The Midnight Murders

“You can’t enforce a curfew on an entire gender, Cliff,” Susan responded. Her words hung in the air, drifting aimlessly toward ears that didn’t want to hear them.

“Watch me, Susan,” he spat back, frustration evident in his voice. Sitting back in his chair with a huff, Cliff ran a hand through his thinning hair. It was undeniable. He looked different. Was it his coloring? His features? Or had the case changed him fundamentally, like a virus spreading relentlessly?

“All I know is that I have the mayor on the phone every damn day, suggesting that I can’t do my job.” Taking ragged breaths, he sat back, flinching as if his own words had slapped him.

Every morning, the call came. It was no longer a question of whether they would receive a call, but instead, when. Today marked the seventy-eighth call. Seventy-eight days since the city had become a dark, sinister place. Seventy-eight days since women had felt the threat of the night when they walked to their cars after sunset. Seventy-eight days since Detective Cliff Smith had enjoyed a restful evening. Seventy-eight women—who shared no commonalities, no MO, and no victim profiles. They had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and they had paid with their lives.

The energy in the room felt toxic as a dull silence consumed the space. Susan sat, arms folded, breathing deeply. It wasn’t necessary to look at her to know she was pouting; her unhappiness was palpable. She was just as determined to find the bastard who preyed on the weak as Detective Cliff was—perhaps even more so.

“I don’t want to hear any more about it,” Cliff stated before adding, “Put yourself in my shoes, Susan. Imagine the chaos if a policewoman is found. I’m sorry, but you’re switching to daytime shifts effective immediately, Susan.”

Her lack of response spoke for itself.

“You too, Savannah,” he added softly.

Savannah was used to being an afterthought, often forgotten. The truth was that she was as remarkable as a light grey wall. Her appearance didn’t demand second glances. Her personality didn’t awaken smiles or intense interest.

The call came at 11:34.

Number seventy-nine was a young woman with long black hair and a tattoo of a dolphin on her ankle. Another beautiful girl reduced to a name on a list.

Savannah walked home from the subway station, the events of the day replaying on a loop in her mind. Detective Cliff’s posture had worsened when he got the news, as if every murder carried an extra bit of weight on his already spent shoulders.

Savannah’s apartment was grim and unwelcoming. Opening the cupboard, she weighed her options. Cream of tomato soup in a can. Instant noodles. Oatmeal. Even though she never had a strong appetite, these options made her feel like she should venture out into the night.

Detective Cliff’s words echoed through her mind, but she knew she would ignore them.

Savannah felt a thrill as her shoe hit the pavement outside her apartment building. She was outside at night, against Detective Cliff’s orders. She felt exhilarated but nervous. She stood motionless, weighing her options. Around her, people flowed like bees in a hive. The rat race never ended. The women around her were too many to count. It seemed like the warnings had gone unheard.

Taking a deep breath, Savannah dug deep and found her motivation. Her legs moved slowly at first, reluctant to mix with the crowd, but soon her pace was swift and purposeful.

A tall, slim woman walked past her with such confidence that Savannah felt inspired to stay close to her. This woman didn’t waste time worrying about serial killers. Drawn to her indifference, Savannah followed her. The woman’s pace remained steady as she sailed past the crowds toward a remote alley. Darkness crept around it, and Savannah felt her pulse quicken as every step removed her from the light of the main road.

Suddenly, the woman slowed her pace. Every time her heel hit the ground, it echoed like a nail striking a coffin. She turned and glanced back at Savannah. Her eyes were alert, making Savannah think of a wild animal in search of shelter. A small smile appeared on her face as she made eye contact with Savannah, clearly relieved that she posed no threat. Then, she turned, and her pace quickened again.

As it became darker around them, Savannah could only see her profile now. She began to wonder whether she had made a mistake by following this woman into the dark.

A high-pitched screech made both women jump as a cat scattered past them. Savannah took a moment to still her thumping heart as she looked around in hopes of being reunited with the stranger who had offered such a bizarre sense of safety. In the darkness, every shadow took on its own persona, mocking the fearful.

The rock came down quickly, swiftly, cracking bones within an instant.

Disoriented, she fell to the ground with a loud thud. Her reflexes were too slow, and as she raised her hands in an effort to save herself, they were sliced by the sharp edges of the rock. The pounding continued rhythmically until it was replaced by the silence of the night once more. The pools of crimson around her head looked even darker. Cries were replaced by gurgling sounds, and then only breathing could be heard.

Savannah looked down at the woman with fascination. She had expected her to put up more of a fight.

Tomorrow, she will become number eighty.

Detective Cliff will ask himself yet again why this woman had to suffer such an unspeakable death. Savannah smiled, wondering whether he would ever truly understand who her real victim was. The women were merely pawns, a means to an end.

Detective Cliff had always been the one she wanted to torture.

That was why she would never stop until nothing remained of him.

The inability to catch her would be the monster that consumed him for the rest of his pathetic existence.

This was the most perfect way to kill a man—a true, slow torture.