To Catch A Killer
by James Finan

1.  The heat, that scolding, terrible heat, was so hot now. It was an excruciating heat, a heat that hurt immeasurably. Painful heat. It was so hot, in fact, that He could have sworn aloud that at that moment in time He could smell His own flesh burning up.

Smell. Not see. Not hear. Not touch. But smell. His other senses were not in on this heat. The heat built up, engulfed Him, and then would not relinquish it's horrible hold on His body until He had done the deed. The Deed.

It was always like this. Every time. It followed simple patterns. Get up in the morning. Eat a dietary breakfast. Go and excrete. Leave the house. Go to work at the shitty Management office where He worked. Work away typing up
some documents. Feel a slight twitch in His belly. Only a slight twitch, nothing major. Nothing major at all. Not yet, anyway.

After work, to the pub for a few pints with colleges. And then home. When at home; plotting, deciding, altering, working out. Through the week, the burning would gradually increase, burn and devour and burn and eat up and crumble and stoke and get more and more intense until . . .

Until now. Friday night. The burning had reached it's peak. It would be gone soon. So soon. And that would be an end to it, at least until Monday morning. That's when the slight twitch, the small rumble, would reside again in his
stomach until it finally reached fever pitch on Friday night and force him to drive one hundred miles to a small little village to par take in the Act.

So the pattern followed. This was the third time it had happened and He hoped against hopes that it would be the last. He also knew that this was a delusion and He was just hiding from the truth; that each and every time He did this, the burning always got heavier and the actual Act itself got more orgasmic and more pleasant. He was enjoying it. It was slowly but surely seeping into His life. Soon, the burning would become so intense that He thought that He would not be able to hold it in for as long as a week, and that the Act would become a twice or thrice weekly fix.

So He waited. And sweated. It was unpleasant. It was almost torture, although He didn't like to think of it that way- He had imposed this suffering upon Himself. While He waited and sweated in this Godforsaken seat (which came complete with - oh, look Kids! - added complimentary semen stains) He knew one thing for sure. That was that He was going to be doing the Act for whatever the consequences might be as He was experiencing the Act right now. Another crime. The third in two weeks. He was getting ahead of himself.

And then snap, out of the trance in a second. There was suddenly noise again all around Him, noise that He had not heard when He was locked deep in thought. The noise came from the crowds of men stood all around Him. Men
holding pints, laughing at jokes, standing by the bar smoking, sitting down alone in dark corners of the room as he was, waiting in contemplation for the oncoming show. The strip show. The show He was here for. He would weave into
this show however, and set up His own one.

Another blast of sound from the front of the large room. The lights were dimming slightly. The stage was being prepared. The show would be starting soon. Time to get ready. A quick look at His watch - thirty-nine minutes past
ten - and then He was up out of the chair, and making a slow stumble towards the pounding bar. When He had came in forty-five minutes ago it had been deserted. Now He would have trouble getting a drink. He would have to queue,
and while He would be doing so His chair would be stolen.

As He reached the bar, a man, leaned up against it with a cigarette in one hand and a pint of bitter in the other, gave him a once over and emitted a mocking snort.

"Have you got a problem, Sir?" He enquired.

The man looked straight on into His eyes. There was anger in them. "Not one in the world, Sireee," he laughed, and then turned his back.

He (the murderer) did not retaliate. He could slit this rude persons throat without hesitation if He wanted to, using the medical scalpel He fingered lightly in His pocket. He could anytime. But He didn't want to. Didn't need to. He had bigger fish to fry, fish He would be frying (skinning alive and slicing to pieces was a more accurate term when describing the effects to which He would be manipulating His weapon with) anytime soon. When the show started. And then after.

2. The instructions plainly said, for all of Mankind to read, 'Take hold of the top nozzle and then slip it down beneath or under your coat.' but officer Jack Dixon found it impossible not to laugh. His alcohol flooded mind found enough humour within those sixteen words to keep him laughing from here to eternity. It was not him laughing, it was the alcohol. Even as tears of laughter streamed down his cheeks, he was aware of this.

When sober, he rarely, if ever, found humour in Doublentondres. They were your basic lager lout and adolescent school boy kind of humour that he usually frowned upon. Talking about carrots when you really meant penises and
tunnels that were women's privates did not strike a chord with him. He was like the parent on this subject, and found them not off putting, merely boring. There was almost nothing more than he detested than watching a 'adult' comedy show late at night where all that happened was two guys sat on a couch and talked about shagging their girlfriends but in strange terms, where penis becomes knob and vagina becomes 'the Holy Grail'.

His girlfriend, Geraldine, however, was the opposite. She laughed herself stupid when these sort of jokes were cracked on TV shows, and always frowned when Dixon tutted at her laughing. "Lighten up, old man," she'd say, and he
would either be forced to scoop her up in his arms and carry her up to the bedroom for a hour-long love making session, or, depending on his mood, tell her to "fuck off," before spending the evening sulking in the corner. Now
that he was drunk, he knew which of the two options would be the most sensible to take in future situations on the same track.

But Gerealdine was away, in Manchester, on a course for business skills, and would not be coming home to Korby until Monday. A long wait. But also a fact, and one he had taken the opportunity to seize by making a bit of extra money by taking nights overtime just for the weekend. And he had a good reason to, too.

The Police Department of this reasonably sized village situated on the east coast of England were not rolling in officers, and were in a lot of trouble. The trouble had started two weeks ago to the day. This was not the first time
that trouble had occurred in Korby. Twelve years ago, a wealthy land merchant who lived on a two hundred acre mansion two miles out of Korby lured at least eighteen people from the surrounding area to his house before systematically capturing them, torturing them by cutting extremities off their bodies and piercing them, and then killing them and dumping their corpses in a quater-mile wide pond on his estate. He did this for a span of three years
before eventually being caught by the current chief police officer of Korby Aswold at a garage just outside of Korby. It had been a scandal, and hit national and then world wide press. His name was Professor (in medicine) Peter Flyte, the wealthy son of the fourth most successful Lawyer in the world. His dear old dad had long since gone when that occurred. Flyte was dubbed 'The Hannibal-Lector wannabe' by the press, and was sent to a maximum
security prison in England, way down in London. It was unlikely that Flyte would ever be visiting the east Midlands again.

That would have been enough trouble for one town. At least one would have thought, but that was only far from the end for Korby, as had been proved. It had happened twice already, the second exactly one week ago and the first the
week before, on the Friday. The first time, a girl had turned up in a garbage disposal at the back of the local grocery store. Both of her eyes had been broggled out, and then had later been found rolling around in her vagina, one
of them with a small incision on the side, which had been identified as a scalpel cut. Probably made when the Killer had stuck the blade under the flaps of skin surrounding her sockets to get to the back of the eye. When she
was still alive.

This had immediately sent the press crazy, but the police did their best to cover up the details. They put most of their resources into the operation to find the Killer, which, unless he struck again, would be very hard as there were no fingerprints on the corpse.

The girls parents were told, her mother broke down (her father had taken off before she had been born) and refused to give a press conference. The residents of Korby were shocked shitless, and that was that.

The second happened a week later, the same kind of deal (no eyes in the sockets, instead up her holiest of holies), although this time she was found dead in her own car, half a mile out of Korby, when she had been driving at
the middle of the night towards her home, located in the next village. Again, no prints. No nothing. Except for an emerging pattern; both of the girls had worked at one of the two clubs located in town.

Aha boys, we have a lead. But not much of one. The press were loopy by now over this case, calling the Killer the next Yorkshire Ripper and so on, and had spent the week philosophising over when he would strike next. The Police
shouldn't have hard catching a Killer in such a small town, the papers told. The Killer was practically handing himself to them on a plate. Was he?

So the big weekend had arrived. Friday night and everyone was a tender hooks. Nothing. Saturday night was here, police were pasting the streets, in uniform and out, and the streets were not half as full as they had been three weeks
ago. The strippers were on quadruple wages tonight, bonuses many could not afford to miss, and here was Dixon, wallowing at his house at night, ready and waiting with his newly-bought radio on backup. Ready to pounce if he was
called.

Except he had got bored, and had cracked open a large bottle of gin, and had begun drinking. And had not stopped since. He wasn't really drunk, just over tipsy, and slothful. He had, in his life, not done very much at all. Born in a hospital that was now part of a school in Korby, left at fifteen, enrolled in the Police force, got a place after three years, spent two in training, and then spent the last six working here in Korby. He had been suspended twice because of being drunk on duty, and had been caught beating up prisoners. He didn't care though. He loved his job, not least because he had met and wooed his girlfriend because of it, when he had gone to sort of a accusation of shop lifting at the supermarket she had temporarily been working at while she was hunting for proper jobs. Good memories. Good
memories. That had been the best time of his life, before he had turned to the bottle in a fit of depression when his fathers heart had given up. Geraldine had been there to guide him through it, and thank God for -

"Officer Dixon. This is Officer Wesker. Are you there?"

The radio that he had let drop to the floor had suddenly blurted into life, and Dixon hadn't even known it had been turned on. It had, and on full blast. He scrabbled on the floor before clutching hold of it and snatching it up.

"Jack, you there? Hurry the fuck up, 's urgent"

The noise hurt his ears. "Hold your fuckin' horses," he hissed, and twisted the volume control down to a bearable level. He then applied pressure to the speak button.

"Yeah, what the fuck do you want?"

There was a brief hesitation from the other end, and then it crackled into life. "Jack, it's Wesker. It's fuckin' urgent, man. Get you arse down here now"

Dixon was suddenly aware of how fast the alcohol had been drained from him because of the urgency in Wesker's voice. "Just slow down. What the fuck exactly is urgent?"

"We reckon we got the Killer. We reckon we spotted him"

Dixon spluttered for a second. They had they had the Killer? Great! But there was something that he didn't like in that stew of information. It was the reckon.

"Okay. where'd you be at," Dixon asked. He had another few thousand questions to ask, but this was his main priority- to get to where they were, at once.

"Erm . . . it's called Pokers Dance and Strip bar, sixty-six Tyne Road. You got all that?"

Dixon nodded to himself. "Yeah, I'll be there in a second"

"You oughtn't fuckin' be, I thought this was one of your regulars," Wesker joked, in spite of the urgency.

"Funny fucker. I'm already out of the door," Dixon said, throwing the radio onto the floor again, slipping on his coat, then striding down the hall, flinging open the front door, stepping out, locking it behind him, and then setting off at a brief run towards his car parked on the street, the alcohol dropping off his person with every step.

Behind him, in his house, on the radio, he failed to hear Wesker say: "Just hurry."

3.   He was enjoying the show immensely. Sitting back, watching the strippers (or Modern Dancers, as they witlessly liked to be known as) parade up and down the stage, flashing their tits at the odd eager punter and getting a ten
pound note for their efforts. Men, spill your cash for the opportunity of spilling your seed in public. Unless the two policemen by the bar suspected you of being the Killer.

He knew their game. The one who had eyed Him up had made it obvious what his occupation, and so far He had spotted another officer in plain clothes standing nearer to the door, eyeing everyone up. This only added to the
pleasure of the whole thing for the Killer, who liked the added element of danger. A new challenge. Not a very tough one, though.

In the meantime, He was watching the show, checking out the 'Modern Dancers', trying them to put them in separate categories. He could think of only two:

TO MURDER

and

NOT TO MURDER (AT LEAST NOT TONIGHT)

It was hard. The strippers were obviously scared tonight because of what He had done to the other two. He imagined them all without eyes, their sockets red raw underneath, as He had seen. He was down to the last two in the selection period, and then-

The man by the bar, who He had spoken to earlier, was staring directly at him. He could see him out of the corner of His eye. The first pang of panic hit Him like a speeding bullet, and so He swung His head around towards the man
at the bar who, when he saw he had been spotted, averted his gaze towards the dancing women.

The police had surprised Him when He had committed the first Act by the stealth with which they had acted, but in retrospect He should have expected it- this was only a town, after all, and murders weren't an everyday
occurrence. Except in Korby they seemed to be. That was why He had chosen the place.

This wasn't London anymore, He should have known. Murders this heartless just don't happen in towns anymore. In cities, yes. But not in places with only a few dozen thousand for a population. It was too personal here. He had known
this, but hadn't cared, and so this was the third time He had driven up here to this town, which only two hundred years ago would have been a tiny hamlet.


His first reaction towards the staring police officer had been to get up and run. His second had been to continue as normal. They didn't have squat on Him. He knew it, and they would know it if they knew what He knew. He hadn't done
anything that they could hold him on for over a few hours that they could prove. He was clean, they could not touch Him. He hadn't been wanking, or even touching, and so He let the staring police man stare.

4.   A little after eleven o'clock Wesker and his other plainclothes partner O'Hanlon spotted what looked to them as a suspicious punter. They were the only Officers in Pokers Strip and Dance bar, because the rest of the Officers
(around thirty, from the Korby Police Force and the neighbouring Force) were either patrolling the streets or the other bars. Also, neither of the other girls had been from this particular Strip bar- they were from the other, larger one across town, now temporarily closed (called, incidentally, Ruby's Rub a Tit and Shag Palace, with 'Tit' and 'Shag' starred in on the front door.)


They were stood at opposite ends of the bar, and their job was to observe all the incoming customers and anyone who looked in the slightest way suspicious (Anyone at all suspicious, Police Chief Aswold had stressed repeatedly) was
to be questioned by them, and taken down to the station if they decided upon it. It was O'Hanlon who had spotted him. He was sat alone, towards the back of the room, behind the man who he had spoken to earlier at the bar. He had
been looking at this man, and then had caught the slightest glimpse of a glitter of a shiny object concealed in his coat when he had adjusted his position on his seat. He had slowly strolled over to Wesker.

"What the fuck are you talking to me for? We're not supposed to talk to each other unless . . ..," Wesker had greeted him, disgusted by the breaking of their strict rules.

"Call Dixon. I've spotted the Killer, I think. I'll go back to my position and keep a tab on him"

Wesker needed no more of an invitation. He turned around, pushed through the crowds and made his way to the exit. He went directly to the car park, turning his collar up against the biting January winds as he reached the centre, surrounded by cars.

He returned after radioing Dixon and went directly towards his place at the bar. He ordered another drink and resumed his slumped position. He turned to O'Hanlon and saw that he was looking at him. He nodded to say that yes, contact had been made, and that yes, Dixon was on his way. O'Hanlon nodded back, and then returned his gaze back towards the suspected-Killer. Wesker followed his line of vision, and found the target that O'Hanlon was staring at. Sat alone, in a corner, staring at the dancing women. Salvating. Dirty fucking pig. No respect for women.

Wesker was pleased and disgusted. Pleased that he and O'Hanlon would be classed as hero's of the town, and would never be out of a job. Pleased that his girlfriend would fuck him non-stop for a month. Women love hero's. But
disgusted. Disgusted at what this sick bastard had done to those (presumably) innocent women. Even Hitler didn't deserve what had happened to them. Disgusted at this horrible, evil, woman-hating, woman-abusing fuck face that
he was now staring straight at. Oh, another reason to be pleased. The Killer was in the same room as him, and that meant that he could get down to rearranging his ugly fucking mug.

5.

He had the Bitch in His sights now. Yes, she was right. She had won the contest for tonight. It was harvest time, and He was the Lord of the Harvest. He was preparing to prune the Bitch. She was fresh. She was ripe. She had
nice eyes, too.

This Bitch had entered the stage last, and He imagined she would have been nervous about the recent spate of the Stripper Ripper. He imagined her manager, fuming, telling her to get her fuckin' arse and titty-bits out on that fuckin' stage now before I fuckin' boot your butt out the back. Thanks, manager guy. You just got yourself one eye less corpse on your head for the rest of your life.

He smiled, and slid His hand gently down into His coat pocket. The scalpel. He gripped the handle of t tightly. Within an hour, it will have slit two eyeballs open. It was as cold as death itself, and His hand, as burning as it was, was cooled from the fingertips up as He held the sharp steel in His hand, Made In Taiwan.

Oh, how this silly business of murdering had started! From an attempt to get to the top, to a hobby. A hobby that would kill Him if He stopped. Ever. Well, if you had to do it, you might as well enjoy it.

He was trancing again. There was no more time for that. The Bitch was in her final throes of dancing now. Crumpled notes spilled from her skimpy panties. The panties that barely cover her privates. It would be over. Soon. And what
fun it would be. He was going to produce memories tonight. Memories that would soon yellow in newspapers the world over, but would remain as fresh as day in His mind and the minds of the relative of poor unfortunate on stage
now. Television documentaries would be made about Him. Reconstruction's filmed of this very act He was creating now.

Here it was. The show had ended. The women were retreating back behind the curtain. For one of them, into the arms of death. With one fearful glance behind Him He saw the staring Police Officer, staring at the man sat behind Him. Then it clicked- the Officer had been staring at this man the whole time, but He had been so paranoid He had thought the Officer had been staring at Himself. The loner sat by himself to His left did look rather suspicious actually. He was salvating. Dirty pig. No respect for women.

Oh joy! He was still a free murderer. No problemo. Free as a bird, to continue undisturbed with the Act. So up He stood, laughing to Himself, and made for the door. Great things were on the horizon. And He was about to make
these great things happen.

6.   Dixon arrived one hundred percent sober at the strip bar. No dizziness. Not even the slightest threat of slight-headed-Ness. The condition of his alcohol induced stability was as far from his mind as watching the strippers were though when he entered the bar however.

The moment that he entered, he was hit by the clamour. It was packed out beyond hope. Body heat filled the room up, and it stunk, positively reeked, of sweat. The place was so full it was bursting at the seams, and seemed barely bothered at containing everyone. It occurred to him what strange people they must be, wanting to watch strippers when all this madness had gone on.

The stage was now deserted, he duly noted, and it looked as if most of the people were finishing the last of their drinks before going directly to the other, more fashionable, clubs around town. Let the fuckers go. Saves time searching here.

He spotted Wesker at the bar, almost empty pint in hand, looking thoroughly miserable, and strode over to him. Wesker saw him coming his way and put a hand up in greeting before resuming his gaze across the room.

"Now then," Dixon said.

Wesker didn't look at him. He was keeping his field vision on the opposite side of the room. "Evening. Get yourself a drink"

Dixon laughed slowly "Nah, I've had enough already"

Wesker averted his gaze to look into Dixon's eyes. "You're not fuckin' drunk again, are you?"

"Of course I'm fuckin' not. Now where the fuck is this so-called killer I've guessed you called me about?"

Wesker pointed his finger across the room. "There. O'Hanlon said he saw a glinting in his coat. A glinting that could be . . ."

"Spunk?" Dixon cut him off.

Wesker didn't even bother to laugh. "No. It'll be a scalpel. That's what the cunt used last time"

Dixon stood in silence for a few seconds, waiting for Wesker to make a move, and when he didn't, he did. "D'ya want to go get him?"

Wesker slowly nodded. "Yeah, all right. I'll go get O'Hanlon"

Wesker pushed himself up from the bar and together they walked the length of it to where O'Hanlon was standing. He was staring intensely at the man, and jumped when Wesker started talking to him.

"We're going to bust that bastard," Wesker said.

O'Hanlon cast his gaze over Dixon. "You're here. Lets go get him then and give him a fuckin' good kicking"

Dixon nodded, and then O'Hanlon downed the last of his drink, slammed the glass down on the bar, and off they went. As they walked through the wave of people toward the man Dixon cast a glance over the crowds and saw (was that
what he thought it was? Yes, it was) a burly figure of a man, shuffling towards the door, and in his hand, a glint. Not a scalpel, not a knife, not nothing, just a glint. Then he was out of the door. It could have been a light, the light reflecting off it. Or it could have been a scalpel.

He was about to alert the other two to this when they reached the table the man was sat on. He looked up in drunken surprise, saliva dripping from his chin, and then stood up.

"Stay the fuck where you are," Wesker hissed, and pushed him back down in his chair. "O'Hanlon, Dixon, search this fuck"

"Guys, that man . . .," Dixon began, but was cut off by Wesker, who pulled the shining object out of the mans coat- a pair of keys. "Fuck," he muttered.

"Listen!" Dixon shouted, and both men scanned him quickly.

"What?"

"I just saw some one who I thought had something in his hand. Fuck knows what"

"Probably his cock," O'Hanlon quipped.

"Where?" Wesker asked in all seriousness.

"Just went out of the door"

Wesker through the man his coat back and made a break for the door, with Dixon and O'Hanlon on his tail. Dixon hoped, prayed, in fact, that he was still pissed, and his overactive imagination had made that image of a hulking
man heading for the door with a scalpel in hand just a rabid delusion.

7.   By the time they made it through the bustling crowds to the open doors of the bar, the cold air biting at their heels, the killer was gone. The car park was empty. The street across the road was deserted. No one lingered in the shadows. They did a quick run around the cars, checking inside and beneath them, but found no dead corpses, no busty babe fighting off a rampant killer, like in the slasher movies of yore.

The Killer had in actually gone round the back of the building and had hidden in the shadows. He was still there long after the three officers had searched the place and gone, even after the bar had closed. He became alert when the
dancers began filing out the back. His one, the one ready for the roost, came out fifth, alone, and then he followed her, to her car, going from shadow to shadow, and quick glance around the car park to find it was deserted, and then He struck. Then he was off, back to His hotel room to lick His wounds, the fire in His belly temporarily put on hold.

The body was found a few hours later, underneath her own car, eye less, the eyes predictably found rammed up her cunt. Poker Dance and Strip bar would be shut down. The Press would be here soon. Police Chief Aswold would have that to deal with in the morning, and he didn't like it a bit. Another sleepless night on the cards. Well, it happens. The Press, with renewed vigour after an absence of a week. And Aswold had a new vigour, to catch this murderer.

8.  Saturday morning dawned on the town of Korby like a dog waiting patiently for it's master to let it in the house again after spending a night sleeping on the rough. It was totally uncalled for, and unwelcome.

They had had to sustain more weary pain than almost any other town had to in the whole of the country. Older people could remember the last time, the last murder spree, that had shocked and rocked the nation. They remembered their
old fears of waiting, hoping that he or she would be caught, and caught soon. But he or she hadn't been caught, and they had had to hold their breath for three miserable years. Years in which Christmas was dulled, in which they
worried if any of their relatives would be next. Years in which everyone they encountered in the town was suspicious, and hey, it could be your next-fucking-door neighbour who was the hidden Serial Killer.

Serial was the correct word. More than five people had gone missing. More than five people were found in that drained lake on the Flyte ranch. Serial was a mere dumbing down of Flyte's actions- Psychopathic Manic Bloodthirsty Retard was nearer the truth. Serial Killer had had to suffice though.

Up until now, the stripper murderer had not been classed as a Serial Killer, and everyone hoped that it would remain that way. However, when in the early morn they flicked on their television and slouched down in the couched, they
all had a shock in store- he had struck again. Three down. Two to go. Serial Killer seemed not to far on the horizon anymore. He seemed dangerously close. Too close for comfort.

The news was nation wide. The whole Isle knew. The public mood was severely dimmed in and around the East Midlands. The residents of Korby had another reason to worry- it would be hard to leave the town because the roads into and out of the town would be caught up with a disease of blockage, the blockage being the reporters trying to gain access to Korby's hollowed grounds.

The reporters came from all over, clogging roads, stopping the public in the street in an attempt to squeeze as much information as they could about the murder out of everyone, being vulgar and acting like they owned the place.
Many questions were asked. Do you have any leads? What is the general feeling here in this beautiful town? Where is the nearest Donut shop? Many of these questions went unanswered (although the Donut one was usually answered with a slight 'Piss off' by depressed citizens.) The Police refused to answer any questions on the murder under the order of Chief Aswold, mainly because none of them could be answered at this moment in time. Any information the Press did get would be from the general public, and that was very little.

So the vast majority of reporters had left by midday, their notepads blank. They vowed to return, and return they would, the very next day. But for now, there was other news to report. News not quite as dramatically satisfying as the news in Korby, but at least is was news. With the lack of information flying around Korby, most of the reporters were forced to make most of it in an attempt to fill up space in their columns. Still, the world waited with open ears for the next twitch of the scalpel from Korby's Killer. As the last victim was having an autopsy thirty miles in Lincoln, the Press had already moved onto anticipating who the next victim would be.

9.   Dixon had got three hours sleep from the night before. He had been up all night at the Police station, being grilled to death by Aswold and his gang. When he had finally been sent home, humiliated at having the Killer wafting
his finger under their noses, he had found it impossible to sleep. He had caught a glimpse of that dead girl when Aswold had taken him down to Pokers Strip and Dance bar. He had seen the red, blood filled sockets staring up at
the sky, the red hand marks around her neck where the Killers gloved hands had gripped her in a tight embrace. The skin had drained white from loss of blood by the time he had viewed her. But at the end, when they were lifting
her onto the coated gurney, he had seen the worst of it all. He had seen her eyes, rammed up where she pissed from, and one rolled out. Rolled. Like a cueball, it hit the hard concrete, bounced once, and then came it rest. Rest so that the diluted pupil was staring directly at him.

Now that was horrible. He would not forget that for the rest of his life. Despite this, he eventually managed to get to sleep, only to wake up at eight o'clock in the morning in a blistering cold sweat. He knew he wouldn't be able to get to sleep again, so he trundled out of bed, had some breakfast and then slowly drove into work. He walked up through the offices towards his desk. Normally, there would be various shouts of Hey, Jack! and Morning Dixon, but today, silence.

He reached his cluttered desk, and sitting on the top of a folder was a note.
It said, in spidery handwriting:

Dixon,

I want another talk with you involving the murder. I don't know if you noticed it, but this place is rather gloomy today, and I want to speak to your in the clearest confidence, so I want you to meet me at the Chinese Restaurant on Church Street at lunch time. I don't know what time you call lunch time', but I call it around half one, so what do you say? I've booked us a table. If you don't want to go, I want a reason, and a reason before I drive all the way down there and wait an hour only to find that you won't be paying a visit, so be there.

Your ever-loving Chief of Police,

Aswold.

Dixon raised a slight smirk at the last attempt at humour and then crumpled the note up and flipped it into the bin. Okay Aswold, you cunt, what the fuck do you want?

The next few hours passed quickly; Dixon wrote up his written report of the events of last night, as he was acquired to do by law, and then decided to get going. After a short but sour drive to the Chinese Restaurant, he pulled up and entered the building. He was immediately hit by the aroma of meat cooking, probably spare ribs, a smell that was wafting over from the back of the building, where the kitchens were located.

After briefly speaking to a man with the record booking book in front of him, he was directed to the side of the deserted restaurant. Aswold was plonked down on the bage-coloured furnishings on the chairs, cigar in hand, and waved
Dixon over.

They exchanged pleasantries, Dixon ordered a glass of wine, to be put on Aswold's tab, and then they got down to business. Dixon could see it in Aswold's face that he had a bomb of some sort to drop, and it wouldn't be nice. That would explain the exquisite setting to drop it, so as to diffuse it's explosion somewhat.

"Okay, buddy. Lets get this straight. I was a bastard last night. I shouldn't have grilled you last night, but I was pissed off. I mean, not just at you, but Wesker and O'Hanlon too. Why did they only radio you? What about the twenty or so other badges I had patrolling the streets?"

Dixon shrugged. "Probably thought that they could handle it. They were watching him around the clock, there was no way he was going to be able to overpower them. Think of it from their point of v . . ."

Aswold jerked his hand up to shush Dixon. "Don't you think that I've fuckin' done that already? I've looked at it from every which way fuckin' angle that I can, including my own, and I don't get it. It doesn't add up. Okay, I understand that you thought you had him, and then it wasn't him. That's fine. But this other shit . . ."His sentence trailed off into nothing.

Dixon didn't like hanging on thin air, and so attempted to fill the silence. "Look. I saw this guy as we were walking towards the other guy. He had a glint in his hand. I . . ."

"Why didn't you tell the others?"

"I tried to but . . ."

Aswold cut him off again. Dixon hated getting cut off, and he knew Aswold knew that. He was punishing him deliberately, for not getting the Killer. "Tried. Tried ain't fuckin' good enough, my friend. Tried is bullshit in this job"

Dixon felt his head sinking lower under the water. "The music was too loud. I shouted but they couldn't hear me. Look, all I'm trying to say Aswold is that . . ."

"That's Mister Aswold to you, pal"

That was it. If you would have been filming this conversation, you would have been able to spot the exact moment when Dixon's head blew off. "Listen motherfucker. Don't you fuckin' tell me what to fuckin' say. You're the bastard who wanted to talk to me. So far, I'm the only one who's been doing the real fuckin' talking. All you been doing is trying to deconstruct my flow with negative comments. Now you got two fuckin' choices. Sack my arse right now, or tell me what I came here to be told, because I'm not saying another God damned fuckin' thing until you do either one"

Aswold had a slight smirk on his face as he listened to this. "You're talking to a cop who has caught one of England's most notorious recent Killers. You watch your mouth"

"No. I know that I was still at college when you got him, and I don't give a fuck. I saw the Killer, and didn't act quick enough. He killed a Dancer. He will kill again. Until then, we can only hope he gets run over by a bus. The end. I've spread my shit all over my toast. You begin spreading yours"

Aswold shook his head. "No. I want . . ."

Dixon, however, had had enough. "I don't care what you want," he spat, before scraping his chair back, standing up and heading promptly for the door. His mind was packed full of many thoughts, all in a jumbled mess, and he got two
strides from the door before Aswold shouted him back.

"Tonight we think we can nail this punk once and for all. I brought you here today to ask you, as a trusted employee, to help me out. I want you to do what you did last night, but this time I want you to go to the CCTV offices"

Dixon had stopped in his tracks, but still had his back turned to Aswold. "Why would you want me to go to the CCTV offices?"

"We've got every Officer on the force going under cover. They'll be patrolling the streets again. I want you to watch the streets through the camera's. So far, you're the only person who has claimed to get so much as a glimpse of him, and I want you to keep a look out on the camera's. What do you say?"

Dixon turned around to face Aswold. "Double pay. As before?"

Aswold sighed. "Double pay"

"I'm in," Dixon smiled.

"Good. If you wasn't, I'd 've sacked your arse. Come sit back down. Finish your drink. We got shit to discuss"

Dixon made his way back towards the table. Another night on the town, at least this time he had the role of Big Brother. He was the eye in the sky. Aswold had given him a good role in all of this madness, a role he intended
to savour.

10.   The plans were laid. Officers repeated their roles from the night before. Dixon took up his place at the offices, with ten different monitors, each displaying their own little drama, stretched out in front of him. He didn't know that in half an hours time he would have fallen asleep.

Tonight there were very few people out for a night out. Everyone had been scared straight. Both of the strip clubs in town had closed themselves down for the weekend. One or two of the officers remained in uniform, just to let their presence known to the Killer. The under cover plain clothes officers felt horribly exposed, like they were the only people around and about tonight. There would be no arrests of drunkenness and disorderly behaviour tonight. No raping's, no beatings, no theft. It was funny how the criminal had shunted the other criminals.

Only a brave prostitute would walk the streets tonight. The reason for the town being eerily quiet was partly Aswold's fault. He had issued a statement suggesting that it would be wise for people to stay in doors tonight. He didn't impose a curfew, as that might scare the Killer into submission, but his statement put more people inside their houses than television ever would.

As for the Killer, there was no trace. Dixon, even if he stayed awake and spent the whole night with his eyes glued to the monitor, would not have seen the Killer. He didn't appear on any of the taped actions. He wasn't seen in
any of the bars. He wasn't seen on the streets, in the neighbourhoods, or in the town centre. He wasn't even seen as he advanced upon the sleeping Policeman who had parked his car behind the closed down and boarded-up petrol
station on the outskirts of Korby (where, incidentally, Professor Peter Flyte had been apprehended by Aswold and the Police) and dozed off. He wasn't seen as he quietly put his hand through the open window, grabbed the mans hair,
yanked his head backwards and ran the smooth blade of the scalpel (last seen inside the sockets of the Dancer) over his throat. Wasn't seen as he took the body from the car, stripped it of clothes, performed the eye-gouging ritual
he had already thrice followed (substituting cunt for arsehole), and dumped the body in the undergrowth behind the petrol station. And as for when he slipped into the dead Officer's uniform, got into his patrol car, and drove off- he wasn't seen.

11.   He drove down the dark street on the way towards His next destination - a house on Sanjen Drive (number seventy-five). Inside that house was another fire-quencher- a little number that went by the name of Revenge.

He had spent the whole day stocking up in the local library. He knew how much media attention that one He did over last night had stirred up (which He welcomed), but He also knew that this meant that the pressure to apprehend
Him would be reaching boiling point (which He wasn't too keen upon).

He wanted to know that if He would be caught, who would be dangling His balls on a poker. The logical conclusion that He came to was that this man would be the Chief of Police around these parts, and so wanted to plan His revenge in
advance. At the library, He looked up through lots of fading, yellowing local newspapers. Around twenty had headlines referring to the Flyte incident thirteen years ago, and when He read further into them, a name kept cropping up. That name was Richard Aswold. The Chief of Police.

As He devoured more and more papers, He began to see an important part of the story- that it was because of Aswold's ingenuity that Flyte was caught. Aswold had lured Flyte to that petrol station, upon where he was (brutally)
apprehended.

Aswold. He liked that name. Aswold would be the man to catch Him, if any did. Get him now, while he wasn't expecting it. Kill the hunter. Or even better - kill someone close to him. From the library He had moved swiftly onto the
tourist information office, and looked up Aswold in the telephone directory.
He found:

R. Aswold (CP) (01507) 606734

75 Sanjen Dr. Korby

That was the one. The lions den had been located. Now to penetrate it. He took the information down on a piece of scrap paper and then returned home, taking a detour at the supermarket, where He purchased a beef and tomato Pot
Noodle. He ate his food, had a wash, cleaned His scalpel from yesterday's excesses, and then sat and stared at the crumbling white paint on the side wall of His hotel room. Sat and stared and gathered His thoughts for hours.

It got dark, and suddenly, without any warning, He knew that it was time. From there He got into His car and drove to the abandoned petrol station. He was surprised to find the sleeping Policeman there (He had only gone there to
try and visualise the past moment) and decided to capitalise upon the moment. He didn't know that Aswold had a daughter. He knew Aswold himself wouldn't be present at the dwelling, but He suspected that his wife would be. That is who He intended to find there, and to dispatch of. How wrong He was.

12.   A smiling twenty-one year old Tammy Aswold opened the door to a brisk, scruffy looking policeman. She had seen this before- her father's Officer's  (or 'Goons' as she frequently referred to them as) were always coming around
to the house, and each time she had to tell them that he was at the station, where they should be. However, her mood was light tonight, and words of greeting were on her lips when she saw the Officer pull his fist back and plough it directly into her face.

Tammy was not alone in the house. She had invited her friend Kate around for the night when her father had told her he would be out for the night. Rose Aswold, Tammy's mother and Richard's wife, had left them twelve years ago, and Tammy didn't want to be alone. especially not when outside that door the murders had been going on. So Kate came round and they were flicking through clothes magazines and sipping cheap wine when the knock had come to the door. When Kate saw Tammy come crashing in backwards from the front door, she screamed. Loud. And then fled, in the direction of the kitchen.

He had to make a split decision- kill Aswold's daughter and leave immediately, or spend extra time taking out the girl who had run from the front room. Smiling to Himself, He chose the latter. He stepped over the threshold of the house and quietly shut the door behind Himself.

He stumbled upon Tammy, who was slumped on the floor, staring dizzyingly at the mock-wood lining the floor, one hand on her nose, which had exploded, and one supporting herself on the floor. Without ceremony He took a firm hold of her shoulder length hair, yanked her upwards, and then plunged the scalpel into her eye. This time she did scream, as clear, jelly-like liquid leaked slowly out of her eye and dribbled down her face. The hand that was previously being used to stem the flow of blood from her nose relinquished it's task for a more pressing duty- to save her eye.

He had intended to kill her with that stab to the eye. He had only managed to puncture it, and hadn't delved deep enough to use the direct pathway to her brain. All He could do now was end it quickly. He pulled her head backwards.
She was screaming, blubbering, mumbling and her hand that covered her slit eye was doing nothing to help her. The clear viscous liquid was still seeping through the cracks of her fingers.

He exposed her throat, and then pressed the scalpel hard against the soft flesh there. He cut hard and deep, drawing a long stream of blood immediately. She let out a few croaking, squelching sounds as she struggled against His hold, and then He felt her body go limp in His hand. He let her fall, and she crumpled down. The blood from her neck splattered down on the floor.

Now for the other girl. He walked into the living room. It was pleasant enough. The TV was still on, although it had been turned to mute. A few magazines were sprawled across the clear glass coffee table. Quite the opposite to the atrocities that were being committed here. He heard a muffle of desperation come from the adjoining kitchen, and went in. He saw Kate stood there with her hands clasped around the doorknob of the backdoor. Tears streaked down her cheeks.

"It . . . it's locked," she tearfully told Him. He nodded understandably. He began to advance on her slowly. "Please, don't . . . please don't," she sobbed as she slid down the door, waiting for Him to arrive above her in terrified pleasure.

Aswold returned home a couple of hours later, frustrated that his search for the Killer tonight had bore no fruit. He was getting tired of this lark - he was getting too old for it all, and he hadn't had his end away for quite some time. He mood evaporated completely however when he found his front door wide open, and then morphed into numb shock when he strode into the living room to find his one and only child sprawled on the floor with her neck slit and her empty sockets. And then her best friend in a similar state, dumped on top of Tammy.

An hour later Aswold had been taking to his nearest relatives house in another village and the bodies were being whisked off in a meat van headed towards Lincoln. The Deputy Chief of Police, Rik Graten, was immediately drafted in. This was now personal to him- he had known Aswold and his daughter very well, and had even had a brief fling with Aswold's now-ex wife many, many moons ago. He had a biting desperation to arrest the Killer. He would not stand for insolence in his ranks. What was happening in Korby was not acceptable in his eyes.

Born out of tragedy, he would make good of this situation yet. He had been awakened by his ringing phone at a quater to four in the morning, his wife moaning, and by half past four he was drawing up plans for the following day.

13.   Sunday morning reared it's ugly head as the good people of Korby awoke to face the fresh bout of terrors the news had to throw at them. They turned on their TV's in the false hope that the Killer might have been caught, only to
have their worse dreams multiplied.

Chief Aswold had suffered a mental breakdown after witnessing the carnage of what had happened to his daughter and a (as yet unnamed) friend of hers and Rik Graten had been brought him to replace him. Also, the Killer was now a
serial one, and that confirmed their worst fears- they were utterly and truly in the shit again.

The Press were back. Thousands of them. There were even two Japanese reporters in town. It was crazy. Most sane people had made the wise decision to stay indoors on this solemn day-the church was not having it's regular Sunday service and all the pubs and shops were shut- and so the few people who did decide to venture out today found themselves attracted like flies around shit towards the yearly charity parade that ran through Korby. Despite Police pressure to persuade the organisers to cancel the parade in light of recent events, the organisers had resisted, and the parade had gone on.

It was nothing special. Just a few people with drums and triangles, and one or two theme floats. And, of course, the collection men. Graten planned to use the ill-timed parade to his advantage, however. He knew that if the Killer would be anywhere he would be at the parade, so he set up squad cars at various checkpoints, and had the few remaining Officers who offered to work on this day stand in undercover uniform and look for any suspicious person, as they had done already. Keep an eye out for any suspicious characters, Lads! he had said in the briefing room, and then there was an awkward silence for a few seconds as he realised what he had said.

14.   Dixon had a great feeling of shame hanging from his shoulders. Firstly, for fucking up on the Friday night he had had the chance to get the Killer and prevent at least a further three deaths. You have to seize the moment. Aswold
had said that. Another twang of sadness. Secondly, for talking abusively to Aswold yesterday. They had been arguing, and yes, they had made up, but it still made him upset. Aswold had been through a lot, and he should have know
better. Thirdly, the Officer who had been found with his throat slit behind the deserted petrol station. He hadn't known he personally, but had known his face and heard his name shouted around the office a few times.

That's now bad it was. He wanted to do nothing else except sit in his comfy chair at his house, chug beer, feel sorry for himself and wait for his girlfriend Geraldine to return. Except he hadn't been allowed to do that. His financial situation, while not critical, was not great either, and he needed the extra cash to save up for the summer when he planned to take Geraldine to Turkey, or maybe Cyprus. He didn't know. Somewhere hot for two weeks. Paradise. That's what it felt like to him as he stood in the line of people as the parade passed by in front of him. The laughter of the children rang hollow, as did the painted smiles on the faces of the people watching. As a piss-poor reproduction (or rip-off) of Mickey Mouse passed by on a float, Dixon just knew what the adults who held there kids up on their shoulders to get a better look at him were really thinking. They were thinking about murder.

He needed the extra money still. He supposed that he could count himself lucky that he hadn't been caught dozing yesterday. That was something to be happy about at least. But still, he didn't know for sure. He quickly scanned
the faces at the opposite side of the parade. Same painted smiles. Same forced laughs. It was so soul crushing, so depressing. If only he could get up and . . . There.

Houston, we have a problem. Directly opposite of him, on the other side of the street. He noticed that hair, that burly figure, them strong hands. And that face. No smile. No laugh. Just grim truthfulness, covered by no mask. Dixon's brain worked fast. In his pocket, he quickly slid his finger over the barrel of the old service revolver he always carried with him on duty. It was illegal for him to own one in this country, let alone carry one around, but he didn't follow laws that he didn't agree with. It was a family airloom, passed down from his Grandfather to his father, and then to him just before his father passed on. Bullets were not made for it anymore, seeming as it dated back to the Second World War, but it had only been fired once and hit (and killed) a German solider. He had a plentiful supply of bullets stocked
up a home, however.

He planned to run straight through the parade, yes, when this float passed, but . . . shit. The man across the street saw him staring, recognised him, turned on his heel and then pushed back through the crowd. Dixon fucks up again, Volume three. The float passed, the Dixon made a break for it, across the street, heard gasps from the crowd, and then was on the other side of the street. Wesker was at the next checkpoint, but he would not have been able to
see Dixon. He knew he was alone. He got out of the crowd, just in time to see the man duck into a passageway between the Grocers and a music shop. He pulled the revolver from his coat pocket, cocked the hammer back, hid it
within his coat, and gave chase,

He had seen that man, that Officer, the one He had glimpsed in the bar the other night, staring directly at Him, and He knew that He had been busted. So when He turned to run, the only place He could see to hide in was an alleyway
leading off from the main street. Moments after He reached it, He saw it was a dead end. Whooa, I'm at the end. At went on quite far down however, running the length of the shop, so He made for the end. As He ran, He knew that this
could only be for the good- if He was caught, and then killed Himself, He would become a legend. All the other famous Killers of the past had let themselves be caught, and He knew the shame prison had brought on them. He had no intention of participating in that shame. He just had time to spill His story, a story the Officer could shape and mould any which way he wished, and then He would take His life. He knew how stupid He had been. After the events of last night, He had returned to His roomed and slept as peacefully as a babe. He had awoken early this morning, polished off the last of His Pot Noodles, watched the TV for a bit to see an progress reports on His crimes, then packed up His suitcase, paid His hotel bill and left. As He had been driving through the streets of Korby, headed for London, He happened to notice on the parade. And then He saw Her- one of the strippers He had seen on the stage two nights previous. He only stopped and followed her through the crowd with the intention of trailing her to her house so that He would have a victim when He came back next Friday. He had lost her however, and had been scanning the crowds when He saw the Officer, and then that was it. No more murders, all because of a little smitten of greed on His part. He reached the end of the alleyway, sat down amongst the dirt, folded His legs, got out His scalpel and then began to write the final chapter in the tale of the Korby Killer, which, needless to say, would not be a happy ending.

15.   Dixon ran the length of the alley, his heels kicking up dust as they pounded against the concrete, and then the Killer came into view, legs crossed, scalpel in hand, ready. The final confrontation. It was relatively shadowed up here from the clamour of the street, a fact Dixon was pleased of as it allowed him to show off his revolver.

"Drop that," he said, taking his gun out of his coat and pointing it at the Killers forehead. He didn't have any problem firing at this man. He had wasted too much of his energy suffering over him, as had others. Aswold came to mind. Still, he kept his respectable distance.

"Please," the Killer smiled. "There's no need for that"

Dixon frowned. "What?"

"The gun. No need at all. I'm not going to attack you"

"I'll be the judge of that," Dixon said.

The Killer shrugged half-heartedly. "Your choice"

Dixon saw it then; saw it in the Killer's eyes. He was going to kill himself. "First rule here, I tell you what to do, not the other way round"

"I suppose you want to know my story then," the Killer sighed.

"Yes. But not now. You'll have plenty of time to tell it at the Police Station"

The Killer shook his head. "No. Time is not in abundance for me. I'm going to kill myself . ."

"I kinda guessed," Dixon cut in.

"Look, do you want to hear this fuckin' story or not?" the Killer screamed.

Dixon was taken aback, but quickly regained his composure. "I'm all ears"

"Good," the Killer said in a lighter tone of voice. "Lets see then . . . I started out not really liking the murders at all. I was born, brought up and lived in London by a normal enough family for thirty-five years. No making me watch them have sex, or anything like that. I got a job in a Temping Agency, and met my wife at an office party. We got married, and after seven years she wanted kids. I agreed. However, before she could conceive, a friend of mine introduced me to a monthly talk club entitled 'The Extravagants'. It was like Mensa.

"We met every month, deposited five pounds, and chatted to the group about what we had done in the past month"

"Strange," Dixon muttered.

"Not really. I have the card here on me" Before Dixon had time to stop him, the Killer reached into his coat and produced a white business card. He read from it:

Just turn up once a month and Chat!

Call Bob

and then it went on to exchange the phone number.

"So I went, but then Bob, the owner and organiser, made up a new rule to stay in the club- you had to do at least one Extravagant thing each month. Many left, including my friend, saying that it was a ridiculous idea, and I can now see how right he was. However, I hatched upon a plan. I would murder someone every week, come and tell them all about it, and be crowned the King of the Extravagants"

"You're insane," Dixon scoffed.

"Maybe so, but I did it. I researched information on killers, found that this little town had a . . . past, shall we say, with a murderer, and sought to better his score.

"Unfortunately, I have now failed at that task. Never mind. The first week, I came up, did the first killing, went home, all was well. The next week, I came up here, did the murder, went home. All was not well. My wife accused me of having an affair with another woman, and in some ways I guess I was, except a different one each week"

"That's disgusting"

"Yes. Without hesitation, I sunk the scalpel into the heart of my wife, and then buried her in the back garden behind our London semi at three in the morning. I ripped out the phone so her mother wouldn't bother me with incessant calls, and that's it. I went to work in the week, then drove up here on the weekends. I was too greedy this week. The end. Close curtains"

"Don't try anything stupid," Dixon began, but was too late. The Killer brought the scalpel up, to his throat, and the blade that had cut so many other people's throats in the past weeks now cut the throat of the person wielding it. He cut painfully and slowly, and Dixon was helpless. He just stood there, gun in hand, watching this sad excuse of a man take his life. As he cut his own skin, it made the sound of leather ripping. Blood squirted in a long stream from the wound, and splattered on the Killers body and onto the dusty floor. Then he keeled over, gargled, and all life left his body. Dixon was on top on him the next instant, driving his boot into the saggy sack of flesh, screaming that it was not fair he had died without proper punishment, and then his gaze fell in the crumpled white card lying by the body. He
stopped his kicking for the moment, and bent to pick it up. He scanned the words quickly, and after he had reread it twice, let it drop to the floor. What he now saw at his feet was not a killer, but a very, very extravagant man.

© James Finan

June 2000 HofP