Once Upon a Time There was a Psychopath

The Crime Scene Investigator, one of three on the site, was securing the area with bright yellow police tape. The dead-man, his face and neck slashed and cut beyond recognition, had been neatly laid out on his back on the warehouse floor, still dressed in his suit, feet placed together, arms outstretched as if awaiting his savior, completely soaked in near black, coagulated blood. The Detective walked in from the open docks, looking at the body with a practiced eye as he advanced to the crime scene.

The CSI man saw him and waved, “So, what is this… like, twenty-two straight years?” He looked down at the grisly scene before him. “Year after year some poor schmuck gets sliced and diced by a madman and laid out like Jesus on the cross in an abandoned warehouse. Christ O’ Mighty!”

The detective walked up to the tape, “Twenty-three,” he said as he shook his gray haired head. “I was a rookie when this began,” he rubbed the back of his neck, fatigue setting in, “and still not a freaking clue as to who this maniac is,” he grumbled. “Just once you’d think he would make a mistake.”

Suddenly the CSI man stopped, bent down and with a tweezers pulled from his shirt pocket, picked up a cigarette butt from the floor. “Hmm…may have something here.” He walked to the detective and showed him the filter-less butt. “This may be our first break,” he said excitedly as he held it up for the detective. “After all this time! If it was in his mouth…” He paused for effect, “then we have DNA, baby!”

The detective squinted from under his hat as he looked and replied, “Not many people smoking filter-less cigarettes anymore,” as he took the butt from the CSI guy and dropped it into a plastic bag, sealing and initialing it as he spoke. “I’m gonna take this to the lab right away,” he said absently as he looked through the clear plastic at the crumpled cigarette. “Maybe we finally get a break from it,” and he turned on his heel, making his way to the door.

Once outside he opened the baggie and nonchalantly threw the butt on the ground as he continued to walk in the fading sunlight. “Now I’m going to have to change brands,” he grumbled to himself as he pulled a pack of Chesterfields from his coat pocket and deftly took one from the deck, held it out in front if him and put a match to it till there was smoke curling off the glowing red cherry. Then, still walking, he let it burn down without putting it to his mouth. With about an inch of the cigarette left, he stubbed it out on the brick wall of the building he was walking by. “I’m getting sloppy in my old age,” he thought as he placed the butt into a second plastic bag produced from his pocket, then sealed and signed.

He grinned as he put the bag back into his coat. “DNA my ass.”

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