Page 2 of The Hunted

He moved to get closer to the body, and once he came face-to-face with Chester Dean, he cursed. He was bound to the chair by his wrists and ankles. He was naked. His eyes were open, staring at the computer screen in front of him. His mouth was open, and Santino leaned forward only to wince when he realized what was in Chester’s mouth. Whoever did this made sure to cut an appendage off along with his balls. Whatever wasn’t stuffed in his mouth, he held in his upturned hands.

As far as theatrics went, it was a perfect scene if not a disturbing one. Not that the manner of death had bothered Santino. It was pretty on par given Chester’s history. He would have chalked this up to a victim or a relative of a victim seeking their own justice since the system had failed yet again. But the ligature marks around his neck and the note sitting in his lap made the hairs on Santino’s neck stand up.

It was addressed to him—or who he was when he let his true nature out to play.

Santino hesitated before his gloved hand picked up the note, only for another one to drop behind it. He bent down to pick that one up and realized exactly who had been here.

The Poet Killer as the media liked to call them.

It was the dumbest name they had come up with in the history of serial killer names. Someone had leaked information to the press that behind a particular string of murders the killer always left a poem behind, but Santino knew that wasn’t always the case.

The killer only left poems behind when there was a point to prove. They wanted the world to know whoever they killed shouldn’t have been on the streets in the first place.

“Another avenging killer,” Santino mused before he unfolded the poem and read the contents:

Roses are red,

Violets are blue,

Innocence has been brought back

To the ones who lost it at the hands

of those who should have protected them.

A man freed.

Another child gone.

Congratulations,

I’ve done what you couldn’t,

Or wouldn’t, with a legal system

bound to protect the corrupt

instead of seeking justice for the victims.

The words had bothered Santino more than they should have. It was as if the killer had written the poem specifically for him, calling him out for not doing what he should have been doing.

He placed the poem back on Chester’s lifeless body and opened up the note addressed to him.

Dear Midnight Strangler,

I think I like your name better.

They call me the Poet, but that’s not exactly who I am, is it?

Let’s play a game, shall we?

Do you know what hides in the dark?

An upstanding citizen with hands the color of red.

Tell me, Midnight Strangler, have they figured it out?

Do they notice when they go over your kills?