With a shake of my head, I grimace, thankful to no longer be looking at the vile image. "There's no way anyone could make cuts that clean on a conscious person."
I shouldn't know this.
I know plenty about weaponry, both knives and firearms, and those far more lethal.
But that was always intheory. In practice, the only thing I ever harmed was made of plastic and foam.
Clyde's hum of thought barely reaches my ears before he pulls out another photo.
Similar, but messy. Jacked lines through the flesh, blood splattered in wild patterns across the ground. This man's face is covered in bruises.
"This is allegedly one of your first kills," he explains. "No narcotics found in his system."
"Who is he?" I look away, terrified that I'm not having more of a reaction to these grisly murders.
With a squint, he mutters another name I don't recognize. "No one really investigated his death until more bodies started popping up with the same signature. Then it came out that he was peddling drugs to kids and peddling those kids to... not kids."
"Good fucking riddance, then."
"Some people think you're a hero," he chuckles. "Had you gone to prison instead of here, you'd be set for life in there."
"And that's why they want me dead."
Someone thepeoplesee as a hero can only be one of two things. A martyr or a scapegoat.
Clyde laughs again but has no answer.
"Who's that other one? Chase."
"Chance," he corrects me. "He's the philanthropist."
"Nah," I shake my head. "Who was hereally?"
"One of the other guys’ customers." His answer doesn't surprise me in the slightest. If people cheered for their deaths, I can only imagine what kind of monsters they were while alive. "No one knew of his proclivities until his death left him unable to hide them any longer."
"How many?" I ask the question I've been dreading. "How many bodies have been found like this?"
He hesitates, clearing his throat, "They've spent the last few months gathering reports from throughout the state.”
"How many, Clyde?" My head is already swimming with the possibility that I killed two people. Even worse, that I feel no guilt if I did.
"The current number is seventeen."
"Seventeen," I repeat.
He nods, "Seventeen, all the same way."
"What about," I clear my throat, feeling suddenly parched. "What about survivors? Witnesses?”
"Whoever was committing these crimes, they planned for everything. The victims weren't the only ones testing positive for anesthetics. Anyone who was around them when they were taken reported hallucinations and dissociation before everything went pitch black, leaving it impossible to find a trustworthy witness."
"And how did they tie it back to me?" I'm almost afraid to ask.
Pointing the pen at my neck, he answers nervously, "The bat spanning your neck and the MO share symbolism. Bás Dorcha. Dark death. The killer turned these angels of the community into winged monsters, showing the world how evil they truly were. Paired with your reclusive nature…” he trails off, waving his arm around. "They claim they were in the process of obtaining a warrant, but someone else got to you first.”
"So they think I killed seventeen people because of my tattoo and being a hermit,” I nod. "At best, that has to be circumstantial, right?"
Clyde barks out an uneasy laugh. "We haven't even started the trial yet, Mr. Fomori. There's no way of knowing what they found in your place of business or home. If they can tie your DNA to even one crime scene, they'll try to find you guilty for all of them."
