MR. MANIAC

CHAPTER 1

Four years later, New York City, New York... Blood always seemed so much thicker than water in retrospect to Michael Greene. All his life it had seemed more precious and vital than the most pure of jewels. But as he lay on the floor of his apartment, with his own blood streaming down his face, covering one of the eyes, and tasting salt and plasma on his lips... he didn't think of it so precious anymore. He had tried screaming for help earlier before this point but it did no good. His Bose stereo system canceled out his cry and pleas for help when his assailant turned on the music. Cranking up half volume (which was still pretty deafening but not offensively loud.) Beethoven's 5th in C minor. His assailant stood over him now, he was tall, had shoulder length hair, held in hand the weapon he used to batter Michael with (a bloody sledgehammer), and a mad grin on his face of full satisfaction of his crime.

As Michael tried to utter in a plea for mercy, his Assailant grabbed his cheeks, squishing them together as if Michael were that of a child.

"Save your breath, pal. It won't help." The assailant said

Michael now sobbed weakly, there he was. His mouth busted in, teeth shattered, head cut open, ribs broken, all out of nowhere, for no reason. Michael had spent the most part of his beating thinking of everything he might have done to provoke this kind of brutality. Anything he might have did so that he can properly beg for his life. But nothing came to mind to Michael. He had not done anything wrong within the recent years of his life. He had not been shady, he always avoided conflicts of interest for his own sake, and he never got involved in something that had nothing to do with him. He decided at first that this was merely a random burglary. But the assailant didn't ask for money, he didn't demand much of anything besides go out and leave. Michael was no cop, and certainly not any manner of detective, but he could tell this was too random for something as up to chance like a burglary. He didn't know what he had done to deserve this.

But his assailant played executioner, bringing the sledgehammer close to Michael's face. The very sight of it made Michael's heart race miles per second. He felt it sort of sink into his

stomach, he knew he would probably die now rather than somehow bargain his way out. But no plea, no bargain, nothing would matter now. The assailant got closer and spoke in his ear.

"You're up buddy, get ready." The assailant joked with a menacing grin

The assailant stepped back, cocking back the sledgehammer as if it was a bat. He aimed perfectly for Michael's skull. Michael could hardly talk; Michael shed a tear then took a pained deep breath. His last.

"Hope you like Baseball." The assailant said, gripping firmly onto the sledgehammer, Michael looked him in the eyes hoping he'd have a miraculous sudden change of heart. Nothing happened. Michael began to quake with fear of the other side.

"Batter up."

The assailant swings the sledgehammer, that precious blood he idolized so much started pouring from his open skull. He hated it now, if he could make another cry for help he would. But his jaw was broken. He could feel it... his head felt intensely wet. Everything began to become a blur almost instantly. He could feel life slowly slipping away, like a clock winding down to its final minute. Michael saw brain bits on the floor. Probably his. His final minute came, he thought to himself a goodbye. But the last thing he heard was

"Strike 1... Strike 2...Strike 3. You're outta here!" his assailant jumping up and down like a madman on a home plate, waving his sledgehammer as if it were a baseball bat. Michael faded away.

†

Dean Harris had died that night four years ago on Laguna Beach, in that shore side house, or at least a part of him did. He would've preferred to be actually dead, and gone. But as he stood over his now latest victim with a sledgehammer in his hand and a small chunk of brain on his fingers he thought to himself how much he has died along the course of four years... he'd died on the inside. He felt it almost completely. Nothing was there... that once faraway dreamy eyed gaze reduced to nothing more than a cold lifeless stare. A stare that had flames of madness, strokes of insanity, and flickers of joy. His once tan skin became slightly pale from lack of sun. And his hair had grown in length down to his shoulders and become stringy and silky. Small, purple bags accumulated under his eyes over the years. He became close every year to looking like a complete corpse. He dropped the sledgehammer now. Michael was dead; he'd have no further need of it. While he listened to the soft melody of Beethoven he searched the cabinets for something to eat. He really had lost a regard for human life since he first saw it taken... the thought came to him, but he dismissed it as how far he's come over the years. Looking back at the bloody corpse that lay in the middle of the apartment Dean smiled

"Thanks for the food, Michael. Appreciate it."

†

F.B.I. Field Office, New York City... For years, Special Agent Tug Matthews has always been on the receiving end of hardship and insults. Primarily for his lack of interest in the game of politics and how they come into play with any high profile investigation. He never was for it, nothing was more important to him than capturing or killing the criminal at all cost and serving justice. Especially not an image. He was never in doubt of the fact that his job title means he comes from a long history of serving politics before the people. But in his mind that never meant he had to. Yes, there were small confrontations with the person in charge and himself, but Tug Matthews was 42 pushing 50. He had enough sense of the game to know when he would win a game of politics, and when he'd lose. Today... was one of those days where he'd lose.

He has been assigned a partner for the ongoing investigation of the Mr. Maniac killer, Dean Harris. The guy had been on a killing spree spanning four straight years. The powers that be, mainly Supervisory Special Agent Adrian Young, his boss. Were always taking shots at him for results that took longer than they would like. Matthews normally had an excel capture rate. But Dean Harris was a completely different story. He fits the profile for what Senior Special Agent Tug Matthews always called 'the perfect killer'. A maniac who doesn't fit any M.O., because he has no killing pattern. He picks and chooses at random with any weapon, in any fashion. No set ritual or any other bullshit that normal killers do that usually give them away. Dean Harris doesn't stick to a ritual, he just kills. Which is why he's so hard to catch. Tug understood this. He even told numerous other agents that have accompanied him as backup for the investigation when leads got close over the years. But they never turned up anything fruitful, they were either dead end traps set by Dean. Or he would manage to get away, killing agents to do so.

Now he was being forced to take on a partner for this creep. Tug was brooding with anger, practically oozing with steam he couldn't quite yet let out. He had to not only carry a partner on a case he'd have to get this person up to speed with. But also, this was a fresh Special Agent, right outta Quantico training facility. A Rookie. To make matters worse for the old man... his partner was a woman.