Vicarious

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The city always looked different after someone had been killed.

At least, that’s what Curran thought as he stood on the rain-slicked street enveloped by a cold mist and cigarette smoke. He imagined the water running off the cracked sidewalks could just as easily be the blood of all the victims of every killer he’d ever stalked.

A lot of rain, he thought.

A lot of blood.

Streetlights and multi-colored neon signs cast weird shadows that bounced off of limousines and nightclub fronts. Beat cops corralled drunken clubgoers while thick yellow police tape drew the attention of every news cameraman in town.

Curran took a final drag on his cigarette and tossed it into the gutter. The red cinder died as it touched the water and got swept away into the storm drain.

Where does all the blood go, Curran wondered as he ducked back inside the nightclub. Where does it all stop?

He heard the low growl — a creeping bassline to the dissonance of voices and other ambient crime scene noises. The heavy gauge steel zipper ground its teeth together; the body bag closed over the corpse inside.

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