Kai Kay
Chapter 1: The Sunday Killer
Four days ago
Sunday, 11:20 A.M.
The diner was a run-down hole in the wall with the storefront covered in rushed graffiti. Indoors, a few customers lurked around with their cups of coffee – and alcohol shots when the waiter was in a good mood. Loud rock music blasted in the background regardless of the time of the day. They served food that left a layer of grease on the fingers and cramps in the stomach for first-timers. Jim was in the middle of his second serving, a bacon and cheese sandwich, when the waiter approached him with a coffee refill – sugarless, lot of milk, the usual.
“How’re you holding up?”
Jim raised his head to Adam, a young, dark-skinned college student who took over the diner when his aunt was not around. Jim had known him ever since he moved into town. The diner was his go-to whenever work got too stressful and Adam and his aunt had treated him like one of their own.
“Barely," Jim said.
“New case?”
“Not really. But it’s a big one."
“I bet.”
He glanced at the pile of pictures spread over the table. Jim quickly gathered the lot and shoved them inside his bag.
“Thanks for the coffee.”
“You know. You should probably have a break."
"Believe me, you’re not the first one to tell me that," Jim said, "But you know who doesn’t have breaks? Crime."
Adam shrugged, turning around to leave only to retrace his step for a second.
"Hey, uh, I know you don’t handle he-stole-a-burger kind of cases but," Adam cleared his throat, then leaned over to whisper the next words. "I think there’s something going on with one of our cooks. Think you can look into it? When you have time, of course."
Jim’s eyebrows quirked, feigning interest. It wasn’t the first time he was being asked to play private eye for a civilian. But this was Adam asking. The least he could do was stay polite.
"You know what, sure," said Jim with a lazy nod. "Don’t know when that’ll be but I’ll keep you updated."
"Really? Thanks man. Coffee’s on the house."
With a large smile, Adam fist-bumped Jim’s shoulder and left to tend to his other customers. Jim barely brought the cup to his lips when his phone started ringing.
“Denny, hey. What’s up?” Jim rested the cup back on the table and relaxed in his chair, “Yeah, I’ll be there. Next Thursday, right? Anything specific you want or should I keep it a surprise?”
The rock music tuned down and Jim’s attention was dragged to the TV screen hanging above the counter. It changed to the news channel, opening on the picture of a brown-haired young girl with the title MISSING underneath. The reporter disclosed the details.
“Yesterday between nine p.m. and midnight, Amber Key, a twenty-five-year-old college student and charity worker failed to return home after a Saturday evening spent with her friends. Amber’s parents are immensely worried and ask of every person watching this who might have seen their daughter in the last twenty-four hours to call the number below or report to the closest police station…”
“Yeah, I’m still here. How’s mom?” Jim’s eyes narrowed as the picture of the girl faded to be replaced by the picture of a family, happily smiling at the camera. Jim recognized them immediately.
“The Sunday Killer incident,” announced the reporter, “The unsolved case of a family found disturbingly mutilated inside their own home might, in fact, be the beginning of a series of murders. According to the New York Police Department, a similar case of a young couple found dead last Sunday suggests the return of the so-called Sunday Killer.”
Denice’s voice continued talking but Jim was long gone. He never thought by taking the job in NYPD he would be signing up to see a three-month-old baby without his limbs dangling from the ceiling over his mutilated parents, painting a disturbing picture. But it was cases like these that brought him to New York in the first place. It was twisted. It was sick. It was inhumane. Jim thought by catching the Sunday Killer he would be doing everyone a favor including himself.
However, shortly after his arrival the Sunday Killer went radio silent. For three years, nothing. The case grew cold and Jim had to let it go.
Until last week.
A lesbian couple was found on the beach side buried under the sand from the neck down. The autopsy suggested a death by drowning, and the limbs of a baby were infused separately into their uteri. Upon further examination, forensics linked the limbs to the baby from the first case.
This wasn’t everything.
A short poem printed on the back of a NYC postcard was mailed to the police department a few days before the murder occurred. It was signed with the initials S.K. The poem itself was an unreadable puzzle, a dead end, but it led Jim to believe in the existence of an M.O. This was confirmed when he went digging into the department’s archives and retrieved a similar NYC postcard dating from three years ago, sent exactly before the first murder took place - also signed SK.
It was a major breakthrough and Jim was put lead of the case right after that.
“Are you even listening?”
“Yeah, of course I am!”
“What was I saying?”
“You – I just –”
“God, I can’t believe you.”
Jim chugged down his coffee guiltily, hissing when he burned his tongue in the process. His cell phone beeped, notifying him of a second incoming call.
“Shit. It’s work. Sorry, Denny, I gotta go. Tell mom I said hi. I’ll see you guys next week.”
“Seriously?! Jim, you can’t just –"
The line was cut and Jim picked up the second call.
“I saw the news. You found her?”
“An hour away from the city in an abandoned warehouse. Think you can make it?”
Jim raised his head to the TV one last time. The reporter was now interviewing Amber’s parents. Tears, screams, and broken voices. The word wasn’t out yet.
“Text me the address. I’m on my way.”
His old black Volkswagen was waiting in the parking lot. Jim climbed in, shoved the pile of leftovers in the back, turned the key into ignition, and fixed his reflection in the rearview mirror. He was grinning.
Three fucking years.
He missed the thrill of the hunt.