Thomas knew something was wrong once he stepped onto the crime scene. It was sloppy, not like the orderly killer from earlier this morning.
"And you're sure that this was the work of the Crimson Artist?" The investigator intern asked once he set foot in the living room.
"Well, yeah, a flower painted on the wall, and a dead girl dressed to the nines." Melody said confused, not seeing the evidence that was never there before.
"Look at this, the flower is the same one as a couple days ago, shoe indents all through here on the carpet made from the blood. There is the paintbrush, and the victim still has blood on her. Our Killer would never be this sloppy. This was someone else's work here." Tom said with a huff.
Thomas has studied these killings since the beginning of his career. He knew more or less how this killer thought. This was who he was, he chose this job to bring these victims justice. Thomas was upset no one else noticed the evidence that proved this wasn't their precise killer.
Why would someone try to be a copycat, if they give themselves away? The point of being a copycat is to copy, and be exactly like the killer, not ruin their reputation.
Thomas put his hands in his pants pocket, absentmindedly palming the apartment key. His mind drifted to the angel most likely still at the apartment. Oh, and the way he smiled, the way he was so shy, but most of all, was the expression the raven haired, cinnamon roll had when Thomas kissed his forehead.
He smiled to himself, and watched the crews of forensic agents collecting all the evidence, placing them in little baggies and setting them asides. Taking pictures, and collecting information.
"I'm going to call my dad." Thomas said walking out of the house. Thomas looked at the house, and sighed. He wished he could meet the real Crimson Artist so he could thank whoever it was for making his life more interesting.