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It was odd the things people didn't notice. A person might eat liver and notice none of the earthy bitterness of the meat, but a whiff of liquor from a drink several tables away would make that same person nauseous. A person walking in the forest could become enraptured by birdsong and not notice the chuffing of the bear rushing to attack them.

The killer made it his business to notice everything. He had to. Killing people wasn't an easy task, and killing them in the manner the killer had chosen was beyond painstaking. The poison took four hours to act, and ensuring that it acted at the precise moment the killer wanted meant understanding his victims’ schedules to a tee.

Fortunately, the killer’s victims made it easy. As professionals, they announced their schedules via social media announcements and sometimes even had dates posted on their websites. Grimes was a little more difficult as the only one of the victims who didn’t announce his schedule, but he was utterly predictable, nonetheless. The killer didn’t know exactly which restaurant he’d eat at, but Grimes ate his dinner at the same time every night, and he always ate it at a restaurant.

Besides knowing the victims, the killer also needed to know the poison precisely. Because so little was needed, only a fraction of a gram, it was critical to ensure that only the exact amounts were taken. It wasn’t really the potency that mattered, but the potential for identification. This poison was unique, but not especially so. The more left behind in the victims’ bodies, the more likely some brilliant young lab technician was to make the connection.

The killer couldn’t risk that. A person might walk into the house now and see all the signs that should tell them exactly what the killer was doing but would likely not notice that anything was amiss.

For now. If they were able to identify the poison, then the killer would be in grave danger.

So the killer had to be careful.

Not that the killer could imagine anyone being careless with these ingredients. No, when it came to their own lives, people were very careful, at least when they knew they were in danger.

When it came to the lives of others, however, people were callous.

The killer looked on the wall at the news clippings with portions highlighted in green.

As close to authentic coq au vin as dub step is to opera.

I had the lamb. At least I think I did. Who the hell could tell with all the repulsive crap covering it?

The chef is way ahead of his time. He should go back to it. He needs to find a way to return to the 1960s when the height of gourmet was a Jello mold. Then, he might legitimately receive praise. Just a little, of course. Very little.

People didn’t understand fine dining. Perhaps they never had. Nobody cared about food unless there was outrage.

“Maraschinos,” the killer said softly. “They were sour cherries from Croatia. Everyone loved them. But all of the processing…" The killer chuckled. "Well, it doesn't matter, does it? Today, they're not even marasca cherries. They’re normal cherries that you can find in any fruit stand. People have no palates these days.”

The killer grinned at the ingredients of the poison. “They see something pretty and never think about how it could kill them.”

The killer looked once more at the clippings and sighed. People were callous. People were careless. Only when it was too late did they realize what should have been obvious from the beginning.

That was the weakness the killer took advantage of. The mistake that once known couldn’t be rectified.

The killer took a deep, cleansing breath and returned to work. Just a little, the tiniest fraction of a gram. But it was enough to right so many wrongs.