Michaelishious - Vol. 2022

Dec. 19th: Magical Christmas

Author's note:
Michael is not famous in this one. He's a sexy crime investigator.

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It was that time of year again. It was wintertime and the weather forecast promised a wonderful white Christmas with lots of snow. Most people were happy about that, of course, and some people hated it. The blistering cold, shoveling their driveway, and struggling to keep your home warm and comfy were some of the problems. Changing tires on your car and scraping the ice off the windows were others. But that wasn't what concerned me.

For the past three years, there had been several unsolved homicides, and I was the investigator who was supposed to solve it. Instead, the years went by, and the homicides increased with one victim a year. So far, there had been six, and the pattern told me that there would be four new ones this year.

The media had named him the Christmas Killer and made comparisons with Santa Claus himself, since there seemed to be something magical about it. I knew better, though. There had to be a logical explanation to it. There was just no way I could accept that an imaginary dude would travel around north-east of America murdering random people. Still, I couldn't explain what was magical about it. Like why there was no murder weapon, no DNA other than from the victims themselves, and that they all died from being stabbed and strangled. Simultaneously.

What made it even stranger was that there were no physical signs of being strangled. No hand marks or bruises from ropes, belts, or wires like there usually are. But the most interesting detail was that the esophagus, their throat, that was dilated until it ruptured, which was the exact opposite of how it was when people were strangled to death. And there was absolutely no sign of what had caused this injury other than some fluid in their lungs.

Then there was the stabbing wound. There was only one, made with such precision that it could make a surgeon jealous. It was always the same. The puncture mark right under the ribcage and the angle that hit straight into the victim's heart.

There was one thing I felt certain about. It had to be a man. Then again, it could be an abnormally strong female with the shoe size ten and a half, or one who pretended to have that size and wore rubber boots that were too big. Unfortunately, the sole marks didn't make us any wiser because it was a standard one that was used for several types of boots.

I sighed and stared at the TV. All I could do was to wait for the phone call and prepare for another investigation and hope the killer would mess up and leave a clue that would solve the case. I'd rather not think about not being able to save future victim's lives and the feeling of not doing my job properly. I did! This case never left my mind, but there was literally nothing to grasp that made any sense. Especially the killer's signature ticked me off because it was such an arrogant way to make a joke out of both the investigation and the victim.

A snowman. It was so small that it didn't even reach up to your knee, and judging by the footprints in the snow, they had made it someplace else and carried it there. But the strangest thing wasn't the snowman, but the footprints surrounding it. They weren't human. They looked like footprints of a large deer or a moose. But a deer doesn't know how to make snowmen.

"So many questions," I muttered, and my wife looked at me. She knew what I was thinking about without exchanging a word. She simply came over, took my arm, and wrapped it around her shoulders as she cuddled up to me on the couch.

"You'll solve the case, Michael. Soon."

But how soon was soon? It wasn't in time to save the poor widow, who lived alone on a little farm outside of Scranton two days after. Nor did it save the young woman in Portland five days after that. And there was absolutely nothing that tied the two women together other than them being murdered and the killer's despicable trademark.