The Bloody Bag

Most of the victims were insane. Some could speak; they talked about the man or the bag or simply said, “Take a look.” Some drew pictures of a tall man, face obscured by scraggly hair, carrying a bloody sack.

We couldn’t find any link between the victims. Sometimes a pattern would start to form, but it soon unraveled. The Captain was constantly up our asses about it. We needed “new leads,” we needed to “show results.”

We got lucky. A woman in Green Valley was found by her mailman sitting in her courtyard, drawing pictures of a burlap bag in her day planner. She had a security camera. We reviewed the footage and found a few usable images of the man with the bag. He was tall. Seven feet or more. And he was dirty. From his greasy black hair to his tattered, dusty tweed jacket to the leather boots that were falling of his feet. Kevin and I shook hands. We could get the picture on the news. It shouldn’t be hard to spot a guy that tall.

The next day, Kevin wasn’t at the precinct. I drove to his house. He was in his kitchen, staring at the floor and saying, “the bloody bag, the bloody bag” over and over.

That night, there was a knock at my door. No one there. When I turned around, he was in my living room. I reached for the gun on my hip and tried to run to my back door. I only succeeded in falling to the ground.

He looked down at me, held his bag out, and said, “Take a look.”

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