As the Petals Fall

Chapter One

         I think the best part of my job is finding connections that were never thought to be there. When someone is murdered it's my job to find their killer. Usually, it's fairly obvious who did it. A jealous wife or husband, unrequited love and more often than you would think; the butler. But sometimes you find the unexpected. Those are always the most fascinating. Someone kills with seemingly no connection. Most of the time it seems like nothing to the rest of us, but to them it's everything. By constantly killing women with blonde hair, they continuously murder their mother every night. Killing black men to get that sweet feeling of revenge over and over again. Revenge for simply having a different skin tone. It's hard to imagine why they think like that. If they felt like they had to kill, why more than once? Why do they need to refuel that constant feeling? It makes you wonder if it's really such an amazing feeling. You could simply ask them, "How did it feel?" Every single one will rave about the sensation. It energized them. They suddenly felt alive. A feeling better than any drug could offer. We have all thought about it. Thought about killing someone I mean. You can sit there on your couch, bed or wherever you are reading this; try to lie to yourself. Lie to yourself and say "That's horrible! I could never do such a thing." You fucking liar. If it was socially acceptable to kill you would. The difference between you and a killer is that you will never have the satisfaction of going through with it.

     I can never share my thoughts with those around me. They would call me crazy, even though; deep down they know I'm right. Most people at the station are weary of me. I've been told that I rub people the wrong way. The way I talk is static, I don't bother to kid around and I am extremely blunt. Surprisingly, people don't want to hear the truth. I'm working on it, at least I tell myself that I am. My therapist says that if I want to connect with people I have to at least try.

      Generally, I don't feel the need for others. I'm content on my own, but recently I've been assigned a new partner. He interests me. It feels like he's different from others. The way he thinks is unusual and I long to learn more. I've been trying but he's been uneasy around me since day 1. Constantly fidgeting or backing away if I move an inch too close. It's a shame. Out of all the other men at the station he was by far the most handsome. His skin was a light brown, with darker splotches of freckles peeking from underneath. This complimented his floppy brown hair, sprinkled with wisps of white and strands of gold. I hated the fact that he disliked me. How do you change someone's perception? How do you act less like yourself? Shit. He saw me staring. A look of confusion pour over his face and he flashes an awkward smile. Quickly I give a short wave and proceed to his desk. I plop down our newest case. A widowed wife in Wisconsin was murdered last night. It was an easy case but he seemed puzzled by it. I already knew who it was. Couldn't tell him that though. I wanted to see what he thought. More precisely how he thought.

"What with the gross look's?" I teased. He ignored my voice and glared down at the file.

"It doesn't make sense to me. She has marks around her neck, but they say she was stabbed multiple times." He fiddled with the papers, searching through the photos.

      The first image he pulled out had a woman lying in a ditch with a large kitchen knife protruding from her back, and near her left ankle, a smaller knife was partially visible. Before I had time to search for more details, he pulled out another. This image was more detailed. The woman was turned on her back and was naked. The tip of the knife scratched at her skin, leaving bumps that looked like brail. I glanced at Hollick's skin. It was fleshy and pink, whereas her's was blue surrounded by a deep purple and pools of dried blood. Bruises lined her body in a circular pattern around her stomach. That couldn't possibly be a coincidence. Maybe it was the killer's way of marking his work. As my eyes glanced down the rest of her body more bruises appeared on her thighs. My legs throbbed in pain at the thought of what had happened. Hollick jabbed his finger at her neck.

"Now, why the fuck would he stab her and then strangle her? It's just a weird order." He said as he picked at his scalp. "I just don't get it."

"How do you know it's a man?" I questioned.

"Well, she was raped so that's a pretty big indicator that it was a guy."

I crossed my legs and stared at the image sitting between us.

"Did they get any DNA?"

"The son-of-a-bitch managed to leave nothing." His face grew grim and he sulked back into his chair. "There's tearing inside but no DNA."

"How does someone manage to do that..." I mumbled, reaching towards the photo. "There has to be something, can we go to the scene?"

"We can, but I doubt there will be anything." He said as he pushed away from the table.

   As he put on his black down jacket; covered in mud cracking at the sides; he maneuvered his way around the desk while sweeping up the file. Without hesitation, he plopped it in my hands and reached into his pocket. After he fished out his keys he flashed a grin.

"I'll drive."

   Hollick's car was disgusting Jesus christ. When I stepped inside my nose filled with musk attempted to be covered by some spray.

"Oh sorry, let me... uh... just let me clean a bit." Hollick mumbled as he leaned down to the car floor.

    His arms filled with empty Mcdonald's bags and boxes of takeout. Quickly, he scurried to a nearby garbage can and tossed everything in. He paced back to the car and patted the seat, welcoming me to sit down. I ducked into his car and pulled the seat-belt over my body. He didn't bother.

   The air was awkward between us. He kept glancing nervously at me, unsure of what to say or do. I wonder if he's ever worked with somebody else before. I should ask him. I begin to open my mouth but he reaches for the stereo. His hand hovers.

"Were you gonna say something?" He asks.

"No."

     He nods and cranks the volume. The music is pleasant to me. It acts as a buffer between us. An excuse for him not to talk. With a sigh, I open the folder again. She stares back at me with empty eyes. Isn't it strange to think that there was once life there? Then it was gone. Taken, no, stolen from her. Someone brought a knife to her flesh and pushed the life out of her. Each movement causing her to disappear more and more.

     Stabbings were always boring and uncreative to me. If you were going to take someone's life at least make it interesting. Lately, all of the homicides lacked creativity. They were just too easy. Although about 3 months ago I had a good one. It was a man named Henry Dublin. He was around 45, single and had no kids. A nobody. When he was killed his killer stripped Henry's skin and reattached it upside down. A razor blade to take the skin off and simple twine and needle to attach. It was a sloppy job, hence why his killer was so easy to find. When questioned why he reattached the skin he simply said, "I wanted to see what he would look like."

    There are so many like him out there. Killers who make a show out of their killings. They want to entertain us. Isn't sick it? It's a way to watch the world become like them. Everyone suddenly becomes fascinated with their murder. Maybe those who kill like this, do it to prove us wrong. We all say that the people who commit these crimes are sick, but are we not also sick for being intrigued? Why do we lie and say that killing isn't normal, if you think about it, we know its normal? We constantly flock towards it when it's near. Maybe that's just the horrible truth.

"You good?" Hollick questioned, nudging my shoulder.

"Yeah, just uh- trying to figure this out," I said.

He looked at me with a concerned look, but when are eyes met he turned back to the road.

"We almost there?"

"Yeah, it's just up this road here" He replied as he drummed his fingers against the steering wheel.