I Am Chosen

The Darkness of Man's Heart

Los Angeles, one year before the Chosen Killings

The Lord of the Flies Murders.

That was what they were being called, thanks to a letter that had been sent to channel seven news claiming responsibility and offering a partial quote from William Golding's book: "Ralph wept for the end of innocence, the darkness of man's heart..."

So far, there had been four victims. All that had been found of them were their headless bodies, discarded in dumpsters at different locations in downtown Los Angeles. Though much of the blood had drained from the corpses, trace amounts of Ketamine were found. Whoever killed them had drugged them first, and then lopped off their heads. The cuts were clean, the work of a massive, razor-sharp blade.

Kacey had been working to establish some connection. Thus far there had been one common thread, but only between two of the victims: art. One of the victims hosted art shows and the other was a collector. Through the internet Kacey had been tracking down all of the local galleries in L.A., visiting them in-person, showing pictures of all of the deceased in the hopes of gathering some additional info.

There had been a crap load of galleries on the list.

After a long day, she was taking an unfamiliar shortcut home. Her GPS had her navigating a maze of narrow streets, crowded with parked cars out front of tiny houses, to get to Olympic Blvd. When she finally made it to Olympic she had been thrown off and found herself going the wrong direction. To get back on track she pulled into a cramped side street and through an alley that backed a handful of commercial buildings, including Strader Art.

It sat between a warehouse and one of those Halloween super stores— which wouldn't see any business for another three months. Driving on Olympic, she had passed the structure a few times before on her way home, not paying much attention. The place had been closed for months, windows boarded. Coming through the alley, however, she noticed a beat-up, dirty red pickup truck in the otherwise empty, four-space parking lot.

What the Hell, she figured, it was worth a shot.

Picking a spot next to the truck, Kacey parked and made her way to the open back door. "Hello?" She called as she entered into a closed space that turned sharply to the left, then opened into a smaller hallway.

The first thing that Kacey noticed was a harsh chill. Someone had cranked the AC. She stepped into a small room, barren except for a few square crates against the wall that she assumed housed art. Leaning against the crates were some dusty, framed pieces. She walked over for a closer look. The first painting was of a desolate farmhouse. It was nighttime and there were silhouetted people staring out from the windows. Something about it made Kacey's skin prickle. The other pictures behind it weren't much better— stark depictions of gruesome figures and bizarre, shadowy shapes in gloomy forests.

Whoever ran this place had weird taste.

She continued on to the next room and stopped. There was a much bigger crate here, sitting on the floor of the small space. The box was coffin-like, with its lid on top but pulled slightly to one side. Kacey approached, lifted the lid and uttered a small yelp, her heart suddenly attempting to beat its way free of her chest.

Inside was the body of a woman— shirtless, though her bra had been left on, as had her skirt, panty hose and shoes. She was missing one other thing, however: her head.

Kacey was reaching for her gun when she heard the quiet ruffle of clothing behind her. She turned just in time to see a pudgy fist come crashing in.

******************

"Hanson," Hollis said. "Jesus I can't believe it."