Code Name: SC
by Marcie Schwindt
We were all chasing the same phantom killer. Scotland Yard and most of Europe called him The Biscuit Butcher, the Australians, Arsey Assassin. To me he’s The Exterminator. No matter what the name, the story’s the same. His victims, bachelors and childless couples, are found on Christmas Day with their throats slit. The weapon is unknown. The crime scenes are void of fingerprints and DNA. The only witnesses are cats and dogs—often drugged. Then there’s the calling card: cookie crumbs and tinsel in the victim’s hair.
We agree on the killer’s profile: assassin-for-hire with multiple identities and unlimited, untraceable access to anyone and anything. He’ll be someone seemingly above reproach and have a convincing alibi. Undoubtedly he’ll also be considered a myth to the slack-jawed masses who’ve been spared the gruesome details of these cases.
For the past four hours of this latest closed-door Intelligence session, I’ve listened patiently to theory after theory. Crime scene photos and empty coffee cups litter the table, mocking me. I cannot remain silent any longer.
I’ve hunted this guy for my entire career and, overwhelmingly, the evidence points to only one man. A man who lies low 364 days per year. A man with leverage against exposure. A man who wears red (blood red) to confuse colour-blind pets.
No wonder he never comes to my house, he knows that I know.
Marcie Schwindt makes stuff up for a living and loves every minute of it.