SrCuervo
patreon
115
🕑 Added 2025-08-26 09:22:25 +0000 UTCAnatomy of a Killer
Chapter 115 – Curiosity
Will didn’t ask Larry anything. He simply documented: rapid shots, fixed angles, scale, and detail. When he turned, something cut across his line of sight: a black triangle, like a piece of PVC, hanging inside the U-shaped metal staircase, at his exact eye level. It swayed with the draft from the passageway.
Carefully, he slung the camera over his back, picked up the fragment with tweezers, and bagged it. As he pulled it free, he noticed the flaw in the staircase: a shard of metal jutting out like a sharp spike.
“If it tore from the inside, it’s possible someone climbed up from below and snagged their clothing here. This isn’t a spot you’d touch if you were coming down carefully. He was in a rush, and the killer made a serious mistake.”
After picturing a scene where the killer had left this behind, he turned to Larry and said, “Larry, look.”
“What did you find?”
“It was on the side of the staircase.”
Larry looked up and took the evidence bag. “Looks like a piece of a waterproof apron. Industrial, I’d say.”
Will gave a single nod, still thoughtful. That was his style of investigation—losing himself in the killer’s actions to find a pattern.
Larry crouched again and looked down into the shaft. The drop was about six meters, but the remains had no mud clinging to them, no splattered soil.
“They didn’t throw down the body parts we found. The killer took the trouble to arrange them.”
“And if he climbed with the apron on, it got caught on that edge as he went up. That explains the torn fragment,” Will said, following the chain of events.
“And the bloodstains outside the shaft?” someone called from above.
“Not high velocity,” Will answered, his tone flat. “Swing and drip pattern, consistent with handling a blood-soaked mass while opening the lid. The fine spray is arterial, not from a gunshot impact.”
Larry nodded and added, “Check for rope marks on the third and fourth metal staples along the street. If there are any, we’ll have to reframe the initial hypothesis.”
Will climbed three steps, inspected with his flashlight, and spoke without raising his voice: “Two linen fibers on the third and fourth. And two drops on the intrados of the shaft. Something was hung here.”
“Tied, the lid opened, and left to drain,” Larry concluded, imagining how the head ended up tied to the iron cover.
“Functional concealment with a ritual component.” Will began taking his notes and added: “Control of the setting, knowledge of schedules and foot traffic. Organized offender, experienced with knives and fluids. Kitchen or butcher shop.”
Larry didn’t answer; his gaze had fallen on the pile of bones. The two previous bodies, dragged here long ago, were a jumble of remains and sediment. These newly exposed bones, however, showed clean cuts. They weren’t boiled. Strands of muscle still clung, with no marks of repeated scraping. The extraction followed the natural curves of bone growth.
“Varied cutlery,” Will said, sharpening his analysis. “A convex blade and a hooked one. Precise technique, not improvised.”
At first glance, the bones looked scattered. On closer inspection, they were aligned vertically beside the torso. On the small ulna, something clung to the bone: a folded piece of red paper, barely visible, streaked with vermilion ink.
Larry pinched a corner and unfolded it carefully. They weren’t letters but symbols, seemingly Norse. He rolled it back up and bagged it. He rubbed a bit between his fingers, sniffed. “Fine cinnabar, mixed with blood.”
“Signature, not modus operandi,” Will said as he approached. “Decapitation serves the killer’s logistics; the blood symbols on the walls fulfill his symbolic need. Pseudo-ritual. Likely uses a belief as a tool to grant himself permission.”
“Do we recover Victim C?” Will asked, having finished his inspection.
“Yes.”
They first lifted the limbs into a box. Then, together, they raised the torso and fitted it inside. From above, the box was hauled up.
Larry didn’t move toward the stairs. Will watched him, waiting.
“What’s on your mind?”
Larry pointed into the darkness on both sides. To the north lay the path they had already traveled days before. To the south, the line leading toward the residential zone. “South. If the killer didn’t come down through here, there’s another access. He must have a discreet entry point.”
Will breathed through the mask.
“I’ll go with you.”
Before moving on, Larry reminded those above: “We’re heading to the right. If we find a suspicious vertical shaft, we’ll call it in. Have Max photograph the symbols on the wall and send them to the lab for analysis.”
Then Jack climbed down lightly, wearing a reconnaissance suit and rubber boots. Will stepped aside with a dry shoulder nudge.
“Why are you coming down?”
“The smell doesn’t bother me. I’ll take point.”
“It bothers me,” Will muttered, rubbing at the raw skin under his mask.
“We have to keep moving.”
Jack took a step and nearly left his boots stuck in the mud. After a few seconds of awkward balance, he freed himself. Will didn’t smile.
The crackle of the intercom rose and fell with the echo. They had checked four shafts in a row with no findings. They were already drenched, sweat dripping into their eyes.
Jane’s voice came through the radio: “At the fifth shaft?”
“Yes,” Will replied. “We’ve got it in sight.”
“Don’t open the cover yet. It’s blocked. There’s a broken-down food cart on top. Big, with flat tires. The cover should be underneath.”
Larry took the radio: “Don’t tow it. Look for side windows. Get down low and check if it’s loaded.”
The three of them reached the rim. The edge of the staircase had a drier strip, with packed dust and earth—a small island.
Will shone his light, leaned in, and said:
“Footprints. Same rubber boot, multiple passes over the same spot. Routine. Someone uses this access often and knows exactly where to step.”
He measured, photographed, then returned to the stairs. Larry climbed up, pushed the lid from below. It didn’t budge. He stayed still, staring at a point.
“What do you see?” Will asked from the second rung.
Larry reached with tweezers and pulled out what had been wedged between the frame and the cover: a linen rope end, compressed in the gap, finished with the same vendor’s knot they had seen on the head. It was stained with reddish grease and onion particles.
“Confirmation,” Larry said, lowering the rope into the evidence bag.
Will concluded, looking at Jack, who was searching urgently for answers: “The killer parked the hot-dog cart over the cover to hide the entry, climbed up wearing an industrial apron, hung the head with flour-sack rope, drained it, left his signature, and exited through here. Our man works in street food or butchery. And this is his access.”
Above, someone exclaimed over the intercom: “The cart has handmade plates and traces of red broth on the chassis!”
Will looked at Larry. “We’ve got him.”
