never pull. As Hannah had put it, "It's a stupid way for stupid people to get caught."

"Oh God," Keiko muttered. "I'm gonna give his description to the police, just in case."

"I'll come along. I was going to go closer for a better shot anyway." That was a lie, but I needed to hear this description. Keiko may have just encountered one hell of a stupid murderer, and a sick one at that. I wanted to know everything there was to know about him, whoever he was. Maybe I could stop this one from becoming a legitimate serial killer.

He watched from a safe distance as the police placed the victim on a stretcher, wheeling him out of the gas station. Poor bastard. The victim had seemed like a nice enough person. Unfortunately, he had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The killer smirked at the thought of his victim's final struggles to get away. It had been for naught, but it had made the kill all the more satisfying and the taste so much sweeter.

The body was loaded into an ambulance and the police were now talking to witnesses, trying to get security camera footage, forensics people looking for samples of DNA on every square inch of the gas station. Like the victim's final struggle, it was all for not. This killer had cleaned up quite nicely. The cameras had been completely wiped and any DNA found would only match the victim. There was nothing for these officers left.

How fun it was to watch their frustration. How amusing the way they thought they had something, only to find that it was nothing at all. How entertaining to watch them become so desperate to turn up something, anything, to help them find whoever did this.

The killer reached into the briefcase that laid next to him, retrieving a slab of meat, just cooked on the gas station hot dog roller. The killer licked their lips, mouth watering and took a bite. It was tender perfection, on the level of Ambrosia, food for the Gods. The Hunger began to subside, satisfied with the succulent selection.

Not bad at all for gas station food.