The Saint of Killers

1

THERON

The disgusting smell of decay creeps into my nose as soon as I step through the apartment door. Robson called me after the coroner told him about the latest victim.

I avoid the chaos of the uniformed officers trying to get a glimpse of the body, and the forensics department carefully cataloging every little particle. I take one big step to cross the markings on the floor.

At first glance, it’s impossible to say whether the apartment has been messy before the killer started his work or whether he’s responsible for making it difficult to find any clues. The books have been pulled out of the shelves and tossed to the floor, broken glass litters nearly every surface, and then there’s the blood. A lot of it.

Dr. Gene Holt looks up as my shoes appear in his field of vision. I stopped far enough away so that the expensive leather would not come into contact with the blood—most of which has already seeped into the carpet anyway.

He isn't pleased to see me, but just like his police colleagues, he doesn't try to send me away.

Mr. McCall.

I nod to acknowledge him. So, what do we have here?

By my estimations, the blonde on the floor died sometime last night and, if the expression on her face offers any clues, it wasn’t a pleasant death. I would bend closer, but I don’t want to risk contaminating possible evidence. In addition, Dr. Holt's nose has suffered from years as a forensic coroner and he basically puts on far too much perfume, which—apart from the corpses—makes breathing in his vicinity even more difficult.

Blonde, mid-twenties, handsome and slim. The death should have occurred around 11 p.m. Two hours ago, an anonymous call was received by the police. Not that anyone would ask me, but I think we're dealing with victim number six here.

I ask you, Dr. Holt.

He closes his eyes for a short moment as if to commemorate the victims. That's right. It’s the same M.O.: The hands are tied behind her back, the numerous injuries were caused by a scalpel, and shortly before she bled to death, the murderer strangled her. All other mutilations occurred postmortem. He took the nipples with him again.

Does Captain Schwartz finally accept that a serial killer is making New York his hunting ground?

No, but if I interpret the crowd of journalists, bloggers and podcasters outside in the street correctly, he won't be able to keep it a secret for much longer. The doc shrugs his shoulders and spreads a thin, white cloth over the body.

I just hope that no one from the press gets wind of what special souvenirs the killer takes with him, otherwise we will soon have to deal with countless impostors.

But no high-ranking police captain who spends half his time playing political power games gladly admits that a serial killer is raging in his city.

At the same time, more casualties also mean that the likelihood of the FBI getting involved rises exponentially. It’s the captain’s biggest fear that the FBI might ultimately take credit for the work of his department.

I’m not bothered by those little things. I’m here for another reason.

Apart from the fact that it is my job to be informed about what’s going on in my territory, I’m worried that one of my men might be responsible for the deaths of the young women. I do my best to control my men, keeping a tight leash on them, but I also know how hard it can be to keep these cravings under control.

The rules for my employees are therefore simple: Do what you have to do in order to keep your inner demons calm—but please do so at least three states over.

The killer's approach matches Calvin Burns' preferences, who we all call Blade because he really likes to play with knives. Blade has failed to attend the weekly meetings three times in a row, arousing my suspicion.

I look at the body. Blade prefers red-haired women though, not blondes. I want nothing more than to sigh dramatically while pinching the bridge of my nose but I know it’s better to keep up appearances and pretend to be calm and collected. It’s about time for this chaos to end.

Dr. Holt clears his throat and reaches for one of the bags in which evidence is stored. Our unsub did something new.

Why am I sure that I probably don't even want to know what it is?

I guess it's a tribute. The doc hands me the bag.

Inside is a severed finger. I suspect from the size that it’s an index finger. Please don't tell me the owner was alive when the finger was severed.

The owner was alive when the finger was cut off. You can probably guess where we found it?

In the vagina of the dead. Wasn't William Henderson executed ages ago?

Henderson was a notorious serial rapist who killed more than thirty women during the eighties. He always left the index finger of the next victim inside the corpse of his latest one. Ironically, he was caught when law enforcement showed up at his property because Henderson had negligently stopped paying his taxes. A pretty stupid beginner's mistake.

Dr. Holt shakes his head. Henderson’s still alive. Can't you send one of your men there to find out if Henderson knows anything? It can’t be a coincidence where we found the finger.

I'll see what I can do. Since I’m not in the habit of sharing my plans with other people, this vague statement has to do.

The facial injuries, as far as I can tell, have been inflicted first. The extent of the perpetrator's anger seems to be rising. And also, I discovered this. Dr. Holt takes the UV light lamp and shows me a stamp on the back of the victim's hand.

OMNI.

The OMNI is an expensive nightclub which opened only a few months ago and has been the latest hype since then. The owners have a pretty good approach to social media and the parties are already considered notoriously wild and unrestrained. The perfect hunting ground to separate a beautiful woman from the herd.

If you notice anything else during the autopsy, don't hesitate to contact me.

Of course.

With one last look at the body, I turn around and walk to the door. I almost make it into the hallway, but at the last moment Captain Schwartz comes around the corner.

Inside, I sigh. The man has just been transferred here and is yet to understand how things work in New York.

You! Immediately he points at me and hurries closer. Is that the work of one of your psychos? His voice has become a hiss so that no one else can hear us.

No. I have my 'psychos' under control.

Obviously, you don’t. And I've told you before that you have no business being at my crime scenes.

I wouldn't have to come here if you did your job, Captain. When are you going to realize you're looking for a serial killer?

Do you know how many women are killed every year in New York City alone?

About a hundred, I'd say.

The Captain's stunned face tells me that he has not expected an answer and also that I cannot be far off with my guess. He narrows his eyes at me before he continues, "And usually it's someone the victim knew. The neighbors have reported several noisy disputes in the past weeks with