Sunday, 12:10 P.M.

The second he arrived, Jim was ambushed by the lieutenant and dragged into the warehouse where the body was found.

Lieutenant Davida McGuire was a tall, dark-skinned woman with broad shoulders and a face of authority. A great leadership, in Jim’s eyes. If it weren’t for her, he would still be rotting in Dallas trying to piece his life back together. It was rough getting back on track after a suspension, but Davida’s push had made it all possible.

Jim was given the headlines as they walked in. The warehouse was abandoned for years since the company relocated. Its position sixteen miles away from the city, as well as the absence of a current owner, rendered it a perfect place to stage a murder.

“We got a call from a farm owner in the neighborhood who keeps an eye on things around his property,” Davida explained as the two walked upstairs. “He gets a lot of young people around here playing haunted-warehouse, so he made it a habit to check inside. The night of the murder he said he heard a car pulling off at around two in the morning. He didn’t pay it any mind and went to bed. Today he went in for the usual check-up. That’s when he found Amber.”

“Did he catch a view of the car? Color, brand, license plate?”

“Nothing. This far out of the city, you’d be lucky if the moon’s even shining.”

Davida stopped as they set foot on the second floor. She pushed through the set of plastic curtains secluding the centre of the crime scene and led the way in.

"Did you put these on?"

"They were here when we came in."

Considering the quality of the material, Jim thought they must have been recently hung. The killer prepared the room before bringing the victim in. It was a planned murder.

“We’re talking about an experienced killer with a sick mind, Jim, not some lowlife drunk who accidentally took out his repressed anger on an innocent girl. This guy is precise, clean.”

“What makes you think he’s done it before?”

“You’ll see.”

Following the lieutenant, Jim entered the middle of the room. Five other officers were present in the area, including Mary, the forensic scientist - and Jim’s ex-wife. Mary was busy scanning the floor for evidence. Jim decided to talk to her later.

In the middle of the scene was Amber Key, seated on a wooden chair, naked, her brown hair covering her face and upper chest. She was intact, clean. Her arms stretched out on each side, her hands open, palms exposed, suspended in the air against gravity. On each palm rested a different organ. A piece of brain on the left hand. A pair of eyes on the right. Both organs were clean, bloodless.

Circling the scene at a slow pace, Jim’s assumptions were confirmed. Her skull was forced open, and the lower region of her brain was missing. A chill ran down his spine as the realization hit him. This could only be his work. The Sunday Killer’s third strike. Part of him was afraid after the second strike he would go on yet another three-year break. Two murders within a week apart only meant the killer was still around, active. He was back, and he was back for good.

“This is the third time I’m having difficulties finding blood spots on a brutally dissected victim,” said Mary, having approached Jim when he wasn’t paying attention. She held a box in her hands filled with a number of samples. “Sorry to see you working again, by the way. You never get a day off with all what’s been going on. I don’t know how you do it. I’d break down after a month.”

“I do break down, I just do it at home,” he replied with a grin but Mary wasn’t laughing. “Wait, you’re already done?"

"Yeah. I need to get these to the lab and run some tests. We both know they will turn out stale, but a shred of hope is better than none."

Jim’s eyebrows furrowed. "When were you called in?”

“About half an hour ago.”

“Why the hell did it take Davida half an hour to call me?”

“I don’t know, maybe because it was supposed to be your first day off in like a month?" she shook her head, “Even the cold-hearted lieutenant shows mercy.”

Jim rolled his eyes. “Mercy, my ass. I think she did it on purpose."

"Do me a favor, Jim. Don’t get on her bad side. It didn’t end well for you the last times." Mary looked into her watch and began shuffling away. "Look, I’ve gotta run, I’ll see you at the station. Get some rest later, okay?”

With a quick wave, Jim watched her leave. He had to admit marrying someone from the department was not so great an idea, especially when it doesn’t last. Mary was an amazing asset to the team, truly, but seeing her move on so fast after they have just filed the divorce is quite painful.

“See anything?”

Jim turned to see Davida appear to his side.

“Stating the obvious. Lack of blood. A lot of blood. This guy must’ve worked hours getting the body into this state. It looks..." He pointed at the brain zone as well as the chest, clean open wounds. “Professional. Done by someone who knows what they’re doing, maybe even someone who…”

“Does that for a living, yeah,” Davida finished with a steady nod. “Doctors, surgeons as well as any other specialists who have access to specific medical tools in the area are declared suspects. But we’ll have to narrow it down if we want to catch the guy. Now, any ideas on what he might be trying to tell us?”

“Out of sight, out of mind.”

“Excuse me?”

Jim gestured at the outstretched arms with the organs on top of each.

“Eyes on one hand, brain on another,” he explained. “Out of sight, out of mind. It’s a literal metaphor.”

Jim put on a pair of gloves and stepped closer to brush away the voluminous hair and inspect Amber’s face. She was looking upwards, her neck exposed. Jim looked up at the ceiling. Right above their heads was a large hole where the run-down building was massively fractured.

Jim leaned in, brushed the thick locks further and uncovered a hole in middle right side of her chest.

“Did you find the heart?”

“Still missing," said Davida, "I think the sick motherfucker took it with him. Like some sort of trophy.”

“Or he plans to plant it into his next victim. Like the Sunday Killer. Any postcards mailed to the department recently?”

Davida scoffed. “Don’t get too worked up. So far he only killed in twos. This could be unrelated or worse, a copycat case.”

“First you’re calling me half an hour later than the others, now you’re dodging my questions." Jim turned to her with a glare. “I don’t like where this is going.”

“Cry me a river. You’ll get your report tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? I thought I was already on the case.”

“I only needed a fancy artist’s opinion. Your job’s done here. Go back home and enjoy your free day.”

“I want in," he said. "If this guy and the Sunday Killer are one and the same, we’re talking about my case.”

“If,” Davida stressed. “So far, it’s all speculations. If we are sure it’s him, he’s all yours.”

Jim opened his mouth again but Davida was having none of it. She turned around and started pacing away.

“This conversation’s over, detective. Go get a nap or a drink at a bar, or whatever it is people do on Sunday.”

“Like go to church?”

Davida’s laugh was prominent and soon faded in the distance.

Next Chapter: Chapter 3: The Poems