There was so much blood. But why wouldn't there be? Even though it had rained earlier, the ground was hardened by the cold, and the moonlight glistened spectral shadows of dancing red flames. But he didn't care.

Squatting, while leaning his back against an old oak tree, he looked over at her lying on the ground just a few feet away. The moonlight glimmered off her bare, porcelain-breasts that were drenched with the blood and residual sweat he had left behind, like a dog that had marked his territory. She belonged to him and he could do whatever he wanted...  and he wanted to do more.

He fumbled with a crumpled pack of smokes and lit a crimped cigarette. While trying to inhale a deep draw, he realized that it was snapped almost in half. He carefully pieced the smoke back together, pinching and holding it closed with his bloody fingers, as if it would magically mend itself. He sucked in a pitiful excuse of a drag, zipped up his pants, and buckled his worn leather belt while continuing to gaze at her loveliness... and the art work he planned on finishing.

He relished how good she was. How really good... and how she put up a good go-round too-- better than most. He felt an erection coming on, stroked it through his pants with his bloody hand and smiled, exposing his rotten teeth that clinched the dangling cigarette like a vice.

...Beauty is art yet unfinished,
waiting impatiently to be blanketed
in the warmth of its delusion,
neatly woven from its own affliction...
Only the artist has eyes to see
his carefully crafted perfection...

******

It was raining again for the third time in the past few hours and Toni didn't think it would ever stop. The rain slicked streets mirrored the headlights of the cars that drove into the paved lot. She pulled into a parking space barely big enough for her SUV, but managed to leave herself enough room to open her door. She was in a hurry and didn't have time for such inconveniences. It was already a quarter to eight and she was giving a speech at a charity dinner.

A woman's voice shrilled through the resounding down pour. "Toni! Toni Taft! Oh, my God-- is that really you?"

Startled, Toni dropped her purse, spilling the contents on the glassy pavement. She tried fruitlessly to open her umbrella, snagging it on her coat but, it finally burst open.

She briefly glanced toward the direction of the voice, but was hesitant to answer. She didn't recognize the woman and clicked the keyless remote, locking the SUV's doors. Instinctively, she positioned her finger on the trigger of the small pepper-spray canister that dangled from her key-chain; a habit she'd developed for safety and had become second nature to her. She'd learned many tricks in the self-defense and martial arts classes she'd taken because her former line of work had its dangers.

Toni wasn't in the mood for interruptions. Her clothes were drenched, her blond hair saturated with  hair spray-tainted rain trickling from her scalp that traveled down her face, creating blackened mascara-run eyes. She knew she must have looked like a wet raccoon and had to abandon all hope of staying dry.

Bending down, picking up a wet jeweled lipstick tube off the glistening pavement, she returned it to its rightful place while keeping her finger on the pepper-spray's trigger.

She looked up at the woman. "Do I know you?"

"No. But I know you-- who doesn't? You used to be in the news practically every day," the woman answered.

Toni didn't respond while searching for a dry tissue in her purse, then heard the sound of the woman‘s high heels echoing a sharp click-clacking on the pavement as she approached her.

"I'd hoped I would eventually find you. I never dreamed I'd bump into you like this! I've tried finding your phone number and address, but it's like you're non-existent. My name is Erma-- Erma Bartlow. Maybe you've heard my name before. If I could just have a -- "

"Look, I really don't have time to talk, or for an autograph right now. Especially not in this rain," Toni interrupted. She didn't have patience for people who wanted psychic answers to their personal problems and their love life, or crazed paranormal fans, particularly ones that stalked her. Thinking that was the end of it, she fumbled with her umbrella and walked away. She was thankful there were people in the parking lot and that it provided ample lighting.

Toni began walking toward the store, then stopped, pivoting around to look at the woman."I'm sorry."

"Wait a minute, please-- just a moment of your time," the woman yelled. "Look, Ms. Taft, I don't want your autograph. I need to talk with you. It's about my daughter," she yelled in a higher-pitched voice. "I need answers about what happened to her. I need closure."

Something in the sound of the woman's voice had induced an eerie feeling. She'd felt the same feeling before when she had talked to other victims' families. Toni stopped, and turned around, facing her. She could see the woman's eyes clearly in the parking lot's street lighting. Her eyes were a crystallized blue, like ice in its metamorphosing stage from liquid to solid. There was so much pain entrenched within her eyes-- and they were as pleading as the sound of her voice.

Toni broke her own rule of trusting strangers. "All right," she blurted, "but not out here in this rain. We can get into my car to talk-- but only for a few minutes. That's the best I can do."

Mrs. Bartlow anxiously followed her. Her facial expression and body posture more relaxed, as if content for any small amount of time granted her.

Toni made it to the charity dinner later than she'd wanted. She thought it'd be unbearable; instead it was surprisingly pleasant and it was nice seeing old friends and former associates again. She hadn't been able to stop thinking about her conversation she'd had with Mrs. Bartlow, which made it difficult to concentrate on the charity.

It was late and felt good to finally be home. Even though she was tired, it was a perfect time to grab an opened bottle of wine and go outside and sit on the porch swing to relax in quiet solitude while absorbing the calmness of the night.

Willow trees bowed, tickling the ground with their leafy tips and moonlight danced over the dewy grass, sparkling in unison to the stars above. The rain had stopped, leaving its mark like a signature on a masterpiece of the world. Adjacent rooftops puffed their ashen smoke, each forming unique clouds of its own design. The neighboring dogs barked their good nights throughout the darkened distance, closing the day's province.

She sat comfortably, swaying in rhythmic motion, taking a gulp from the wine bottle, instead of the usual polite sip of Chardonnay from a crystal glass. The familiar warmth soothed her inside, and she realized the indulgence had evolved into a nightly ritual over the past couple of years. She adjusted the rose-colored shawl her grandmother had knitted, and gazed at the beauty that surrounded her while listening to the peaceful chants of the night. Once the serenades of the dogs had subsided, it became calm, almost still.

Feeling more relaxed and peaceful, she thought how the chilly night's cleansing might offer a newness to the coming day. But the thought didn't bring her any comfort.

The story Mrs. Bartlow had told her, chilled her blood in a way that the Chardonnay couldn't warm. One of the killer's victims was Mrs. Bartlow's daughter. His sixth victim.

She remembered reading about it in the newspaper, although it was fragmented. There were details omitted that the police didn't tell the media, which was standard operating procedure for ongoing cases.

Why did I have to stop by that particular grocer at that particular time, at precisely that moment? Any other time, I wouldn't have run into Ms. Bartlow-- or would I have somewhere else--eventually?

Reddick was used to trains shaking his apartment and the 6 o'clock train was always the worse. The big picture of the dogs seated around a card table playing poker, fell, shattering glass haphazardly over the peeling, black and white checked linoleum floor. He hadn't liked the picture, and thought the stupid mongrels with cigars hanging out of their mouths was a commemoration to his mother. It wasn't because it had been hers and hung in the dining room of the old, rickety house he'd grown up in-- it was because she sat around all day with a damned cigarette hanging from her prune-like lips while wearing a tattered housecoat and dirty slipper while constantly bitching and complaining. Mother isn't supposed to have such nasty and disgusting vices.

He lit a cigarette and laid down on the old Army cot he used for a bed. Reaching down, he smashed a cockroach that had dared to crawl onto his leg, smearing it into a gooey blotch, and wiped his hand on his rank t-shirt. He downed the warm backwash that was left in a nearby beer can, threw it on the floor, and watched it roll under a chair. He didn't care.

Reddick jumped up and walked barefoot across the room, stepping on shards of glass left from the drinking glass he'd dropped and broke the night before. While feeling no pain, he left bloody footprints trailing behind on his short journey to the television. He switched it on and got a cold beer from the small, rusty 'fridge that was only a few feet away, then plopped down, slouching in his threadbare-armchair with both legs dangled over one arm's side, popped the top, and guzzled the cold brew.

There it is. I might become famous. So, the news anchorman said the police found a woman's body in the woods out in Holler Hills? Sweet.

Then the anchorman continued with the national news.

"No--no--no-- damn it!" he yelled. He was furious that the anchorman hadn't reported any details and felt the intensity of anger swelling inside. "No video, no pictures-- nothing--no avowal at all! Well hell, of course not-- they wouldn't give credit for my art. Shit no-- they don't have the fuckin' brains to recognize art when they see it!" He continued raving and cursing louder and louder while pacing the floor. What does a man have to do to get some recognition? he thought, questioning himself. Some acknowledgment for the craft? It's art in the most unadulterated form-- sheer genius!" I should be named the artist of the friggin' year for my work!"

...And a man's work is never finished,
left undone, it seeks perfection.
As famous men have fallen high,
of much their own unsettling affliction.
And all the while, they must continue,
searching for their renown recognition..

"Hello?" she asked, answering the phone.

"Ms. Taft?"

"Yes."

"This is Detective Meadows over at the 23rd Precinct," the soft, almost raspy voice announced. "I'd like to speak with you if I may. Can I buy you a cup of coffee and talk? How 'bout at the Brew-A-Cup Coffee Shop over on the corner of 59th Avenue and Scenic Boulevard?"

"Can I ask what this is about, Detective-- ?"

"... Meadows, Detective Meadows. I'd rather tell you over a cup of coffee, Ms. Taft. It's really too much to go into over the phone. Will you accept my invitation?"

"If this is about consulting, I'm retired," she told him.

"I think this is something you'll want to hear. It's important, Ms. Taft. I'll even throw in a slice of their famous apple pie-- A la mode, if you'd like. I know this is short notice, and I apologize. Can we say, in about an hour or so? Is that time enough?" he asked, knowing not to ask an open-ended question. "Please?"

"I guess I can manage it-- but my time is somewhat limited and I cherish it. So it better be important, Detective Meadows," she told him, hanging up.

Something bothered her about his phone call. The demeanor of his voice was enigmatic and she felt compelled to meet with him. She knew what it was about. It was obvious he was going to ask for her help on the serial killer case that was so prominent in the news. With Mrs. Bartlow and his phone call being in succession, she felt it was one of those destined times one cannot ignore.

Toni made a call to the police chief, verifying Detective Meadows was legitimate. She quickly changed clothes, dabbed on some make-up, and grabbed her purse and coat on her way out the door-- then remembered she'd left her car keys on the foyer table. In one full-circled swoop, she ran back inside, snatched them up, and made a dash out the door again.

It was heavily misting out and the streets were wet. A rainbow arched above the city as if it were a fantasy land full of fairies twittering about. Traffic was busier than normal, with people running errands and stocking up on supplies due to torrent rains.

The radio announcer reported another woman's body had been found earlier that morning. She turned the volume up and fumbled with the radio knob trying to tune the station in more clear while keeping her eyes on the street and traffic ahead. The announcer continued to report that it was the eleventh body discovered in the past couple of months and police didn't have any clues. My God! This is one of the worst and most gruesome cases, she thought, remembering the past cases she'd worked and wanted to forget--and needed to forget.

Toni parked her teal-colored SUV. It was the only one like it in town, which she figured 'marked' her identity; instead of her preference of blending in unnoticed. She walked inside the coffee shop, closing her umbrella, and removed her mahogany leather coat, carefully folding it over her arm. She didn't like crowded public places. She walked over to the jukebox that sat a couple of feet to the right of the door, and stood, searching the faces in the crowd while hoping Detective Meadows would approach her before she became as conspicuous as she felt.

A handsome man with a slightly crooked smile approached her while wiping his right hand on his trousers.

"Hello, Ms. Taft," he greeted, politely extending his hand.

Toni thought that he looked as though he was slightly surprised and wondered why, as it was an odd look.

Meadows thought she looked a lot different than he'd pictured her, expecting her to be a short, rounded, little woman with dull eyes and horn-rimmed glasses, or look matronly with hair up in a bun, a tight laced collar, and wearing comfortable shoes.

Toni graciously shook his hand. "Hello. I presume you're Detective Meadows," she replied, discreetly sizing him up. Not that a person could judge the height of someone by the sound of their voice, she thought, but he's taller than I'd imagined. His eyes were a rich, cherry wood-brown and his hair matched, complimenting his finely but masculine, chiseled features.

"May I see your badge please, Detective? Women need to be more cautious these days. But I'm sure you're aware of that, aren't you?"

He didn't respond, and pulled his badge from his coat pocket, opened it for her to view, while she verified he was who he said he was, and flipped it shut, returning it to his pocket, then smiled.

"I've got a table over in the corner where we can speak privately." He nodded at the table while taking her coat and escorted her across the room, pulling the chair out for her to be seated.

A young waitress politely interrupted, taking their coffee order and leaving two glasses of iced water with lemon twists.

He waited to answer, allowing the waitress to leave. "Please, call me Brad. I'm not keen on formal." He couldn't help being drawn to her greenish cat-eyes and noticed how gracefully she moved. She wasn't very tall, but slender and very proportioned for her height. She was strikingly pretty.

Toni felt uncomfortable with his stare, and certainly didn't intend calling him by first name, informal or not. She didn't like to get too familiar with people or on a personal level. It brought too much torment into her planned and serene life she'd built the past few years.

"I suppose you've read the newspapers, Ms. Taft, and seen the television news like everyone else. It's about the serial killer that's headlined every national paper and news channel in the country. We're working with the FBI on this case, but have the jurisdiction momentarily, but won't much longer-- that's what this is about."

"Sure, I've read and heard about it. It appalls me and scares me just like it does everyone else, Detective. But what does that have to do with me?" She already knew the answer.

"I'd like your help, Ms. Taft. You've solved a lot of crimes, helping police catch lunatics-- which helped saved a lot of lives. I don't have any leads to identify this maniac yet-- let alone, catch him. You might be able to give some insight with your psychic abilities. That's why I asked you here this afternoon-- to ask for your help."

I was right, she thought... "Look, Detective Meadows, I figured that's why you phoned me. But as I've already told you, I'm retired now. I don't work cases anymore and prefer to remain in retirement."

"Yes, I know that. And I know you've already talked with my chief, Ms. Taft. I understand-- I really do. But this is different. It's not the typical case that you've consulted in the past," he answered, taking a sip of coffee while looking her in the eyes.

"What makes this one any different from any other serial killer? They're all insane-- all of them are narcissistic, mentally and emotionally sick to no end, perverted in every sense of the meaning, and indescribably demented; and-- each is either a man-made sociopath or a born psychopath-- and, Detective-- that's exactly why I stopped consulting-- I had to stop in order to remain sane. I needed to wash the evil from my mind-- and my life-- forever, if possible."

Detective Meadows was prepared for her response. He'd researched her and knew about her past. "He is different. He's more than the a-typical serial killer, more than demented and ruthless, and more than being just another sick psycho on the loose. He's beyond our forensic profiler's abilities to classify him. His method is too unique. Off the charts, or so they tell me. But it doesn't take a genius to see that. "

He laid a couple of over-stuffed manila envelopes on the table, sliding them toward her reach.

She looked down at the bulging packets. "What are these?" she asked, not wanting to look inside them. She looked up at him, waiting for his answer.

"They're my personal files on this sick guy. Some snapshots of his victims, locations, his M.O., our profiler report, and copies of what clues we have... which is almost zero, actually. We've got the original crime scene photos back at the precinct, boxed for each case. Open one, Ms. Taft," he told her, nudging them closer to her side of the table. "You'll better understand why I, no-- why we, need your help-- why their families need your help. Give them some closure. Help us catch this son-of-a-bitch before he kills another girl," he said, pausing, catching his breathe, "your reputation is impeccable, and chances are, you could be the only person to have the power to stop him. We still don‘t know how he picks them-- even you could be his next victim."

Toni reached for one of the folders and hesitated, retracting her hand. She looked up at Detective Meadows. His eyes were pleading and his facial expression solemn. She reached again, holding her hand inches above a folder. Her hand trembled but she finally mustered the courage to touch it, and then closed her eyes.

There was a cold feeling. A feeling of anger and hatred. She felt a profound sense of sadness... even stronger, she felt an unrelenting torturous despair... there was blood. So very much blood ...

...she felt connected to the killer somehow...