Cold Blood

❥Chapter Fourteen❥

Written by ChemicalWonderland

FBI worker's POV

My bloodshot eyes scan over the lists of profiles from various local criminals. There's a bank robber, a sexual assaulter, an identify theif, and many others. But none of them scream serial killers. It was bad enough having to deal with one murderer. But two? That's a whole other problem.

I rub a hand roughly over my face and stifle a yawn as my partner enters the room with coffee. The smell catches my attention, as I ask, "Did you get me one?"

"What does it look like?" he retorts jokingly, holding up one cup and bringing it to his lips.

I scoff. "Wow, Darren."

He shrugs at me, then sits up in his chair and surveys the stack of papers on the table. "That's a lot of suspects. One of 'em gotta be the guy," he says with a whistle.

I shake my head, correcting him. "Guys. We have two killers here, partners. And none of the criminals in this list fit the profile." My voice is edged with frustration.

"Bull. There's gotta be some sorta lead. You can't be so negative all the time."

I decide to ignore him, turning back to the pile. I pull one profile out, of a man named James "Crusty" Willis. Scraggly gray hair sprouts out in a tangled beard that reaches down to his beer belly, and he has a crooked, yellow-teethed smile.

"Attractive," I mutter sarcastically, looking over all his information and tossing it to the side.

He's way too old to be killing tons of people in just one week. He's also known for selling drugs and using prostitutes, not murdering random people. I clench my fists in anger. I feel absolutely useless just sitting here and looking at criminal records all day. When I said I wanted to become an FBI agent, I meant I wanted in on the action.

Law enforcement should be doing more, getting out there to catch these killers. But instead, we go through the motions and procedures and then pretend none of it ever happened at the end of the day. Truth is, the cops are scared. The detectives are scared. Everyone is too afraid to mess with whatever evil is behind these gruesome murders.

I stare at the face of a woman named Tracy Simmons, a young blonde with multiple charges of theft and assault. Now how could this petite lady commit murder? This is ridiculous and a waste of time. Its simply delaying the investigation and slowing us down. The killers probably laugh at us and our inability to capture them.

I pound a fist on the table, making Detective Darren's coffee slosh around and ripple in its white mug. He startles from sitting and staring at the gray wall in front of him. His feet move from their position of being atop the table.

"You okay man? You seem kinda, I don't know. . . tense? Need a break?" He asks cautiously.

"No, no I don't need a break Darren! There's no time! While we sit here like a bunch of scaredy cats, there are dangerous killers on the loose ruining our town!" I exclaim louder than I had intended.

He gives me a look. "Jeez dude."

We quickly return to our pattern of silence and the occasional sound of rustling paper as I move down the stack. Gerard Frank Raymond. Sarah Carlson. Callie McWillow. Blake "Thrasher" Smith. "Spike" Thompson. Ryan Henry Hart. None of them fit the profile. I feel like screaming in frustration and ripping out my hair.

These guys are never going to get caught. They cover their tracks, they don't leave any speck of evidence behind, and they work dirty. We don't have any witnesses or any other clues to go by. We're straight out of leads, in fact, we never even had any to begin with. Even the notes they left were hopeless and gave us nothing, leaving us more lost than before we read them. The police have started to give up, hoping the murders will eventually just stop. But I know they won't. These killers are fully immersed in what they're doing, and as long as the police keep up the crappy work, they'll just keep killing. The victim count will be record-breaking. It's already insane how many murders they've committed.

The Reapers will never be caught.