The crime scene was far behind him. The bridge was long and empty, with only distant headlights shining far, far away. The killer climbed out of the car, opened the trunk, and found the item he was looking for right away. Blood still seeped from the wound, but the mat he’d laid down caught most of it. It wasn’t that he cared – he just didn’t want it leaking onto the road and drawing attention to him.
The killer grasped the head by the hair. The cop’s eyes stared up at him, frozen in time. Stuck in his last moments of life before the killer had gone at his neck with a hacksaw. It was a good outlet for his pain. A good dose of treatment for his anger. Now that the cop was dead, and there was one less to worry about, he could relax a little.
Taking one last check that he was alone, the killer carried the severed head over to the side of the bridge. He took one last, long look at it, then hurled it over the rail. He watched it plummet into the water below, making far less of a splash than he thought it would.
Still, he was satisfied. Those men were dead now, and there was nothing sweeter. That old saying sprung to mind: “vengeance is a dish best served cold.”
It was very true, but he was warming up.