The Lullaby Killer was back, and he wasn’t going to waste his big reveal.
Although the park wasn’t empty, the night that engulfed it was peaceful and still. The distant chatter and howl of female laughter echoed across the green and descended upon him. A small group of people was nearby. Close enough to hear them, far enough not to catch him.
The killer nodded, grinning. He went to the back of his RV and took the body from the back. She hadn’t been perfect—he would have liked someone closer to her age. Someone eight years old or younger. That would have made her easier to carry, but this sixteen-year-old would have to suffice. Besides, it was more about the message than the victim.
He slammed shut the doors of his recently acquired RV, cradling the young woman in his arms. With a great struggle, he carried her into the park and walked in beyond the lights. Into the blackness. The weight in his arms caused him to sweat, the warm beads rolling down his grinning cheek and settling on his lip. He licked it, laughed, and continued.
When he finally found the perfect spot, the Lullaby Killer set her down and arranged her body. She stared up at him with lifeless eyes that he hadn’t bothered to close. This was more disturbing. It would say more this way. The way her eyes desperately pleaded was as perfect as the way she had died—strangled, kicking, and trying to scream. Failing to scream.
Just like her, the killer thought.
It had been eight years since his last murder. Eight long years of watching and planning. Of hating, hungry for revenge. There had been times when he was almost caught, each exciting moment a larger risk than the last. Now, after all this time, he had the perfect opportunity to send the message. To make his claim.
“But it isn’t right…” the killer whispered.
As if they had heard him and thought of his new kill as a hilarious form of irony, the women’s laughter sang across the park. It was louder than before. They were closer. The killer had to hurry, and he wasted no time in finalizing his plan. He reached deep into his jeans pocket, gripping the bag carefully so as not to tear a hole. When it was in his hand, he set it down gently and peeled open the Ziploc bag. The dark red fluid swished inside, threatening to splash out.
But he wouldn’t let it. The killer used a stick to write out his message with a steady hand. The blood spread across the tarmac just beside the body, his writing—in block capitals, just to mess with their investigation—perfectly spelling out the message he’d dreamed of for years.
When his big job was done, the killer took one last look at his scene. It was everything he’d ever wanted. Worthy of a certain private investigator’s attention. He zipped the bag shut, stuffed it into his pocket, then headed back to the RV with his stick in hand.
Now, after all these years, he was ready.
It was time to play.