Bloody Finish

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Moth to flame, Belachek drove 200 miles to see the old woman.

And this in a blizzard. He barely made it, what with all the roads the state cops were closing. A foot of the blowing white stuff already and another foot in the offing. None of it mattered to Belachek: he would’ve crawled naked through broken glass and razor blades for this. This was a good one. And the great part of it was, with the field being so overcrowded and all, nobody had yet to secure the old lady’s story. She was getting on in years. This was probably the last chance anyone would have.

Belachek was a writer. Wrote true crime books. His specialty was serial killers, mass murderers. Rapists, cannibals, vampires, ghouls, stranglers, torso murderers, yeah, grim and ghastly, but it was his bread and butter. Some people cringed from his choice of study, the monsters among us, but Belachek justified it by telling critics that in understanding them, he understood himself all that much better. Man was, by nature, a killer. Modern trends in homicide and sociopathy were only to be expected. And, shit, the money his books pulled in didn’t hurt, either.

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