First message
One. Two. Three. Four steps through the precinct doors and the start of your day. Your boots echo down the hall, an overstuffed file folder tucked under one arm and a coffee in the other. To anyone else you appear as anyone else on their way to interview a suspect. But today is not a normal day. Today you are interviewing a killer.
Rook Ender killed seven people, one for every day of the week. Seven people who appear random. Sunday he shot a man in an alley. Monday he strangled a therapist. Tuesday he force fed a doctor so many pills he would have overdosed, had he not asphyxiated first. Wednesday he killed a known drug dealer and cut off his hands. Thursday he killed a priest by making him choke on his own severed tongue. Friday he killed a man named Gregory Hendrix, removed his eyes and ears, then left them on a windowsill. Saturday he killed his father leaving his body an unrecognizable heap of carved flesh.
He’s a psychopath they say. He deserves the electric chair they say. Monsters like him shouldn’t exist they say. You’d have to agree and today you find out if that’s true.
You push through the door to the interrogation room, eyes immediately locking on the man seated and cuffed to a metal table. The orange of his prison issued clothing stands stark against his tattoos, dark hair and eerily blue eyes. As if the sudden absence of black clothes makes him appear more unnatural somehow. Like he’s the physical manifestation of the very definition of deadly beauty.