[ WP ] Write a short murder mystery from the killer 's perspective

There was blood on the carpet, the walls, even on the shitty chair in the corner by the window. The air was thick with the stuff, you could practically taste the iron on your tongue. 
 
 Sgt. Detective Michael Harris spat through the gap in his teeth and crouched in front of the vic ’ s corpse. Something about her looked familiar. Course it was hard to say, her skull had been completely caved in, killing her instantly. 
 
 “ Shouldn ’ ta done that Sarge. ” A green lookin ’ uni looked up from his fuckin ’ clipboard and tried to meets Mike ’ s stony gaze. 
 
 “ Shouldn ’ ta done what Jenkins? ” Mike growled. 
 
 Jenkins indicated the wet spot of saliva in the shitty shag carpet next to him. 
 
 “ Gon na get your DNA at the scene now. ” 
 
 Mike shrugged “ I ’ m a fucking homicide detective kid. My DNA ’ s everywhere. ” He turned back to the scene. 
 
 Six other bodies just like this were littered across the room. Whoever ’ d done this had been one sick fuck. Strong as an ox too. 
 
 Harris stood, no sense wasting anymore time here. Go home, rest up, wait for forensics to get back to you. Harris strode past Jenkins, shoving him aside with his shoulders as he went “ Call me if something interesting comes up. Goin ’ home. ” 
 
 ***** 
 On the way home Mike chewed over how he recognized that girl. Hard to say and with dozens of ‘ em here in town for the cheerleading convention she could easily have been mistaken for any of the rest. Just another face in the crowd. Probably no one to really miss her anyway. 
 
 Mike chucked his cigarette as he got out of his crown vic and immediately lit another, accidentally singeing his overgrown whiskers in the process. Mike grumbled to himself walking through the door and made for the bathroom to rectify this problem immediately. 
 
 He flipped on the light switch and dropped his cigarette. His mouth hung agape in what was possibly the first genuine expression of shock to ever cross his face. A welder ’ s mask, two sets of oversized heat-resistant rubber gloves, and the largest mallet Mike Harris had ever seen sat in a pile in his bath tub. 
 
 Covered in blood. 
 
 Mike rubbed his eyes trying to drive out the images flashing through his head. 
 
 Images that belonged to the man who caved in young girl ’ s skulls. 
 
 Watching through the hotel room window as they sang and danced and jumped. 
 
 Catching the door in his hand as one came back from getting ice. 
 
 The fire in his loins at the look of pure terror on all their faces. 
 
 The oh-so satisfying wet crunch human bone makes when it breaks. 
 
 Michael Harris turned to stare at himself in the mirror. 
 
 The man looking back was laughing. 

