[ WP ] You are a detective who has closed every case but one , a serial murderer who has taunted you all your career . After retiring you start to suspect your significant other .

*You often ask yourself what could have happened. * 
 
 
 People always look at the papers, read the headlines and forget the names and the faces of the deceased. They only remember the serial killer. They only give them fame, give them what they wanted. Ted Bundy was remembered. But nobody remember Anne Marie Burr. Or Joni Lenz. They just remembered the killer. And it sickened him. 
 
 
 How dare they. Damn public. It was maddening, especially a man of his cut. How the serial killers were more like the Kardashians with a number next to them, than monsters with a reality behind them. None of those innocent young people would be coming back. But what sickened him the most, was the damn Cat. 
 
 
 The cat. The cat liked to leave bodies. No pattern. No race identifier. No real motive. The Cat liked to leave them near pet stores or shelters- and the Cats would usually be the ones to first scout them out. Dogs did n't go near strangers- Cats did n't seem to mind the cold stillness of the bloodied victims. 
 
 
 It became apparent six years ago, when the bodies began to have a particularly brutal attack pattern. Usually six to seven stabs to the chest, several to the arms with some sort of blunt object ( CSI usually pointed it to be a pipe or maybe a small baseball bat ). Then, the throat slashing. No raping. No extended torture- the coroner estimated the victim died of bleeding rather quickly. Internal bleeding. Hearts and lungs. They did n't die peacefully, but they died quickly. 
 
 
 At least that made him happy, knowing they did n't have to suffer. *But they did n't get to live. * 
 
 
 The cigarette found itself drifting into the murky depths of the LA apartment's blackness that was below it. The aging detective, with steel in his hair and stubble on his face, felt the cool breeze of the California wind kiss his skin. He sat down in the chair, awaiting his wife to come home. 
 
 *The cigarette drifted downwards, twirling in the wind. * 
 
 He rested his head on his hands, propping his elbow on the armrest. No TV. Just gentle quiet. Deafening silence, sometimes. 
 
 *It lowered to the ground. * 
 
 
 He blinked. And he began to think, over all the years and all the victims. He turned on the TV, to yet another program glorifying murder with flashier graphics and flashier tits. Why bother telling people about reality- when you can show them a hot detective and a gruff cop, find the body, interview two people, find a twist, and then find the bad guy in less than 60 minutes? 
 
 Why not show the tears at the funeral? The reading of the will of a deceased? The college fund that would never be touched? The horror or not being able to protect your loved ones from the awful, cruel world? 
 
 
 *The cigarette hit the ground, the orange light fading. Just like everything else. * 
 
 
 The detective closed his eyes for a quick nap before his wife came, unaware of the wolf at his door, or rather- the one in heels coming up the stairs. 
 
 
 ( Will continue, eventually )
