Skulls II

The snow fell softly. Elegantly. As if it wished naught to disturb that of the moon's wistful beams, or the stars' energetic gleam and glow and fortune. It was heavy, but trifling. Just floating down from the heavens without a care in the world. 

The building in the midst was stoic. It was tan brick with scathing bars tight against the windows. Everything about it was dark; from the windows to the atmosphere.

The woman walked through the halls with purpose. Her shoes made hollow sounds on the linoleum. She dreaded the quiet. It gave her more time with her thoughts and she detested the thought of thinking. 

Thoughts were dangerous. They manifested themselves into monsters that howled in the night and spirits that taunted the spine throughout midday. She feared the way her thoughts ate away at her logic. How they crept into her mind and wound themselves tight around her skull. 

She was pragmatic. Clinical. Stubborn. All things in her file. Still, she felt a chill in this place. Deja-vu of a nightmare once had. She stepped into the room with purpose and was greeted with several onlookers idly waiting for her. A flash went off as she frowned at the pile of bones in front of her. 

"Madame Dupine, always a pleasure." said a pudgy little man who extended a sweaty palm in her honor. She waved him off and crouched in front of the bones. They were antiqued, and interwoven with a series of burgundy ribbon. The ribbon coil seemed to come from inside the skull that sat perfectly atop the acrimonious and ceremonious pile of remains. 

"There's no ribcage." She said tentatively. She stood up and rounded on the man who had welcomed her. He almost spilled his coffee. "Have these been disturbed?"

"No madame. Left here just for you." 

"Then why is one of the femurs cracked? And the tibias, they're slightly off kilter from a perfect x. Why would he go through so much trouble to stage a beautiful showing with ribbon, only to have sub par components?" 

"Catatonic most likely. Psych down at the station claims he's a runaway schizo."

"You imply," she started gravely, "That his schizophrenia makes him moronic. When in fact, he's a genius. A mad genius, capable of atrocities only one on the brink of death could imagine." 

The man raised his eyebrows. "Madame, I didn't imply,"

"You didn't think. This man has murdered 17 others. Innocent people, whom you've yet to identify. And you see him as a game." She then coldly walked out of the room and out the building entirely. 

Seventeen people. Dead. All by the hands of the same masochist. Of course, masochist was pure speculation. It's hard to judge pain endured when you're just left with bones. 

It was his taunt. A pile of bones? It was him. They were always so elegant too. Artistic in a sense where it was unnerving. Her first case was a man sat under a chandelier. He was put there unnoticed in a highly regarded hotel. How no one noticed is still being dealt with by human resources. 

His body was still intact. Perfectly preserved, with color still in his veins. But his head was a perfectly bleached skull. More or less of course, for it was dripping with liquid gold. Ten thousand dollars worth to be exact. The way the gold melded into the hollow eye sockets, the way it dripped onto the shoulders, so devoid of emotion, a captivating irony. It was an artistic statement that rocked the world. Of course this man was easily identified. He was head of a prestigious bank chain. It was his gold. 

The snow covered the ground lightly; enough that Dupine's feet made a crunching sound as she walked. The 'R' haunted her dreams a lot. The calling card he left. An R, inscribed on a parchment business card, emblazoned in red ink. On every scene, there it was. It began to be her doppleganger. Her totem. It woke her up from every nightmare. She feared it would one day be found on her. 

The flower one was the worst. A child's skeleton. On a playground in mid march. Flowers were artfully intertwined between every crevice of bone. Two daises poked out from the eye sockets, a grim metaphor for starry eyed children, and an off base illusion to day of the dead. This one they couldn't identify. 

There were many others. One skeleton burned so brutally post mortem that it was entirely smooth and ebonied. One with shards of glass weaved in between and through the rib cage of a middle aged woman. One of a college grad whose legs were smashed up to form wings that spewed from an empty rib cage. The list went on. Each with a red R calling card. 

She stopped now, to look at the moon. She had let this case consume her. She felt him. Whoever he was. She knew how he thought. How he felt. And she had an inkling as to why he did what he did: he had let his thoughts consume him. He no longer felt fear in his bones. He no longer felt anything earth-wise. 

Patient 2713

Patient continues melancholic views of surroundings. Has disturbing fascination with bone structure of other patients. Picks at their faults; weaknesses. 

Is isolated mostly, at request of other patients. Patient is indifferent. Nay, enjoys the unnerving presence. 

Paintings are still exquisite, if morbid. Patient refuses to appropriate meanings of such. 

Patient is threat to self among others. Will remain here until further insight.