Twisted
Captain Pieprzak was yelling. I wasn’t listening. I was still reading
the case file he was raving about taking away from me. He had said
something earlier about taking my badge as well after infuriating the
E.F. and the Revolver Saint’s owner, Falci. I was rereading my notes,
reading about the old victims, reading about how forty young women,
thirty-nine of them prostitutes, had been tortured to death. I was
reading their pain, their inexperience at the world’s oldest, dirtiest
profession. I was reading about how all of them that had turned to
prostitution had done so within three months before their death. Most
importantly of all, I was reading about how the corpse on the floor of
Kari Ellington’s apartment wasn’t some random john that had scooped her
up for a nice night of joint shattering. Instead, I was reading about
how he had been found about to deposit the traditional semen all of her
corpse, how the Revolver Saint put three bullet holes in him, and how no
one yet knew his identity.