Page 13 of Don't Shoot Me Santa

Kenny let out a slow breath. “Jesus.”

“Exactly.”

But Kenny wasn’t reacting to the horror of it, at least not in the way Parry probably expected. His mind had already shifted gears. The visual arrangement. The symbolism. The costuming. The ritual. And as the rain battered the window with sudden force, and somewhere downstairs, the wind slammed the kitchen door, Kenny staredat the corner of his desk where a smear of ink had dried under his palm. It looked black now. Almost blood-dark in the lamplight. And he felt the deep and familiar click turning in his chest. His mind mapping before he gave it permission. It was involuntary. A profiler’s reflex.

But he didn’t allow the pieces to tumble from his mouth, nor reach for pattern or motive. Not aloud. Not yet.

Instead, he kept his tone flat, a careful absence of colour. “And you think the other two are connected?”

“Possibly. There’s no clear forensic link yet. No shared DNA, no trace evidence across all three. But something feels off. The age and victim profile are too similar to dismiss.”

He agreed. Though that wasn’t enough. Similarities in age and vulnerability put them in the statistical bullseye for opportunists; troubled youth and fragile adults were always at highest risk. That alone wouldn’t make seasoned detectives start joining dots. There had to be another layer. Something that had slipped under the casual observer’s radar but was nagging at the investigative gut.

“What else links them?” he asked.

“The costumes.”

His attention sharpened. “Costumes?”

“This is the first full Santa suit, but the others had… elements. Fragments of festive clothing. We believe now those pieces were added post-mortem.”

There it was. The behavioural hook. Not a killer who stumbled upon opportunity, but one scripting his scenes. A mind using costume as ritual, dressing the dead not for concealment, but for meaning. He adjusted the angle of the phone, tracing his thumb along the edge of the desk as his gaze drifted to the window. Outside, the garden was slick with sleet and shadow. He watched the hedges bend under thewind, let the silence stretch long enough for his thoughts to form, but not take shape.

Finally, he asked, “Did the costume belong to the victim?”

“Unlikely. It’s oversized. A commercially available Santa suit. Standard novelty grade. Men’s large. No signs of wear, damage, or personal modification. Doesn’t match the victim’s size or build. Clean and intact, suggesting it may have been placed on him post-mortem rather than worn. We’re treating it as a potential staging element.”

He nodded, letting that land. So…brought to the scene. Intentionally?

“Was there any note? Messaging? Card left behind?”

“There was a gift tag tied to his wrist.”

“A gift tag?”

“Like you’d tie on a present? Homemade by the looks of it.”

“What does it say?”

“Love, Santa.”

“Jesus.”

Santa. Youth victims. A staged tableau.

Kenny’s breath caught and he felt the profiler in him press the inside of his ribcage, eager to speak. To shape. To name.

But he said nothing.

“What are you thinking?”

Kenny glanced down at the closed laptop on his desk. At the life he’d built from the bones of another.

“I’m not,” he said. “Not yet.” At least he was trying not to.

“I understand. I know this is short notice. We’re not asking for a full profile or involvement if it’s not right. But… some insight would really help us.”

Kenny ran a hand down his face, the burn behind his eyesnot from screen fatigue anymore. He’d promised not to get involved.Promised.