Merrville County Courthouse
Press conference
"Chief O'Leary!"
"Chief!"
"Mr. O'Leary!"
Several raised voices battle to be heard in the courtroom. Media personalities from all over the region have scrambled to be at the evening's press conference. Castleton Police Chief Paul O'Leary glances over the faces in the crowd. He finally points to a young woman reporter sitting up front. Not once has she screamed at him or tried to shove her mic into the air to be heard. Her continued patience has won her the moment.
"Yes. Young lady from Channel 68. You had a question?" Chief O'Leary says in the most polite voice he can muster.
The young reporter meets the weary police chief's gaze. Her pale green eyes narrow and she seems to falter. Chief O'Leary braces for the question to come.
"Chief...It's been almost two weeks and the public has seen no new developments concerning this case. How close is your department to determining the identity of the so-called Aquarius Killer? Do you have any new leads and information? And are you close to making an arrest?" The pretty young reporter inquires, her eyes never straying from the chief's face.
Chief O'Leary stares back, his brown eyes serious and full of hatred for the killer who has rocked his otherwise quiet community. The chief considers his answer for only a brief moment.
"Right now, law enforcement agencies are combing through every single lead we have. Killers like the one we're dealing with...Here in Castleton...Are stealthy and methodical. They're the kind of person you could stand next to in a supermarket and not even remember. They're unremarkable in almost every way. That's how they slip by so unnoticed. This guy has managed to kill two young women, and dump them...Pretty much in plain sight. Question is how? That's the angle my department...As well as others...Are trying to determine. Someone knows something. Even if they don't realize they know it. That is why we are not giving all of the details of the murders to the public at this time. We don't want to tip the scales out of our favor. To answer your question, Miss...We get new leads and new information every day. And we are working through all of it as fast as we can."
The young Channel 68 reporter purses her lips and nods respectfully. She averts her gaze and pretends to adjust the volume on her microphone. A reporter behind, and to the young women's left, shoves a microphone up into the air. Chief O'Leary lets out a soft sigh.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
"Chief O'Leary! Chief!" the middle-aged male reporter yells above the murmur of the crowd. "What are some of the new leads? What can you tell us?"
Behind Chief O'Leary, Mackey and Newsome release their own collective sighs. Mitch Turner of Channel 8, their least favorite reporter. Three times, Mitch has stormed the Castleton Police Department with his crew of merry cameramen. And three times, Mitch has been thrown out on his ass. But like a cockroach infestation, the slithery bastard always comes back.
"I'll tell you the same thing I told you back at the station, Mr. Turner. There is quite a lot of information we cannot yet share with the public. You will know when the time is right to reveal such information. Because by then, we will have the suspect well in custody. Next question!"
The chief is instantly hit with a barrage of questions from nearly every direction. Only one reporter remains silent, her eyes sweeping the crowd. A shiver courses her spine as she stares at the two large photographs displayed on the stage. The resemblance is uncanny.
$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$
The Dark Place
The man in dark clothes stares at a blank canvas. The slow drip which Rose observed, during her very brief time with the hooded man, has become a steady one. The sound of dripping water is now accompanied by a metallic ping, as large droplets quickly fall into a bucket underneath.
The dark figure crosses to where the bucket sits on the concrete floor. He stands over the bucket for several moments, staring down into the water. Every droplet which falls disturbs the water's surface, causing it to ripple. The man places his hand underneath the falling water drops, interrupting their flow.
The reflection in the bucket stabilizes, allowing the man to see his own face reflected back at him. A low growl starts deep inside the man's chest, like that of a feral animal. With an angry sweep of his foot, the hooded figure kicks over the bucket. Water goes everywhere and the bucket slams into the far wall. The bucket falls over on its side and rolls several feet.
Stepping back towards the canvas, the dark figure grabs up his paintbrush from the filthy countertop. He dips his brush into a waiting can of dark paint and swirls it around. With a feral cry, the hooded man slaps paint onto the canvas without a thought for where the viscous sludge will land.
Each hard slap of paint elicits its own animalistic wail from the furious man. Paint goes over, under, and around the surface of the canvas--splashing nearly everywhere. Another sound can soon be heard, sobbing. The hooded figure stops painting and pants loudly, sobs causing his breaths to sound jerky and erratic.
As with the bucket of paint, the dark clothed figure knocks over the easel and canvas. He stumbles, more than walks, to another darkened portion of the room. His special art gallery.
Three large paintings are lined up against the wall. Stroking the painted faces and bodies of the women in the portraits, the figure quickly becomes aroused. His touch becomes more frantic, as if he wishes to draw the deceased women out of the paintings.
Another round of sobs ensues. To soothe his growing hunger, the hooded man takes to pleasuring himself. After a time, he moves away from the paintings and goes back to the other side of the room. By the time he picks up the easel and tossed canvas, he is laughing loudly and maniacally.
For tonight, his appetite has been quenched.
