Zoe Sullivan proved to be a stellar sleuth. Promoted to Detective three years ago, she solved one hundred percent of her cases within the infamous 48 hours. But did any of that matter. Solving homicides was not a win-win situation. Yes, it ensured justice for the victims and their families, but it wouldn't bring the lost loved ones back.
It was twelve days before Christmas, Sullivan was looking forward to a short respite before the busy Holiday crime rush. Not this year. It all started on December 14.
Partnerless for the night, Sullivan received the call that started it all a few hours into her nap. It was urgent, an anonymous tip to the station. 1000 Halsted St. was the address given with not much else. Allowing her partner a break from the madness of their jobs to spend quality time with his young family, she headed to the scene with uniformed backup in tow. Ascending the stairs of a charming two-story, Chicago style flat, the door was unlocked. Not usual for the inner city.
The home was nicely appointed for the holidays. LED lights outside on the bushes and sparkling garland leading up the staircase to the hearty wreath hanging from the stately wooden door. Entering the house, Sullivan immediately took notice that it was cozy. Warm. Dark, but backlit with Christmas lights and a gentle glow from a tree. The smell of baking pies and a cinnamon apple air freshener engulfed the room. Someone was in the spirit and Sullivan would soon discover the identity of her host.
Visitors were welcomed into the living room by a roaring, gas fireplace also adorned with an enormous Christmas tree. There on the mantle was a head. A head equally decked out in holiday gear. The eyes were open and rolled back, perched on a bed of festive garland, wearing a droopy Santa hat with what looked like a used cotton ball dripping blood down the brick façade of its resting place. Matching the ambiance of the room, Sullivan was clear the mantlepiece was the owner of the house. But where was the rest of her?
December 15 started slow. Still investigating the grotesque find from the previous night, Sullivan found the case moving slowly. She had no eyewitnesses. No ear witnesses. No CCTV footage. Just the caller. With nowhere else to start, the detective was ready to deep dive into her mystery caller when she received a radio call from dispatch.
"We received a call from a tipster. Reporting a strange smell coming from 2000 Diversey Parkway."
"Copy that. Did the caller leave their information?"
"Nope, anonymous. But there is a note here that the tipster called from the same number as last night."
"Hmmm. Copy. Thank you."
Sullivan gathered her bag and called over to her partner. Not knowing what to expect but experience told her that bad smell calls were never good. It was only fair that her partner got to experience what she had the night before. Uncertain whether she could stomach another grotesque find, she wanted to make sure her partner was there to catch her.
Pulling up to the scene, there was nothing festive. Not like last night. The place was a dump. Sullivan took a deep breath, detecting a hint of the rotting, sweet stench the unidentified caller reported. She knew the smell well and tried to shake off her already rolling stomach.
The detectives knocked with no answer. Not surprising, the building was empty. Abandoned. Choosing to enter slowly, both placed their hands on their weapons, prepared for the living that may be waiting for them inside. With every step, the smell of death got stronger. Bolder. Neither were anxious to meet those responsible for the unfortunate stinker's fate.
Walking slowly through the entry, Sullivan is alarmed to be met, once again, by a fireplace. However, there was no merry vibe with this architectural feature. No decorations. Just a dilapidated structure. To her relief, there was no head on the mantel. Instead, there were two jars flanking each end of the chimneypiece. The fluid-filled, murky sconces held large, fleshy floaters. The astute detective immediately recognized the items from one of her college biology classes. Human kidneys. A sweep of the residence failed to locate the owner of the meaty goose eggs. By the smell of the place, it was clear to the Dicks that he or she was there not long ago.
It wasn't until December 16 and another nameless tip that Detective Sullivan became concerned. The new location of horror was 3015 Dempster Avenue. As soon as they entered the building, Sullivan and her partner found a torso sliced into three pieces. The upper, middle, and lower regions sat on ice in the middle of the room, each ornamented with a bow. The partners initially thought this may belong to the bodiless head from night one, but the flesh was dark complected as the head was a lighter tone.
The detectives determined they were dealing with something bizarre, a clear and present danger to the city. There was a serial killer amongst them with two, maybe three, bodies under his belt. The killer was playing with them and there was no doubt in Sullivan's mind that the mysterious caller was involved. They were dealing with a psychopath.
Days four, five, six, and seven came and went with more discarded body parts. On December 17 four, mismatched arms were found in a duffle bag at the Red Line elevated train station's Diversey stop. December 18 greeted the detectives with five fingers in a brown bag, left in a street performers tip bucket on Division Street. Six multicolor feet were found in matching shoes in a locker in Union Station on December 19.
The seventh day was especially gruesome. On December 20, seven tongues were left on a plate at a diner on Devon Avenue. Detective Sullivan had to call in paramedics for the poor waitress that discovered the delicacy. She was in shock and hyperventilated herself into unconsciousness when Zoe tried to interview her. Sullivan knew the unfortunate woman would never fully recover.
With all the horrifying finds, Detective Sullivan still had no leads and no footage. Although the killer was becoming bolder, leaving parts in public places destined to have witnesses, it was as if he or she wanted to get caught. The perpetrator was cunning and slick.
The level of gore grew with every passing day. Eight perfectly removed eyeballs were found sitting on a windowsill of a home on Divine Street on December 21. Staged to peer into the window, staring at the occupants who were none the wiser.
December 22, Sullivan was called to a parking garage, also on Divine Street, where nine scalps, fully in tack but for their corresponding skulls, were found dripping on poles. Ten ears were found on December 23 floating in the lobster tank of a seafood restaurant like misplaced, oversized shrimp on Douglas Boulevard.
Christmas Eve was the killer's boldest disposal to date. Drivers spotted a black SUV, Cadillac Escalade they all assumed based on the vehicle's size and body design, traveling northbound on the Dan Ryan Expressway, dumping baggies, eleven to be exact, at two in the morning. Each baggie contained a human heart. The first eyewitnesses knew something wasn't right, the driver drove under the speed limit. Cruising in the left lane, releasing bags along the shoulder. More than five gappers got the driver's plate and called it in.
With eyewitnesses and a solid lead, Detective Sullivan was excited to put an end to the Holiday Nightmare that had now consumed the city with fear. Unable to keep the case quiet or deliver any news about its progress since day three, she was eager to put an end to the terror and allow the city to start healing.
December 25, Christmas Day, was notoriously one of the worst days of the year for a big city detective. Normal crime was rampant as family get togethers went wrong or newfound treasures became a catalyst for delinquent behavior. Sullivan was not dismayed; she had a plate number and with the slightest bit of research she was able to secure a name. Preparing for Christmas raid, she received one more call. Not from the mystery caller, but someone else. Someone that knew.
The caller directed the detectives to 1225 Damen Avenue. Sullivan and her partner, along with SWAT, quietly approached the address, performing a controlled entry into what looked like an abandoned warehouse. The team entered a long dark hallway with one rickety light fixture swaying, creating an alternating illumination of dark and light dread. Moving towards a dimly lit room at the end of the hallway, the team heard faint laughter that grew deeper and more boisterous as they got closer. Reaching the ominous room with guns drawn, Detective Sullivan took the lead where she found-
"Santa?"
"Ho Ho Ho," the deranged man amused the detective without glancing in her direction.
The jolly looking fat man was sporting a ragged red suit. His blood-stained white beard looked as if he just indulged in a helping of people stew. His eyes were wild and hair unruly. The detective and her fellow officers started to adjust to the poor lighting when they caught a clearer view of Unhinged Santa, surrounded by twelve dissected and mutilated corpses. A drink in one hand, a gnawed femur in the other. He looked up, eyes connecting and holding with Detective Sullivan, smiling as if he knew her. And with a sincerity in his voice and a twinkle in his eye declared-
"Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!"