A Taste for Blood

Chapter 1: The Phantom of Melbourne City

No one knows for sure where the name the Phantom of Melbourne City came from. One working theory is that the press dubbed the killer such, due to his high killing rate near highly congested areas without ever being caught. And for almost a decade this phantom was as elusive as the name suggested.

In all the years I worked as a police officer I have never seen such an elusive son of a bitch. His murders are premeditated and planned, as if not to miss any meticulous detail, only to lead to such a gruesome and blood curdling death. I hate to admit it, but this guy never once did a mistake. No fingerprints, no DNA evidence, nothing. Only the shape of an axe cut onto the victims flesh.

This was the only way to identify that the murders where interlinked, besides several letters addressed to the police found at several locations. Each one ended with the phrase "Fuck you for messing with my beautiful art." These letters also brought back no results. The handwriting analysis was inconclusive, and an attempt to locate fingerprints failed.

It wasn't until a few days ago, Tuesday, when the Phantom screwed up. While in the process of killing John Atkins, he was seen by the next door neighbor viciously attacking John. She dialed triple zero almost immediately, and within minutes, the home was surrounded by dozens of cops and SWAT members. The son of a bitch tried to make a runner over the fence, but police quickly intercepted him. On the scene, there was another of the signature letters, and on John's body, the shape of an axe hastily cut into the victims flesh. Many suspect that this may be a copycat, but I believe that that Tuesday afternoon, the police force ended a decade long string of murders orchestrated by the notorious phantom.

Now, he sits in front of me, behind a tinted one way window, hands cuffed to the table in front of him, his facing bearing a giant grin. I would love to wipe that grin of his face, but I have to be professional despite the status of this serial killer. I take in a deep breath, as if it's my last, and close the case file in my hands. The guard opens the door for me, letting me into the room. As I walk in, the room begins to feel heavy for me. A sense of dread and unease sweeps the room, as the guard shuts the door behind me, leaving me and the monster in one room.

"Good Afternoon Mr Krow." I pull the chair out from underneath the table and take a seat, placing the case file in front of me. I then proceed to take my notepad out, on which is scribbled all the legal rights a person has while being interrogated.

"I am Senior Constable Brad Coleman. Before we begin, I must read out the list of legal rights that you have at this moment. Firstly, you have the right to remain silent...."

"I know my rights." The croaky harsh voice of Krow cuts me off, like a knife through flesh. "Quit it with the bullshit."

"Alright then." I place the notepad down on the table and look at Krow. "Tell me, Mr Krow..."

"Please, call me Jason. I don't want any formal bull shit." This is only the second time he has interrupted me, all with a great big grin on his face. I press on.

"Tell me, Mr Krow. Do you know why you are here?"

"I have an idea." He replies.

"And what is your idea?"

"Well, for the countless murders I committed. Am I getting the right idea officer?" His face has dropped, with the giant grin being replaced with a subtly smirk.

"You are correct Mr Krow. You are here because you will be charged with 40 counts of murder, 15 counts of aggravated assault and 1 case of robbery. I am here to question you, and figure out any other information."

"In other words, you want to question me about how I make my beautiful artworks that you fuckers keep ruining." His face has fully dropped now.

"You no artist. You are a murderer. A pretty ruthless one at that."

"Hold on, did you say 40 counts of murder?" I double check my notes, hoping I got the number right.

"Yes, 40 counts of murder."

"Oh, you coppers are fucking stupid. Can't even do basic arithmetic. I didn't kill 40 people, I killed 97. All within my professional career as a so called, murderer." I stare at him, my mind puzzled by this number, but my face stern.

"You heard me. 97 counts of murder. And I counted every single last one. And trust me, you never caught me for those murders either. That was back a long time ago, when I merely thought of the prospect of killing hundred's of people."

"Would you care to perhaps share this story? Considering that this may be the last time anyone will be able to hear it." This is my way of perhaps getting some actual evidence. A first person account if you will.

"I know, you fuckers are recording this right now." Krow turns to the camera box and puts up a middle finger pointed straight at the camera. He then turns to me.

"Fine. I will tell you my life story. After all, every great artist has a biography."