They waited in the mouth of the alleyway, obscured in darkness, nerving themselves up. The one who called himself Scag lit a cigarette with a trembling hand.

"What the **** you think you’re doing?" the second figure snarled, grabbing the cigarette and throwing it into the puddle at their feet.

"****, Joey, that was my last one!"

"Does it look like I ****in’ care? What if somebody saw you light up, huh? You wanna blow this for us?"

"Oh, sorry Joey," he said sullenly, " I wasn’t thinking’."

"You never do, so what’s new?" he said distractedly, glancing out of the alley down the sidewalk. "Now get back, there’s somebody comin’!"

Scag looked out around the edge of the brick wall, expecting a wino or a crackhead looking for a fix, but instead saw a suit stumbling down the sidewalk. A ****in’ suit! This time a’ night? But there he was, slacks, vest, even a big old overcoat like those Wallstreet pricks were always wearing. Scag could almost feel the suit’s fat leather wallet in his hand, bulging with twenties and fifties, maybe even hundreds! All sorts of credit cards, and who knew how much they could get for those
clothes. Or maybe he’d take the clothes for himself, deck himself out like a big-time player, watch-chain and all. He crouched down, then felt Joey’s hand on his
shoulder.

"Somethin’ don’t feel right," Joey said, "what if this is one of those cop stings?"

"I dunno," Scag said, "Why would they dress their guy up like a suit? Wouldn’t it be kinda suspicious?"

A dull light appeared in Joey’s eyes. "You’re right. Yeah, why would they do that? Wouldn’t catch anybody with a nice, clean suit for bait, would they? Yeah. Okay, let’s do ‘im."

"Yeah," said Scag, "Let’s do ‘im good. Stupid ****in’ suit! He deserves it!"

"Get down. Here he comes!"

The suit was shuffling closer now, zigging and zagging all over the place. It was a miracle he could even stay on his feet! He was so close now Scag could smell his
cologne, some weird foreign **** Scag had never smelled before.

"Ready?" Joey asked, "Alright, let’s go!"

They stepped quickly out of the darkness, grabbed the man, and yanked him back into the alley. He didn’t put up much of a fight, just let out a bleary grunt as he was dragged down the alley and pinned against the wall.

"Let's see what you got, mister businessman!" Joey snarled, shaking him roughly before picking the man up off his feet.

"Yeah, Joey, **** ‘im up!" Scag crowed.

Still holding the man, Joey turned a murderous eye on Scag. "I told you to never use my name!" He turned his face back to the suit. "Now, Mister Suit, I’m afraid you know a little too much about me for comfort, but I think I can fix that…"

With that he drew a wickedly serrated knife out of a sheath on his belt. To Scag it looked almost a foot long.

"You really gonna kill him, Jo- I mean, uh, Jimmy?"

"Too late for that, now, Scag," he said, gaze still on the hanging head of the drunken man, "Bye-bye, Mister Suit," he said softly, raising the knife, sorry to lose such a nice set of clothes.

The man’s head slowly raised, and Joey saw not the bloodshot eyes of a midnight drunk but eyes so vividly blue they seemed to bore into his own.

"Goodbye, Joey," said Mister Suit, "I’ll miss you always."

Joey felt a deep searing pain as something cold and sharp slid into his chest and out through his back. He coughed a fine red mist as one of his lungs deflated like a
punctured balloon and the blade sliced his heart cleanly in two. The light left his eyes slowly, fading as his lifeblood gushed out of him.

The mystery man pulled his blade free, and, almost as an after thought, swung it in a glittering arc that severed Joey’s head from his body in one fluid motion before the body could even begin to topple over.

Scag looked with disbelief at what was happening. Was that really Joey’s head over by the dumpster? No, stop the presses, that’s not the way things work. Grab, hit, run. Grab, hit, run. Every time it worked, so who was this guy to screw up the routine?

"Wh-What’d you do that for?" he asked, staring at Joey’s head in incredulity. "Why’d you kill Joe?"

"Because… he was bad," the man said patiently, as if to a child, " Very bad indeed. Evil, even, I would say. And I will not allow evil, not even simple thugs like you. You, at least, are one of the lucky ones. You’re one of the first. You won’t have to live with the fear I’ll bring to your kind in this city. And now, although this conversation is so very interesting, it is at an end. Tempus fugit." He silently glided toward Scag.

Almost all of Scag had stopped functioning when Joey’s head had left his body, but his low cunning was working overtime. In what felt like slow-motion he yanked his own knife free of his belt and ran at the man, shoulders low, hoping for a shot at Mister Suit’s guts. He jabbed forward and upward, trying to disembowel the man, but his swing was stopped short as the man grabbed his wrist and gave it a vicious twist. Scag howled in pain and clutched his wrist, then turned and tried to run. He stumbled through a puddle and shot a terrified look over his shoulder. The blade cut deep into his back, severing the spine and nearly cutting him in two. He pitched forward, landing on his back. As the blood began to cool around him and his vision began to fade, his final sight were the man’s eyes, and he thought Hell must not be the red of flames, but pure, glacial blue.


Vanessa D’ Angelo, homicide detective, Fifth Precinct, was not in a joyous mood. Not only had she had a fight with her landlord over a month’s late rent, she had gotten a call around 7 a.m. that some scumbags over in Brooklyn had evidently been thrown in an economy-sized chop-o-matic. The call hadn’t been about the fact that the men were killed; nobody really cared. But because they were killed in what the coroner called "a ritualistic fashion", there had to be a formal investigation. Nobody wanted this killer to graduate to respectable citizens. The mayor would have a seizure.

Too bad, she thought. Might do wonders for the bureaucracy around here.

She smiled at the thought, but it quickly turned to a frown as she entered the station. She could hear the Captain yelling at Keelings, which was nothing new. The Cap had it in for Keelings, or so Keelings said. The fact was he was a natural born screw-up, and a whiny one to boot. Vanessa tried to steer clear of him, but once the Captain got angry at Keelings, he had a habit of spreading it around so everyone could benefit.

She walked up to the Captain’s door just in time to see Keelings slink out.His greasy hair and five o’ clock shadow made him look like ninety percent of the guys that were dragged into the station everyday.

"Careful, ‘Nessa, he’s in one of his moods again," Keeling mumbled under his breath.

God, she hated it when he called her that! "What Keelings? You say the Captain’s PMSing again?" she said loudly, "That’s very politically incorrect and I take offence to it!"

"KEELINGS!" the Captain’s voice roared hard enough to shake the door, "GET BACK IN HERE!"

"oh ****," he said in a strangled croak, then bolted toward the station’s entrance.

Trying hard not to chuckle, Vanessa stepped into the Captain’s office. She quietly shut the door and sat in the highly uncomfortable chair in front of the Captain’s desk. It was said he had personally chosen that chair, as a way of keeping his underlings from getting too cozy while they were in his office. He, on the other hand, had a well-padded swivel chair in which he would recline whilst tearing them a new one.

He was a large man, but not overly so, big enough to be a quarterback but not a linebacker. He was old enough to be her father, but he was definitely not a pencil- pusher like some of the mucky-mucks in the larger precincts. Once he had been walking through the station with a file to take to Records when a perp broke free of the officer holding him and made a break for the door. The Cap (he had actually been the Sarge, then) calmly turned and caught the guy with a clothesline. The man did a complete backflip and landed at the Cap’s feet. He looked down, seemed satisfied, and resumed walking. Needless to say, Vanessa had a lot of respect for him.

He was rubbing his temples as she entered.

"That guy gives me migraines every time I see him," he said. He opened his desk drawer and pulled an aspirin bottle out. He swallowed a few, took a pull from his coffee mug, put his hands flat on the desk and looked at Vanessa.

"D’ Angelo, you’re off the Martin case," he said.

"What?" she asked incredulously, "Why? I have some prime leads! I was going to talk to an informant right after I came here!"

"Doesn’t matter. As much as I hate to, I’m giving it to Keelings. That’s what we were talking about just now, in fact. Be sure to send all your info to him as soon as possible."

She began to open her mouth again, but he silenced her with an impatient wave of his hand.

"I know what you’re gonna say, but I have a case which I think will better suit you. I’m giving you the slasher case you were called about. I would have brought you out there right away, but I figured you wouldn’t be able to give your all with no warning. The scene’s still fresh, though the blood’s dried, and you’ll find the full coroner’s report on your desk."

"What makes me so special?" she asked angrily.

"You’re the only detective we have around here who took more than half a year of forensic pathology, that’s what," he looked directly into her eyes, "Any more questions?"

She could tell he was getting angry but didn’t care. She’d spent months on this case just to get it yanked out from under her!

"This is bull****!" she growled angrily.

"Your feelings are duly noted and ignored," he said mildly, "Aren’t you gone yet?"

She stalked out of his office and down to her desk. The coroner’s report was the only thing on it besides her nameplate. It looked at least ten pages long. She decided to read it on the way.

He sat on the rooftop opposite the alleyway to see how quickly the police reacted. As was expected, the screams alerted no one and the first ones to discover the bodies were the garbage men who came in the morning. It took about another thirty minutes for the first policemen to show up. They had the alley taped off in five, and the bodies removed in fifteen. Not bad, for cops in this city, but they definitely wouldn’t hinder his… venture. Then another car pulled up, this one unmarked except for a light on the hood. A man and a woman stepped out. "A lady detective?" he asked sadly, "Such exquisiteness to be wasted here is truly a tragedy…"

As he trailed off, she suddenly whipped her head around to look in his direction. He ducked down, sure she had seen him and wondering how she’d sensed him. When he threw a cautious glance over the roof’s edge, though, she was turned to the other policeman again, a perplexed look on her face. Breathing a sigh of relief, he decided that was enough adventure for the day. He moved into a crouch and began to move back across the rooftop.

"Interesting," he murmured with a hidden smile.

That was weird, she could have sworn someone was staring at her, but all the others were engrossed in the crime scene. Oh well, back to business. Her first impression of the crime scene was that the killer must have either caught the men by surprise or he was terribly efficient. The proximity of the bodies indicated that after the first man had been killed, the second had only gotten about twenty yards before dying. There were no blood trails, both men had died where they stood. According to the coroner’s report, the cuts had been even and precise, almost surgical, so the killer looked after his weapon with great care. The depth of the wounds suggested a long knife, like a machete, or a sword. To swing such a weapon, even a surgically sharp one, and create such wounds required great strength, so he was definitely in good physical shape. All this pointed to a man who had contemplated his actions for a long time, preparing mentally as well as physically. He was (is, she thought sourly) well organized, and very clever, with a specific goal in mind. This was no random killing; he had probably observed these men for days before
striking. Two words stuck in her mind, and she couldn’t shake them: serial killer.

But why kill these two? Why not drive by any gang den and open fire? Was it a personal vendetta or just some vigilante going off the deep end?

"Bring the black bag from the car, Mac," she told the other officer. Time to see if those forensics classes really counted for anything.

Sigh, ignore the way JSH censors everything, if you can.

I like it.More, please.

Holy crap,
Do keep it comin. Don't worry about the editing, the guts are still there. Have a great day and hope you find your dominatrix.

one word- EXCELLENT

Jason, I'm replying again so this is bumped back up, so more folks can enjoy your work..

Thanks, elwood. You're a scholar and a gentleman.