Untitled Short Story Pt. 2

"Same M.O. as before?" Myles asked, already knowing the answer to his question.
"Exactly the same. Jesus, I don't get it Myles. What the fuck is wrong with this sadistic bastard?"

Jones was only two years out of the academy, a young buck in the eyes of everyone at the station. Somehow, he was always first on the scene. Didn't need to sleep as much as the older guys, Myles thought to himself. Jones was a tall and lean, cocky son-of-a-bitch with dark har and a thin, pretentious looking goatee, topped all off with a fluffly soul patch. He looked like a stylized moron parading in a police uniform. Myles wasnt a fan of him, but he did solid police work so Myles rationalized to himself that it could have been worse.

"Anything on the scene?" Myles called, hoping for any shred of evidencethis time. The last four were completely clean, except for the quarts of blood smeared on the pavement, of course.
"Nothing yet. CSI says it looks just as clean as before. I dont know how many more of these cold case bastards I can take. We have to find something."
"Yeah, I hear ya," Myles answered, not really listening to Jones ramble on. His mind was elsewhere at the moment. Something had caught his eye; a sudden realization, something he hadnt figured out yet. "These incisions here," Myles said, gesturing towards the victim's chest. "What do they look like to you? I've never really put it together before, but look at them closely."

Jones stood back, eyeing the scene with fresh eyes. He extended his arm out in front of his body, superimposing his hand, and eyeing his fingers over the corpse; the bloodspots from the incisions lined up perfectly. Jones' eyes slowly reached a conclusion; One that Myles was too disturbed to emote himself.

They arent incisions," he slowly said, his eyes growing bigger, not blinking, as the words trickled from his mouth. "They are entrance wounds from a pair......a pair of....hands?! I...I...um....I dont really know what to say."
"I'm with you on that," Myles answered, stepping clear for the crime scene photographer to finish her work. Myles directed her to strip the shirt off of the victim and take numerous photos of the hand wounds on the chest. Myles turned from the scene, his coffee now stale in the face of such grim company. He had to do some work, something to keep his mind off of this for a second.

"Myles! Where are you going?" Jones shouted behind him, but Myles had all but checked out of the scene already. "Myles, what the fuck!" and then he could hear Jones muttering something under his breath. Myles didnt care. He'd been doing this job long before Jones had ever seen the inside of a police station. He wasnt worried what a piece of shit like Jones thought about him, only that he needed to get his mind elsewhere for awhile. This had weighed heavy on his mind for the past week and he thought, maybe with a fresh mind, he would be able to refocus and actually work on the case.

It haunted him...the sight...the very sight of the bodies. they werent just murdered........they were massacred.
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The warm liquid once again flooded into his mouth, spreading warmth through his body, opening his eyes wide, awakening his senses to the world around him. Another night, another life...….the blood streaking down his chin, spilling onto his chest, his fingers still embedded deeply in her chest. He loved the feeling he got when he hunted; envigorating. He arranged the body on the pavement , just as he had numerous times before; legs spread, arms out in a relative Christ pose, head tilted lightly to the left, exposing the spine which was visible now through the gaping wound that was once the throat. He stood over the corpse now, smiling, his teeth shiny with crimson, and stared proudly down at his latest work.

A sound echoed over the empty streetblocks. A car peeled out in the distance. He had remained here too long. In an instant he was gone, leaving no prints, no steps, no blood trail. His incredible speed saw to that. His smile faded, his lips curling back over his shark-like teeth.