The warehouse door opens and expels a pungent stench. The windows, so dark that you can't peek inside, look like sockets in the skull of a stiff. The clay bricks under the waning moon pale giving a look similar to human skin. Everything on that night is like a sign for horrible omens, for white death.

Police tape limits the perimeter and keeps the curious at bay, powers too great for a simple yellow ribbon. If that doesn't work, the bold-faced policemen with their faces painted blue one second and red the next by patrol car sirens scare off the bravest. Edmund doesn't know who got there first: the gossiping women were as quick as the rumors they spread; but neither could the journalists, hounds for morbid stories, be underestimated. In any case the police beat them to it, and as far as Edmund respects they won the first round.

The curvature of his lips lifts and shows a row of well-groomed teeth, he doesn't smile too much, but just enough to show confidence no matter that he's on the floor. To the 50,000 people of La Crosse, he was a man to have faith in, second only to the guy on the cross, the old man in the clouds, and the president. The Kill The Killer, a nickname that makes him itch every time he hears it.

Edmund Hopkins, the current local police captain, is the guy who rid Wisconsin of its last serial killer. The feat earned him a promotion and tons of good reputation (more than anyone could ever hope for.) He's never wanted to become a police officer. Edmund never sought to become a protection saint). It was the state's way of thanking him for making the streets safe again, and allowing kids to sleep soundly without peeing themselves with the thought of Jeff slicing their throats.

The captain passes under the tape quickly, as if eager to chomp down on the crime scene. In reality, what he longs for most is to escape the stares of the crowd and the questions of the press, news vultures garnished with blood and maggots. He glances sideways at the crowd and wonders why the neighbors look so stunned by the commotion. Do they really think the streets are safe? That with good Edmund swarming around, nothing bad can happen and no black bag of surprises will appear floating over the Mississippi...?

Well, no.

The stench of the warehouse hits him before he enters, warning him of what is to come. His smile shudders, but without disappearing. He is the Captain, the killer-slayer who never hesitates and never sleeps more from extreme insomnia than from a lust for justice. No, killer-slayer is too violent, bad people-finisher sounds like something more acceptable than what young boys might say at mass or school.

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The interior of the place exudes the scent of flesh and metal, like blood long stagnant in a vial. The officers greet Edmund with customary respect and then go into detail about the scene:

Old Turner comes to check out the property to make repairs and put it up for rent, but finds more than seepage in the walls and green flies flitting about.

"Maybe now he'll lower the rent" he says. Others would ask more questions about Turner, but Edmund considers that spending time on that old cheapskate would be like trying to pinch a horse to death. Being a miser doesn't make you a murderer... At least not at first. On second thought, he'll put a couple of officers to keep an eye on the old man and connect the dots, if there are any connections to connect. "Is there any coffee?"

They bring a red coffee, unsweetened one. Just the way he likes it.

Neither officer raises an eyebrow at the superior's apparent disinterest. The Captain always acts and moves in his own way. He's the hero who saved them from the smiling psychopath... Although no one ever understood what was so funny about that bastard Jeff, even half dead he was laughing and after kicking the bucket he kept on with that dreadful grin.

A smile of true horror.

Edmund blames it on the disfigured face. He prays to Jesus, Buddha, or any entity disengaged enough to fulfill the request, that the next killers will be more pleasant to look at. Because more would come, wouldn't they? They already had Ed Gein and the first Jeffrey, the Dahmer, not the Woods. Maybe the environmental nuts are right and the Mississippi pollution will turn people into soulless monsters.

"Poor girl"

Natalie Parker was a lovely little girl; Somewhat promiscuous but less so than most; High school student and choir flute player; Short hair framing her tanned face and lips like cherries; But most striking were her beautiful violet eyes. Now Edmund can only repair to the lack of these.

«If she were my daughter...»

Edmund thought, but for the sake of his sanity he repressed the comparison.

Two holes bathed in dried blood stare back at the policemen. Above the girl, a lone bulb streams its bluish light, illuminating and rocked by the breeze blowing in from a broken skylight. From the cuts and the pool of blood soaking her clothes and the legs of the chair where she was bound and gagged, it is evident that whoever did it had a good time.

"Captain, look at this"

He looks at the officer who called him, then at the direction where everyone is pointing their flashlights. On the white-painted wall is a message in large, red, tearful letters:

GO TO SLEEP.

The policemen hold their breath. The captain stands admiring it as if evaluating an abstract, unintelligible work of art. He takes a sip of coffee.

"Ladies and gentlemen" Edmund sounds like a guy from the news wanting to sell you a vacuum cleaner. He turns and his smile just got bigger and more awkward to maintain. "We have a copycat"

Inside Edmund is screaming his head off.