Son of a Preacher Man: The Carver

“Gather ‘round children, gather round… I’ve a story to tell!” I say with a smile as I ease myself into my chintz chair, resting my cane next to my small table where I keep my pipe. My smile grows broader as my grandchildren and great-grandchildren all call to each other throughout the house, all giggling and shrieking at the thought of my stories.

I let them take their time as I pack my pipe and look about for a suitable match in my coat. By the time I’ve got my pipe lit and taken a few puffs, my living room has thirty pairs of eyes watching me hungrily, all chattering amongst them about what story I’ll tell tonight. It’s not often I visit anymore, after all.

I blame it on the distance, but my children know that my age is catching up to me.

“Oh my, so fast you’ve all come.” I say with mock-surprise. Over their heads I can see my daughter Ash smile at me, closing the door to the kitchen so that she and her brothers can have some time to themselves.

“We wanna hear your stories Grandpa!” One of my oldest grandchildren says, my dear little Holly. I brush my hand over her head, patting it gently before snuggling deeper into my chair.

“Well, for all of you I have a good tale to tell… a story of murder most foul!” I say with a dark whisper, causing a wave of cooing to come from my adolescent audience. “This… is the story of the Carver.”

***

“Found another one chief,” an officer calls from the upstairs bedroom, his voice a tad despondent. “Just like the others.”

Chief Detective Sato rubbed at his eyes as he stood in the middle of the third largest crime scene he’d ever had the misfortune of visiting during his long career as a, what the tabloids and papers referred to him as, the Serial Killer Catcher. One of the most decorated criminal profilers in the New York Police Departments history, his expertise had led to the capture and arrest of over thirty men and women that had somehow become the monsters that all serial killers were.

The only case he’d ever been unable to solve had been seven years ago to the very day. That left Sato… unsettled.

The Organ-Snatcher had been ritualistically killing every New Moon groups of people, either one at a time or en masse, and removing their organs with surgical precision. He did this for twelve months before he just… stopped. Sato had never mentioned it, but he had received a note from someone claiming to be the killer, apologizing to Sato for all the inconvenience he’d caused him over the years. The signature had been a simple pair of S’s, and three months with forensics had turned up nothing on the note worth, well, noting.

Now Chief Detective Takeshi Sato stood in the middle of an old three story home in Upper Manhattan, surrounded by over forty dead men and women, old and young. Hanging from the walls were flags bearing swastikas, copies of blood spattered copies of Hitler’s manifesto littering the house. While the whole situation was unsettling, what made Sato leery over the whole scenario was that most of the dead looked calm, as if they’d died suddenly, so suddenly in fact that they hadn’t even noticed.

That and they all had great holes in their chests, broken ribs and sternums abundant, with a total of forty-three missing hearts. It reminded him of a case his old partner had been assigned to just as the Organ Grinder stopped his killings. A young mother was found dead, her heart torn from her chest and her son missing. The husband had been ruled out due to the nature of the wound the mother had received, her chest opened with a single strike.

Just like all of these bodies. It was clear they were all in the middle of a meeting of some sort, a picture of Adolf Hitler hanging above the fireplace flanked by a pair of old German flags bearing the symbol that had become so synonymous with evil and hatred. The victims were all white supremacists, but they were still victims.

So far forensics had determined that a singular keg that they had all been drinking from had contained trace amounts of Rohypnol, better known as the date rape drug. Several small gas tanks had been found hidden throughout the house, slowly leaking trace amounts of Carbon Monoxide into the air. Not enough to be lethal, but enough to cause dry mouth and fatigue, enough to make a crowd of drunken racists grow weary and drop their guard.

“Another two up here, same as the rest!” Another officer called from another corner of the house. Sato rubbed at his eyes as he tried not to think of how this could quite easily be the same killer that had eluded him years ago.

Hours later, after sixty-seven heartless bodies had been discovered and transported to the coroner’s office, Sato now sat at his desk in his office, a cold cup of coffee at his side as he stared at a sheet of numbers, numbers that were still being sorted out.

Upon the delivery of the bodies, and the removal of their clothing, the officers had been horrified to find numbers and letters carved into each victim in their left forearm, with a single metal disk the size of a quarter inserted into their chest wounds bearing a number, all exactly the same.

J-6440

He had a few of his investigators looking into that number, but the answers weren’t as forthcoming as Sato would have liked. There were ten dead women with numbers carved into their arms, numbers that Sat believed were significant in two different ways. On one woman the number was 1 then a 1, while another one had a 2 and then a 9. There didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to it.

Another ten, all young adults no older than twenty, had similar carvings, though these carvings also were done with something far more narrow, thin slices as if done with paper. The cuts would have barely even been noticed if not for the scabbing they had formed over the wounds.

Which mean the killer had made these marks before ripping their hearts out, allowing the wounds to close themselves.

On the oldest male they’d found, one Patrick Henderson, the coroner had dug out of his throat a key, a key with the word Sato carved into the side of it.

Taking a sip of his cold coffee, Takeshi shook his head as his worst nightmare had come true: some sick fuck out there was trying to challenge him in a game of wits.

Authors note: Read the previous installments if you wish for this tale to make any sense. I'll be posting the numbers carved into the dead, as well as the 'Forensic File' so that the dear readers can try and solve the mystery for dear Takeshi. Should you solve it, than Takeshi may get to finally meet the man he's thought of for the last seven years. If not, than the story will progress.