Chapter 18: Third victim
Splat... Splat...
Rain fell steadily over the abandoned construction site, drumming against rusted steel beams and unfinished concrete. Water gathered in shallow puddles, carrying mud and loose gravel toward a clogged storm drain.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Several pairs of boots moved through the rain, their footsteps echoing across the empty site as yellow police tape fluttered in the wind. Flashing blue and red lights painted the wet concrete while uniformed officers kept reporters and curious onlookers behind the barricades.
Camera shutters clicked endlessly.
Microphones stretched over the tape.
Every major news station in the city had arrived.
A young reporter stood beneath a transparent umbrella, her blazer already soaked around the sleeves despite the protection.
The cameraman raised his hand.
"Three... two... one..."
The red recording light switched on.
The reporter’s professional smile disappeared.
"This is Melissa Grant reporting live from East Riverside Construction Zone, where police confirmed the discovery of another unidentified body early this morning. According to investigators, a construction crew arriving shortly after six o’clock noticed a strong odor coming from beneath a collapsed concrete platform. Officers responding to the scene uncovered human remains believed to have been concealed for nearly two weeks."
Behind her, forensic officers carefully photographed the scene while investigators marked evidence with yellow numbered placards.
"The victim has not yet been identified. However, investigators have confirmed that the body was found without its head and right hand. Authorities believe both were deliberately removed before the remains were abandoned here."
The cameraman slowly zoomed toward the activity behind the police tape.
Several officers carried a black body bag toward a waiting forensic vehicle.
Rainwater dripped from its surface.
Melissa continued speaking.
"This marks the third victim discovered under nearly identical circumstances within the last four months. While investigators have not officially confirmed that the cases are connected, similarities between the three scenes have fueled growing public concern that a serial killer may be operating within the city."
Questions erupted from nearby reporters.
"Has the identity been confirmed?"
"Any suspects?"
"Is the public in danger?"
Police ignored every one of them.
The broadcast faded.
___
Beep... Beep...
The sound of medical equipment replaced the rain.
Bright white lights reflected off stainless steel tables inside the Central Forensic Examination Bureau.
The room smelled faintly of disinfectant.
Several detectives stood around an examination table while a middle-aged forensic pathologist removed his gloves.
Dr. Leonard Hayes picked up a clipboard without looking away from the photographs displayed on a nearby monitor.
"The body belonged to a female."
One of the detectives nodded.
"Age?"
"Approximately twenty-two to twenty-six."
Dr. Hayes turned another page.
"Estimated time since death is roughly two weeks. Give or take a day."
A younger detective frowned.
"The decomposition seems... advanced."
"It is."
The doctor pointed toward one of the enlarged photographs.
"The victim wasn’t buried."
He tapped the image.
"She was left exposed for several days before being concealed beneath the collapsed concrete."
Silence settled over the room.
Dr. Hayes continued.
"Cause of death was massive blood loss caused by multiple stab wounds to the chest and abdomen."
He paused briefly.
"The decapitation occurred after death."
Another photograph appeared on the monitor.
The clean cut across the neck was clearly visible.
"The right hand was also removed postmortem."
"Same as the other two victims?" one detective asked.
Dr. Hayes nodded.
"Almost identical."
He walked toward a board mounted against the wall.
Three photographs hung side by side.
Each represented one of the three victims discovered over the last four months.
Each photograph carried the same red labels.
Head Missing.
Right Hand Missing.
Female Victim.
The lead investigator folded his arms.
"So whoever did this hasn’t changed their method."
"No."
Dr. Hayes looked at the photographs for several seconds before speaking again.
"In fact..."
He adjusted his glasses.
"The cuts are becoming cleaner."
The room grew noticeably quieter.
"The first victim showed hesitation marks."
He pointed toward the oldest photograph.
"The second showed improved precision."
His finger shifted to the newest image.
"This one..."
He exhaled slowly.
"...was almost surgical."
No one spoke.
Outside, rain continued striking the windows.
Tap... Tap... Tap...
The lead investigator finally broke the silence.
"Three victims."
He looked at the evidence board.
"Four months."
Then at the newest case file resting on the table.
"And I don’t think he’s finished yet."
Rain was still falling when Detective Evelyn Carter stepped out of the Central Forensic Examination Bureau. She tossed the case file onto the passenger seat of her unmarked sedan, started the engine, and drove toward the older industrial district. The official investigation had reached the point where reports and forensic evidence weren’t enough anymore. If someone had seen or heard something, it wouldn’t be written down in a police database. It would be circulating through the city’s underworld.
The warehouse district never truly slept. Cargo trucks rolled through loading docks at every hour, while deals were quietly made beneath rusted roofs and broken streetlights. Carter parked beside an abandoned loading dock and stepped out into the rain. Several men standing beneath a corrugated metal awning noticed her immediately. None of them looked surprised. One broad-shouldered man simply sighed as though he’d been expecting her eventually.
"Detective Carter."
"Evening, Vince."
He folded his arms across his chest. "You’re either here to arrest somebody or ruin my evening."
"I’ll let you decide which one."
A few of the men chuckled.
Carter reached into her coat and laid three crime scene photographs on top of a rusted oil drum between them. The laughter disappeared. Vince picked up the newest photograph while the others leaned in beside him. Their expressions didn’t change much, but she noticed the brief exchange of glances between them.
"That’s the third one," Vince muttered.
"So you’ve heard."
"Everyone has."
Carter watched his face carefully. "Do you know anything?"
He slowly shook his head.
"I’m serious."
"So am I."
She didn’t answer immediately.
Vince placed the photograph back onto the drum before speaking again.
"This isn’t business. Nobody around here is claiming it."
"Not even rumors?"
"There are always rumors," another man answered, lighting a cigarette. "Most of them are garbage. This one’s different. Nobody’s bragging. Nobody’s whispering. It’s like whoever’s doing this doesn’t exist."
Rain drummed softly against the metal roof overhead.
Tap... Tap... Tap...
Carter remained silent for several seconds before closing the case file.
"I was hoping one of you had something."
Vince scratched his beard thoughtfully.
"We don’t."
He paused.
"But there is someone you should talk to."
Carter looked at him.
"The Butcher."
She raised an eyebrow.
"The actual one?"
Vince nodded.
"If anyone can tell you something from the cuts alone, it’s him."
The butcher shop stood at the end of a narrow side street, squeezed between an old bakery and a closed hardware store. By the time Carter arrived, the front shutters had already been pulled down for the night. She walked around to the back entrance and knocked three times. A latch clicked before the door opened just enough for an older man with greying hair to recognize her.
"You people really have terrible timing."
"We’ve never been known for good timing."
The old man stepped aside without another word.
Inside, every knife hanging along the wall gleamed beneath the fluorescent lights. The counters had already been cleaned, and the room smelled faintly of disinfectant instead of blood. The Butcher noticed Carter studying the blades.
"They’re just tools."
"I know."
"So what brings homicide to my shop this time?"
Carter spread the crime scene photographs across the stainless-steel worktable. The old man didn’t touch them immediately. He studied each one in silence before finally picking up the image showing the victim’s neck. He examined it for nearly a minute before setting it back down exactly where it had been.
"I don’t know who did this."
"I didn’t ask if you knew them."
"No."
"You asked if I knew anything."
He looked directly at her.
"I don’t."
Carter folded her arms.
"Then tell me what you do see."
The Butcher remained quiet for a long moment before answering.
"I see someone who’s still learning."
"A beginner?"
"Or someone pretending not to be one."
She frowned.
"The forensic report says the cuts became cleaner with each victim."
"They did."
"Then why call them a beginner?"
The old man picked up the photograph again and tapped the wound across the victim’s neck.
"Because people are paying attention to the cut instead of everything around it."
He placed the photograph beside another showing the rusted drum.
"The head and the right hand were removed, carried only a few meters away, sealed inside a drum, and left beside the body."
He looked back at Carter.
"That’s impatience."
She waited for him to continue.
"A patient killer creates distance. They move evidence. They separate the body from anything that can help identify the victim. They give investigators as little as possible."
His finger rested on the photograph of the drum.
"This one didn’t."
"He hid them."
"Barely."
The old man shook his head.
"If the junior investigator hadn’t noticed the blood stains around that drum, they might have stayed there another few days. But that’s exactly the problem."
Carter narrowed her eyes.
"What problem?"
"He left them there at all."
The Butcher walked over to the wall of knives and absentmindedly checked the edge of one of them before hanging it back in its place.
"A professional doesn’t rush."
His voice remained calm.
"They plan every movement before the blade ever touches the victim. They already know where the body will end up, where the evidence will go, and how they’ll leave without anyone noticing."
He turned back toward Carter.
"This killer is improving, but improvement doesn’t mean experience."
"It means practice."
The old man nodded once.
"Exactly."
Silence settled between them.
Rain continued striking the windows outside.
Drip... Drip... Drip...
Carter picked up the photographs and slipped them back into the case file.
"So you think they’re still learning."
"I do."
"And if you’re right?"
The Butcher looked toward the dark window for a long moment before answering.
"Then three victims aren’t the end of their work."
His expression never changed.
"They’re the beginning."
