The Hunt

            I’m Darren.  I was adopted on August 16^th, 1983.  I’ve lived in Miami, Florida my whole life.  I’ve never been out of the country, but I’ve been to California to visit a dying aunt a couple years back.  Miami’s beaches, city life, and Cuban food are all pretty nice, but what’s best is the weather.  Hot and humid, just the way I liked it.  As a kid I was never into sports, drama, or any of those things that normal kids enjoyed.  I loved to go hunting with my father though.  The sheer thrill of covering your steps, and chasing and gutting a living animal was the perfect adrenaline rush I craved.  At the age of twenty-six, I started to work for the Miami Police Department as a detective.  My sister always asked me why I chose to be a detective, and frankly, I have no idea.

            “Hey Darren, come check this out,” called out the Chief Detective Troy.
            As I walked towards vaguely familiar Room 201 of the Hilton beach resort, the pungent smell of rampant sex and dense perfume wafted towards me.  As I got closer and closer, my eyes narrowed and nostrils flared as the scent of dried blood began to mix in. 

            “So who we have here is this man named Mark Brenton.  I’d say he’s about, I don’t know, twenty-two,” commented Troy.

There in Room 201, Mark laid on the bed in his own pool of blood staring at the ceiling above.  By now his body had gone rigid. The urge to rush over to him and run my hands over his skin was almost unbearable, but I held myself back.

 “Apparently, he’s been stealing cars from around here, trashing them, and ditching them at random places,” added Troy.
            Good riddance.  Criminals get what they deserve.  Sliding up to the corpse, I scanned the body up and down.  There were bruises across his torso, arms and legs, and incisions made on both sides of his neck.  The cuts were long, deep, and luscious.  The work of a pro, an artist.

“Darren, are you listening to me,” Troy asked irritated.

I then got up to retrace the steps of the killer.  Closing my eyes, I delicately glided acrosse the room.  I couldn’t help but feel like I had been in this situation before.
            “Darren, you fuckin’ freak, answer me,” Troy shouted.

Snapping out of my trance like state, I answered calmly, “I’m guessing the assailant drugged Mark and tied him to the bed with Saran Wrap to immobilize him.  He then made clean cuts across the jugular veins with what looks like a very efficient swinging motion of a sharp blade.  That’s why there’s so much bleeding from our ol’ pal Mark here.”  Scanning Mark’s body once more, I added, “There are also no finger prints or traces of evidence.  I would say the person who did this was no first-time killer.”

“Hah, only a creep like you would know that much detail about a murder.  Fuckin’ psycho,” snapped Troy.

Generally apathetic to what happened, I took my gloves off and walked out of the room.  “I’m gonna get some lunch.”
            For a while now, I’ve been assigned these kinds of cases.  They seemed like a string of impulsive “kill-n-runs” with zero evidence left behind.  As a detective, I couldn’t help but feel frustrated that I couldn’t find the killer, but as a bystander, I found it impressive to be so covert.  How can so many killers be so impossibly discreet?  There must be something I was not getting.  In all the cases I was assigned, all of the victims were people who had criminal records.  Each killing was swift and tidy.  It almost felt surreal for a bloodbath to be so clean.  There was an anomaly.  I couldn’t help but feel that all the massacres were related.  Maybe I wasn’t looking for multiple murderers.  Perhaps it was just one.  It’s like killer has been talking to me, taunting me, leaving a trail of bred crumbs for me to follow.

As I walked along 5^th Street, I obsessively brainstormed Mark’s murderer.  How did he get away with it? The clean cuts, the clean getaway.  It was all so perfect.  Plus, Mark was a car thief.  He deserved it.  Maybe this killer was a blessing in disguise.  Putting off the case for a brief moment, I went up to the nearby the taco truck.
            “Hey can I have two fish tacos and a Diet Coke,” I asked searching through my wallet for money.
            “Sure. No problem.  Hold on, haven’t I seen you around here before,” asked the taco man.

“Um, I don’t think so.”
            “Yeah, yeah. I’ve seen you here before.  You were here a couple nights ago,” he continued as he stuffed the crispy tortillas with tomatoes and lettuce.
            “I think you’ve got the wrong person,” I said reaching for my food.
            “How’s that guy you were with? He seemed pretty out of it?”
            Generally confused and annoyed, I quickly added some salsa to my tacos and left.  What was that man talking about? He must be crazy.   I can’t remember ever being anywhere around here.  Am I the one that’s going crazy?  What is going on with me? Sleep walking? Impossible.  There must be an explanation.  There always is. 

****

For the next week, the case files sat on my desk with little attention from anyone but me.  There was nothing we could do to catch this killer until he slipped up, even just a little bit.  Until then, we could only wait till he made his next move.
            Rereading the files over and over, I couldn’t help but feel horrible that a killer was still roaming the streets because of us.  Fortunately, the killer had been dormant for the past week and had not killed anyone, but I could feel it in my skin.  Someone was going to get hurt.
            The clock hit five and it was time to go home.  As I walked down to my car, there seemed to be something going on across the street.  A man with a dark leather jacket was pushing a young lady up against a wall, holding his hand over her mouth.
            “Hey you! What the fuck are you doing,” I screamed across the street.
            The man turned around and looked at me for a brief moment before he began sprinting down the block.

Running over to the girl, I checked to see if she was okay.  “Hey are you alright?”

Through the uncontrollable sobbing, I could barely make out anything she said.

“Everything is going to be fine, I’m a detective,” I assured her.  “Just tell me who that guy was.”

Still crying but trying to regain composure, she mumbled more indecipherable gibberish.

“Deep breathes, take deep breathes.”
Slowing her breathing, she eventually came to a stand still.
“Ma’am, I need to know who that man was.  A name, anything.  Anything at all.”

Opening her eyes, she whispered, “Mathew.  Mathew Davis.”
           

****

The warm air blasted into my room as I woke up drenched with cold sweat, still wearing the previous day’s clothing.  Tentatively, I got out of bed and looked around my room.  Everything looked normal except my closet was wide open.  I peered inside to see that my old hunting knives and tranquilizers were sprawled across the floor.  What’s hell is going on?  Packing everything away except a knife for protection, I cautiously crept past the kitchen to the doorway of the living room.  There in the middle of the room was the man with the dark leather jacket strapped to the dining table with Saran Wrap up to his neck.  From where I stood, I could vividly hear his mumbling cries.  It looked like his tongue had been cut clean off and there was blood dripping onto the carpet.  Holy shit.  What’s going on?  Is this the killer’s work?  This man is still alive and hasn’t bled to death yet.  This must mean the killer is still nearby.  Fuck, fuck, fuck.  Nervously, I grabbed a towel and attempted to stop the bleeding. As my eyes met his, he began to shake with what looked like absolute fear.
            “Stop moving, you’re making it harder,” I commanded.
            Uncontrollably shaking, he started whimpering through the towel.

“There that should stop the bleeding for now.”
            I then picked up the knife and searched the apartment making sure the killer was not still around.  Standing by the counter, I picked up the phone to call the police.  As the phone dialed, I began to fiddle with the knife in my other hand.  Looking at the glimmering steel, a familiar urge emerged from my stomach and crept into my chest.  My heart began to pound and I began to sweat profusely.  I slowly walked over to the man on the table, cocked my head, and stared him straight in the eyes.

The operator on the phone greeted, “Nine one one.  What’s seems to be the problem?”

Not answering, I craned my neck up and let the feeling take hold.
            “Hello? Is Anyone there?”

Slightly trembling and breathing deeply, I gripped the knife tightly in my hand.  I slowly brought gaze back down to the man and everything went pitch black.