The Dead Don’t Pray
By Bridget Squires
Her skin was slathered in the deep scarlet, tacky, drying blood that spilled from her jaggedly slashed throat, down her naked breasts and finally pooled into a lake in her lap. A lake of deep red ripples, mixed with brown undertones that held no reflection for the gazer. No this was a hideous lake of blood that would imprint its memory into the minds of those involved and turn dreams into nightmares. Propped up against a dumpster, in a pissed soaked alley, her corpse had slowly rotted for two days. The summer sun with its brilliant heat producing rays had beat down upon the flesh, had curdled it and attracted the rats who had start to pick her clean. The smell, although revolting, was comparable to the normal smells that float throughout the city and when Detective Taylor arrived on the scene, the resemblance to the West Path Tie Killer's reign of terror were immediately apparent. The body had been stripped of clothing, beaten and slashed. The dark blotchy mark that swelled the skin of her cheek and threatened an eruption of blood itself indicted that the subduing blow had occurred in that spot.
Kylie Jessica Lester had been her name, but the savage number "4" carved into her wrist aligned her with the other cases of the copycat killer who had been dubbed the Number's Slaughterer. After Taylor had single handed taken down Trevor Frederick, otherwise known as the West Path Tie Killer, she had become an overnight sensation. Interviews, received constant congratulations and the key to the city from the Mayor himself, which in turn had caused a level of fame Taylor was not familiar with. Now months later, things had died down, so the speak. Taylor preferred the night shift now, where she could mask herself from view utilizing the darkness as a tool. Now though, she had been beckoned to solve a new set of cases, only three victims in. The Number's Slaughterer had begun murdering three months ago.