The third crime scene
She smashed her foot in the man's face, shattering the skull and spraying blood and brains everywhere. The whimpering ceased instantly. She snickered while licking the blood off her fingers, looking forward to what was to come. Two hours later she stepped out of the shower in the motel room, putting on the extra clothes she had brought with her, including a wig, a scarf and large sunglasses. It wouldn‘t do to let anyone see her leave the motel room, since people would recognize her instantly. She breathed in the sweet smell of death and left a fresh white rose in the middle of the mess she had created. What a beautiful sight, just like the others, all the others.
“FBI agent Smith” parked in front of a small cheap motel, with police cars all around. He walked inside and straight to the second floor, flashing his fake badge; he wasn’t in the mood for arguing with anyone.
Someone said behind him when he was about to walk into room 207. He turned around and gave the large man a tight handshake.
‘Deputy Rogers. Is this one the same as the others?’
Rogers nodded sadly, mumbling something about monstrosity and humanity.
‘It’s the third slaughter,’ he shuddered. ‘In three days. The owner, Jack Skimmer, says that the victim paid with cash, no ID or anything of the like was found. He was also the only customer tonight. Jack says a red haired woman asked for him and went upstairs, but her hair was black and her clothes different when she came back down. ‘
‘I’m going to take a look around.’ Smith replied.
The stench was the first thing he noticed. Death, rotten like meat set out in the sun for days, and just a whiff of rose. In the living room was the cause of that smell. Bone splinters everywhere, blood splattered all over the walls and ceiling and bits of muscle, intestines and brain scattered around the room. In the middle of all this mess was a white blood-stained rose. Smith stepped carefully around the pieces of human and made his way to the bedroom. The fire detector hung broken, a pile of burnt clothes in a trashcan. It was the same as always. Next he checked the bathroom. The shower floor was wet, which meant it had been used recently, after the murder.
‘So, what do you think?’ The deputy asked.
‘It’s always the same.’ Smith answered. ‘The rose, the clothes, the shower. The loss of ID, paying with cash and being the only customer. It’s like she can sense when someone is in a perfect situation for her.’ He sighed. ‘Why hasn’t anyone bagged them?’
‘S-sir?’ The deputy asked, unsure.
‘The ashes, the goddamn ashes! They might have some DNA on them.’
‘I’ll put someone to it right now, sir!’
Rogers hurried out of the motel and soon someone in a white, sterilized suit came in with an evidence bag and some sort of a small shovel.
When Smith came to his hotel room he did his routine check for any bugs, and when reassured of his privacy, ripped the fake moustache of his lip and threw his wig onto his bed. In the bathroom he took yet another photo of a crime scene out of his pocket and used a bit of tape to fasten it to the mirror, then attached a string to it leading to the middle, where a question mark was drawn on a piece of paper. On the picture he scribbled the location and time of discovery. Next he took out a map from a drawer under the sink and marked the location with a sharpie.
‘How am I going to find you?’ He murmured to himself.