Tap. Tap. Tap.
The Gloved Gunman walked down the street. In the heart of London he went unnoticed; he was as invisible as cellophane, as silent as a dead man's breath. He walked in search of a victim, and made sure that this one would catch the attention of the Detective-Inspector and the British Government, such an unlikely couple though they were. He began to follow a pretty, young girl with long wispy blonde hair, but when she turned around, he quickly discovered she was a student, a liberal arts major most likely, and her phone suggested that her father spoiled her rotten. She had too much of her life to live; she was only a freshman after all.
He soon found himself in Queen Mary's Gardens where he found a woman who could pass. She was beautiful with her bobbed black curly hair, olive skin, and eyes mined in Johannesburg. Her demeanour suggested former military, but he could tell that now she worked in the medical field- like John. Her constant alertness held all the signs of being an E.R. surgeon.
He hated this. He never wanted to kill; he belonged on the side of the angels. It was not his fault, honestly. His intentions were pure, but his actions spilled blood.
She had dropped something and he went to pick it up for her—it was almost too easy. They began exchanging tedious words of salutations and he soon discovered she was headed to the London Eye. He lied and said he was heading in that direction too, so they walked together.
"So you used to solve crimes? That's fascinating. Were you a private investigator or a cop?"
"Something like that," he said with a wiry smile and a chuckle that felt forced
"I'm sure you solved loads of cases and helped hundreds of people." She stopped to tie her shoe.
"It wasn't just me"
"That's true. Do you miss it?" She began to stand up.
"Only every day of my life."
"You're so brave," a step toward him, "and noble," and another, "not to mention charming." With that, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. He kissed her back, slowly, remembering the motion of all thirty-four muscles it took to do this properly.
"I can't- I don't- You're so young. I can't take advantage of you like this. I'm sorry, please—"
"I'm not a child. Besides, I'm the one who started it. I also have a thing for older men. So," she leaned in again. This time she was more forceful, possessive of her catch. Her hands slid up his back and clenched his locks tightly. A cab drove past on a street nearby and he escaped her clutches for a second to call for it.
She suggested her apartment and he nodded. This fitted in perfectly with his plans.
As soon as she shut the door, she slammed him against the wall and began tugging at her blouse to un-tuck it. She found is hands and pulled them to the buttons so he could unfasten them while her hands moved back to his lower back and she began grinding her hips. Suddenly, she backed away and motioned to the nearest chair. "Sit down," her voice shook between a plea and a command.
"I don't want to sit down."
"Sit down," this time, there was no plea.
"I'm sorry to have to do this to you," he picked up his case and exhumed a Ziploc bag containing latex gloves. "You're such a pretty," Snap! Went one glove. "young thing." Snap! Went the other. Next, he removed a blank piece of paper and a pen and placed them on the table with a small gesture suggesting they were for her. She sat down, confused and picked up the pen.
"I'm going to kill you. Shhhhh. Don't fight it, that's useless. I'm giving you one last chance to say your goodbyes. And don't think for a second that I won't be reading over your shoulder to protect myself. I want this to be as painless as possible for you, and your cooperation will help."
Slowly, she scribbled her last words to her parents, her fiancé, and others in her life. "Here," he tossed her the blouse that was lying on the ground. "We wouldn't want the police to find you like this." His voice was genuine and soothing. For some reason she hurried in fastening the buttons, as though this, of all things, could protect her from the handgun casually resting in his hand. "Remember all the good that has happened to you. Your life has been good, better than many others. Appreciate that." The silenced gun in his hand fired once, a clean shot through her throat. She was dead before she could feel the pain. He carefully laid the gun down and retrieved his knife. Carefully, he carved the letter P into both cheeks. He noted how the flesh curved and bent to the will of his knife, how it split to reveal the tender muscles below the surface of the skin. He was seeing the poetry of the human body take place, and he had caused it.
Penelope Potts was dead and his next killing was on the storyboard.