An FBI agent has been ordered to find and bring a serial killer to justice. (NOT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART)
(Twin Peaks and True Detective are major influences)







The papers called him "The Dermist". You knew him as your current case, and you knew his myriad, true titles. Psychopath. Sadist. Torturer. Murderer. And the worst of them, by far: Artist. At least, he considered his brand of insanity as "art." But his artwork belonged less to some high-paying penthouse playboy, prestigious arts academy, or some grandiose museum. Instead, it was more appropriately placed in a quickly burgeoning manila folder, locked in a filing cabinet containing the insidious high-profile horrors of this city's gruesome history, most of it recent. You, on the other hand, felt it wouldn't be any great loss for that cabinet to be placed in a vast parking lot, and liberally sprayed with napalm until nothing but a flaming stain was left, erasing such sordid and cruel events from history and clearing the pain they caused from living memory. However, as much as you or anyone would wish for the world to work that way, that cabinet and many others like it, had to be preserved for history's sake.

Your name is Anon Edward Mouse, a special agent with the Metropolitan Branch of the FBI, and you were assigned the task of capturing a highly disturbed and dangerous individual with a taxidermy obsession. Without knowing the full details of this monster's capability, anyone would assume this a simple task for the police. Unfortunately, the brutality and carnage he left in his wake were enough to break any seasoned officer. One such poor soul lost his mind when he came home, his family the latest lives to be claimed. The entire neighborhood came rushing to his yard to find him on his knees, screaming at the sky in both agony and hysteria. Some of them tried to enter the house, but quickly rushed out, clamoring against each other off the stoop, violently vomiting and falling to the ground.
 	
The living room was "decorated" in Christmas-like fashion, intestines strung about like tinsel. Four "stockings" assembled from his wife and son's legs, filled with assorted organs and hung over the fireplace that contained their stacked, severed arms like kindling. Their eyes were missing, but replaced with brightly colored Christmas lights, peppermint candy canes jammed up their nostrils, and red ribbons tied around their heads, a bow wrapped over their mouths. He had sliced off their ears and placed them where their tongues once resided, having ripped them out and placed them on a plate on the dining table, next to slices of the woman's thigh. The family dog was the height of the mind-shattering tableau, the German Shepherd still alive. Barely.

The Dermist had bound it's mouth and then skinned it, and draped the pelt over the son like a jacket, the dog's face a "hood." And then he sewed it into his very flesh, the defining mark of the mad demon you were ordered to apprehend. His calling card always involved skinning the pets of families, and bringing them closer together in an abomination of family love. He always left the animal alive, and placed where it could see the violence he inflicted. You had read the file. At first, you skipped the sections involving toddlers, but had to look them over eventually. And the photos.

That cabinet should be shot into the sun.

----

"You still here, Anon?"

You pivot to see Officer Brian Heller, a somewhat recent addition to the precinct where you had set up to go through case files for any possible connections to this one. He had a fresh cup of coffee and a slightly concerned look aimed at you. Since he was the "new guy" he had to go through the usual hazings of arriving early and prepping fresh pots for the senior officers, but he had also offered his assistance to your investigation. You thought it possible he was hoping to find a major connection or hidden message or pattern that would no doubt earn him some respect and possibly a promotion, but you appreciated the help. You had him go through and cross reference different aspects of case files like witnesses, known associates, significant dates, insignificant details that might hold some deeper connection, but informed him he would not be able to access the full records for security and confidentiality issues. He didn't seem to mind, stating he had heard some of the details from those files, some of the color draining from his face as he pulled on his tie.

"Christ, man, you look beat! You oughta go home and get some shut-eye, or at the very least head to the courtyard and meditate or something." He stepped in and offered you the mug. "But, I know what you're gonna say, so I gotcha this as a backup."

You gingerly grab the mug, raising it and nodding at him with a grin before placing it to your lips and closing your eyes in anticipation. The slightly scalding liquid spreads warmth through your chest as it flows down your throat, invigorating your tired mind. You pull it away from your mouth, your lips smacking as you give a content sigh. You open your eyes and raise the mug, smiling at Heller.

"DAMN good coffee!" you exclaim, taking another long sip. "Mmmm... excellent cuppa, Brian, and greatly appreciated as always."

"Oh, it ain't nothing, Anon." he says, wearing his usual toothy grin. As you continue to sip from the mug, Heller walks over to the table where everything was spread out in a vain attempt to find some clue or method to the madness. You turn to him with a cautionary tone.

"Hold on, Brian. You might not want to ruin your day that quickly." Heller turns away from the table with a slight grimace.

"Yeah, you're right." He rubs his forehead as you down the last of your coffee with a sharp exhale. "I can getcha another mugful, Anon, there'll still be plenty for the rest of those douche-bags." You smile and set down the mug.

"Won't be necessary, Brian, but thanks for the offer. You're a saint, and if I do say so myself, highly underappreciated." Heller chuckles and makes his way to the door.

"Ain't that the fuckin' truth." He turns at the doorway and raises a pointed finger. "Hey, be sure to let me know if you need something looked into, I can get right on it."

"Are you sure? I figured the higher-ups will have you doing all manner of important tasks, it being a Monday." Heller's sarcastic expression is right in tune with his tone.

"Yeah, Donut Acquisition and Report 'n Sort, my fuckin' specialty. Seriously, let me know if I can help with somethin' to break the awful fuckin' monotony of this place." Raising his hand he turns to head upstairs to check on the coffee machines. You nod your head and with a quick inhale/exhale you turn back to the table. 

----

You've spent hours turning crime scene photos at different angles, looking over the reports for some missing detail that hasn't caught your eye yet. The boost from the coffee has worn off, and drowsiness is kicking in. Might as well call it, you spent practically the whole weekend here and could use the chance for some shut-eye. Gathering the photos into the folder, you pause to pick up the last one on the table and look at it, frowning.

It was of a girl. Catherine Criner, 9 years old. Forever, 9 years old. Cut down before she had any chance to bloom. In the photo, she was smiling, holding many multi-colored balloons, wearing an oversized sun hat, striking a pose for her 8th birthday. Her family was the seventh slaying, and the house had been a bloodbath.

The photo had been taped to her father's forehead, an eyehole cut out for him to see through while that beast... You looked away, sitting down into the chair, resting your head in your hand. You looked up at the door with the fogged glass next to it, sunlight from the high window opposite the hall giving it a dull glow. You looked at the photo, then the glass, then the photo again. Staring at the glass and closing one eye, you pull the photo to your face and look through. Nothing different. You flip the photo and hold it up to your face again.

There was a silhouette in the glass.

In the split second it took for you to pull your revolver and remove the photo, the silhouette was gone. You jumped up and scrambled to the door, threw it open and crashed into Heller. He was carrying another mug of coffee, which splashed into your stomach, the burning instantly taking hold. As you doubled over clutching yourself, Heller, grabbing his leg, shouted in pain.

"What the flyin' FUCK, Anon?!" He fell to his right knee, squeezing his left. While he massaged his leg you stood and ran towards the end of the hall. Nothing there. You doubled back to the staircase, thinking they couldn't have gotten past Heller. You walked back to him as he was getting up, leaning against the wall for support, giving you a look of mixed confusion and anger. You look around for any other points of exit. The high window, but there's no way... whoever it was, could have jumped that high and gotten through that fast. You turn to Heller.

"Was there someone out here with you?" you asked hastily, the shakiness in your voice heightening Heller's confusion.

"What?! No! I was alone. Fuck, man..." He rubbed his knee. "What the fuck was that about!?" You hesitated.

"I... saw someone... their shadow through the glass." Heller looked at it, turned to you and sighed.

"Man, it might be time for you to go home. I mean, you haven't left in like, 3 days, you can't stay cooped up in here, man, you need some fresh air, and some fuckin' sleep in your own bed. Seriously, you probably just saw me as I was walkin' to the door. You're fuckin' paranoid!" He stood up some to test his leg. You looked at the window. The angle of sunlight would mean whoever you saw wasn't standing on the side of the door closest to the staircase. It couldn't have been Heller. Then you remembered the silhouette was roughly seven feet tall. Heller was at most 5'9" and that shadow was stock still. You felt a hand on your shoulder and flinched.

"Ya see! That's what I'm talkin' about. You're sleep deprived, paranoid, and I know I said you looked bad this mornin', but you look like dogshit now! Christ, man, you're sweatin' bullets!" You wiped your head, sure enough, your sleeve was damp.

"Woah... What's with that, man?" You saw his shocked expression, then looked at your left hand. You were still holding the picture of Catherine Criner, forever aged 9, and your index finger that had slipped through the hole. You holstered your revolver and held the photo with your right hand, trying to wipe the sweat off it with the clean part of your shirt. Heller stared at you.

"Fuuuuuck, man, do I even wanna know?" You cleaned it as best you could, then walked back into the room and placed it back in the folder, picked it up and slotted it back in the cabinet you wanted destroyed, and locked it with a heavy sigh. You turned to Heller.

"She was one of his. When we found her she was... slashed to ribbons." Heller grimaced and put a hand on the back of his neck. You continued. "But we didn't know the extent of the damage because the coroner had to... remove..." Heller gave you a look that said please, fuckin' CHRIST don't tell me. You slid the rolling chair over to him and as he sat, you breathed deep. "That demon made her parents watch what he did to her. First the dog... a Siberian Husky..." Heller was breathing quickly, trembling like a leaf in hurricane force winds.

"Jesus Fuckin' Christ, What!?!?"

"He made her into a teddy bear."

Heller's eyes went wide, he was still, then he doubled over and vomited.

----

Heller was weak in the knees, both from your collision and the description you had given him. You helped him up and escorted him to the nearest restroom. You were still scanning all around you, not sure if what you saw was just your sleep-deprived mind or something else entirely. When you reached the bathroom, Heller raised his arm, a sort of, 'I got it from here' gesture, and went inside to clean himself. You had the same idea, but didn't really feel like making things more awkward. You're not sure why you told him about Catherine, he clearly didn't want to know about it in the first place. But you felt COMPELLED to tell him, like some part of you wanted to let him in on it. And it didn't make you feel any better either.

Then you yawned, stretching and reaching as high as you could, until a few pops came from your spine. Okay, now you felt better. Well, not about everything. Time to go home and get some sleep. You made you way up the stairs into the main waiting area, which was already buzzing with activity, but picked up three main scenes: a vagrant falling asleep while cuffed to a chair; a man and woman (husband and wife?) arguing about who got hit with a can of cat food and punched the other for said transgression, a few officers watching with mild amusement until it gets ugly; a different officer, trying his best to calmly explain to a woman who's father was missing that the best they could do was put out a bulletin, but he needed details about what he looked like. As you make your way across the room, you hear a loud, rough voice call out your name.

"MOUSE!"

And quickly the room exploded into shrieks from a few women, the vagrant jolting awake and swiveling his head, the cops that were watching the fighting couple now trying to pull them apart, the woman having ripped an earring from the man she was screaming at, and the woman who's father was missing now sobbing loudly, the officer trying to keep her calm looking quite distraught. You sighed and looked over at the portly man laughing himself into a fit, leaning against the counter for support. You made your way over to him and he started wiping his eyes, still chuckling from the cacophony he had caused by merely saying your name with urgency. As you got closer you saw Heller come bounding up the stairs to see what hell had broken loose, and he joined in to help deescalate the panic in the room.

"Goddammit, that gets me every time!" he said gleefully. "And it helps to shake things up around here, these boys are getting too lazy for their own good." You look around at the officers trying to get the room under control, thinking that a joke is good every now and then, but every few days was getting old. The way some of those officers looked at the chief made you think they might do something drastic, like key his car or slash his tires. Or both. The chief points to your abdomen. "And what the hell happened to you? Looks like a sumo wrestler had some bad sushi and then rode you missionary style." As his chuckling died down he said to come back to his office.

Chief of Police Byron Rausdauer ("Rowdy Rouser" in his halcyon days) had held his position for over 30 years, starting out as a beat cop, and had quickly climbed the ranks at a rate that made more than a few D.A.'s suspicious, but you were aware that back then the Law, when given the right incentive, could be swayed by a few dollars and some planted evidence. Not that you were insinuating anything against him, but you had heard a few disturbing stories in regards to how he filled his quotas. And around a year ago, he quelled a riot by sending veteran officers at them dressed in full riot gear and batons. You're fairly certain a group of hippies that had stumbled away from their drum circle in the woods didn't exactly qualify as a "riot," but the media crafted a story of how Chief Rausdauer had made "an exemplary tactical decision to disperse the rioters and make the streets safe again." Then again, you weren't a fan of hippies, but there are much more polite ways of dealing with them. Like waving a bar of soap. Very threateningly.

You stepped into the Chief's office, shutting the door as he sat behind his desk, pulling out a bottle of whiskey and filling a small ornate glass with gold flake on the rim before offering you the bottle and a glass. You quickly shook your head, preferring not to end up like Heller and tossing what (little) was on your stomach. Byron shrugged, placed the bottle in his desk and picked up the glass, taking a large swig from it before looking at the wall pensively.

"You know, Mouse... my retirement is coming up." he said, not looking in your direction. You grinned and nodded.

"Congratulations, Chief, I'm sure it's been a long, stellar career with many accolades in order for celebra-"

WHAM!

You didn't flinch.

Byron had slammed his fist on the desk hard enough to make his wooden plaque jump and tip over. He was now staring at you with a look of restrained anger. He raised his fist and pointed at you.

"Don't you give me that hoity-toity bullshit!" he growled through gritted teeth. "My retirement won't mean DICK if we haven't captured this lunatic in the next 5 months!" He stood up, pushing back his chair and leaning forward, placing both palms on the desktop. "You've been here for 3 months... 3 FUCKING MONTHS! And you haven't found a cunt hair's worth of information!" He was barreling his words at you, spittle flying. "I've offered every resource at my disposal, and you won't let a single one of my boys take a look at those files you keep mentioning, and I suppose in a bid to piss me off personally, instead of one of my best and brightest, you take on that little RAT-FINK FUCKING HELLER!!!"

Byron stands there shaking with rage, while you counter with your best stoicism. After a few tense moments, he sits down, slugging back the rest of his whiskey, slamming the glass on his desk, and looking up at you with almost pure incredulity. Slowly shaking his head, he leans forward, bracing his forearm on the desktop. He speaks in a quieter tone.

"Don't you want this to be over? Don't you want to go home to your family or your friends or your gay lover or mistress or whoever the fuck and be done with this?" You stand still, waiting for him to finish. He raises his hands, slightly swiveling his chair before bringing his palms down on his thighs. "And what about these people, huh? The people of this town. MY PEOPLE. They are looking to me for support, guidance and protection, and all you've recommended is sending their GODDAMN PETS AWAY! What the fuck kind of piss-ant solution is that?! The kind that'll make me a laughing-stock, you arrogant shit-heel!" You're certain he's almost done. One final point to drive it home.

"And what about those unfortunate souls we've already lost, huh? What about them?! The first few massacres, we were fully under the microscope, I couldn't go to scratch my sack without someone asking if it was going to help catch this fuck-stick! And then you come along, and suddenly the pressure's off of us, everyone looks to the golden boy with the righteous clout swooping down from the motherfucking FBI of all places! Everyone thinks 'Finally, God be praised this wet-behind-the-ears whelp will rescue us from this torment!' and we're stuck with the blame of those poor helpless bastards that got strung up like salami in a butcher shop! But now, you've got TWO massacres on your watch, Mouse, and I will tell you right GODDAMN NOW THAT IN 5 MONTHS IF YOU DON'T HAVE THIS PSYCHO BROUGHT IN, I'M GOING DOWN, BUT I'M TAKING YOU WITH ME! NOW GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY OFFICE!!!" 

You about face, open the door, and take one step before a coffee mug smashes against the wall to the right of you, and you close the door behind you. Every pair of eyes in the room is on you, save for the vagrant who has nodded off again. You sigh, straighten your jacket, and walk towards the front door. You notice the screaming couple are gone, and it looks like the woman who was missing her father had been moved to a quieter location. Just before you reach the door the vagrant sits up and looks at you, reaching out with his non-cuffed hand and asking for some spare change. You stop, figuring you could do with some decency to clean up that bad taste in your mouth, and as you reach out to hand him a 10-spot, you hear snapping metal, and his other hand comes up to greet yours.

He grabs your right wrist with what feels like iron bands, holding your arm in place, as he turns your wrist upwards looking at your palm. You notice that nobody is watching, and silence has fallen across the room. The vagrant lifts his head up, and you try to meet his gaze, finding nothing but empty sockets with no bottom. You swear you can see the faintest twinkle of stars. The vagrant smiles.

"There is much power here, Mr. Mouse, great power." The voice has an almost hollow sound to it, as if coming from the bottom of a well. He reaches for your left arm and you feel compelled to give it to him. He brings your hands together. "But such power, will come at a great cost." He smiles, then brings your left hand to his mouth before biting around your ring and pinky finger, wrenching them both off at the second knuckle, and starts to chew. You don't feel anything. You don't think anything. You stand and watch as he chews on your fingers, splinters of bone falling from his lips. You feel a sudden jolt, and hear a soft pleading.

"Oh, please, Mister, don't make me beg!" The vagrant is in front of you, reaching out for your hand, still holding the 10-spot. You look around, the soft noises of the room returning. Nobody saw anything. You turn back to the vagrant, still reaching out to grab the bill from your hand. You step back a little, and gently toss it towards him, and he fumbles to catch it out of the air. He starts thanking you.

"Oh, bless you, bless your kind heart, Mister." You look down at his other hand.

It's still cuffed to the chair.

----

You make your way home, running the entirety of what had just transpired through your brain. None of it made sense, and you were definitely suffering from sleep-deprivation, but on a level you weren't familiar with in any capacity. It all seemed real. You looked at your left hand, no damage, no missing digits, just your hand. You flexed your fingers, joints bending fluidly, curling into a fist. You thump the steering wheel, feels solid. You look through the windshield just in time to notice the giant you're about to drive into, head on. You swerve, barely missing him, nearly slamming your car into another parked on the side of the road. As you stop, you crane your neck to look at the giant standing in the middle of the road. He isn't moving. You squint your eyes, trying to recreate the fog glass effect. It looks damn near exactly like the silhouette from before.

You get out of your car, place your hand on your revolver, and start walking toward the man in the road. As you get closer, you notice his mostly black hair is flecked with gray, greasy, and you start to notice the stench wafting from him. He wears a long dingy robe, falling apart in places, and a pair of dirty loafers. As you step in front of him, you notice his face is familiar. He looks very similar to the woman at the precinct who reported her father missing. But he looked like he had been out in the elements for weeks, why was she just getting around to reporting it? You take your hand off your holster, and wave a hand in front of the man. No response. You attempt to grab his arm, but when his robe shifts, you nearly gag from the stench, quickly grabbing your tie and bundling it to your mouth and nose. You back away, coughing and grunting from the nasal assault you had incurred. You were thankful for the coffee scent acting as a barrier on your tie.

Then the man starts moving, walking along the stretch of road, towards the woods. You walk after him, keeping some distance from the overpowering foulness emanating from his body. Where the hell was he going? You didn't get the chance to find out, because he walked between two trees on the edge of the forest, and vanished into thin air. You let your tie fall, dumbfounded at what you had just seen.  You look around you, street completely void of any life. You turned around to look at your car, realizing you had left the door open, and ran back to get in.