Broken and mangled lay the body in front of him. The deceased man’s wrists were ravaged, rubbed raw and layered in scabs. Thin welts ran the length of his arms, legs, and torso, bringing to mind the traveling path of lightning. An entry wound pierced through the man’s eye, leaving the remainders of it in bloody shambles. And most dreadful were his lips, once a soft pink, were now a purplish blue and sewn together with thick black wire.

Bellamy Marks took a step back from the gruesome scene; the third one this month. It was only the eighteenth of December. His hand covered his own mouth, as if he could feel the phantom pain radiating from the slaughtered man. He turned around, hands braced on his hips and just exhaled. Eight years spent as a detective in New Orleans and still, he never grew accustomed to the sight of lost life and the scent of decay that accompanied it.

Bellamy turned back and stalked to where Karenna was squatting next to the corpse with a camera in her hands.

“Give me the rundown,” Bellamy said to the medical examiner.

“Well other than the obvious signs of torture,” Karenna paused to make eye contact with Bellamy, “he died of a brain hemorrhage, likely from the blunt object shoved up and into his prefrontal lobe, here.” she pointed at the entry wound. “He bled out within minutes, relatively quick but not painless. The welts resemble those received from an electric shock, so he was most likely tortured. The layering of the scabs on his wrists and ankles indicates he was held captive for at least two weeks. And based on the discoloration around the suture sights, his mouth was stitched shut premortem.” Karenna paused, giving a grim smile, and patted the dead man's arm almost humorously. “What a horrible way to die.”

Bellamy nodded his agreement.

“Anything else?” he asked.

“Yeah, two things. One, based on the amount of the blood at the scene, he was killed somewhere else and then moved here. Two...,” Karenna shuffled to the side a bit to allow Bellamy the full view, “this was found lying next to his body.” Karenna held up a flower.

Bellamy knew what flower he bent to study before he even did so; nevertheless, he examined its violet exterior.  

“An Iris, again,” he stated, frustration lacing his icy words.

“Correct,” Karenna exclaimed sarcastically.

Bellamy rolled his eyes at his coworker and stood up again. He huffed a sigh.

The first victim had had his ears brutally removed, leaving behind only a mutilated hole that was then stitched over. The eyelids of the second victim had been sewn together. This victim had had his lips stitched closed with a botched sewing job. One more missing piece of the puzzle found.

“Hear no evil. See no evil. Speak no evil.” Bellamy announced to Karenna.

Nodding, she confirmed that her thoughts had been the same.

Murder after murder and they were still no closer to catching the killer who left an Iris as their calling card. Who executed innocents in the most creative(poetic) form he’s seen yet. And as a detective in New Orleans, Bellamy witnessed creativity daily.

“I’ll meet you back at the division.” was his only goodbye before he turned away.

▲△▲

The precinct was a rush of bustling officers, hurrying off to here and to there, as always. Bellamy stood in the middle of the chaos and just stared. Thoughts rushing through his mind about the latest murders, the possible connections and every dead-end lead he had followed so far. He had to find the link.

Hear no evil. See no evil. Speak no evil.

Why? Why this phrase in particular? Bellamy had been racking his brain ever since figuring out the saying had something to do with the murders this morning. And the Iris? What was the connection there?

Bellamy dragged himself out of his stupor and walked toward the conference room where everyone was already waiting for him.

“So nice of you to join us, Marks.” drawled Detective Octavia Grounds.

“How could I miss the chance to see your shining face Grounds,” Bellamy shot back.

Octavia rolled her eyes in response as Bellamy took a seat in one of the open chairs that ran the length of the frosted glass conference table.

A few of Bellamy’s coworkers nodded to him acknowledgment. He returned the gesture.

Bellamy scanned the rest of the room, “Where’s Rivera?” he asked Octavia about the absent presence of the head director.

“Running late I guess. Must be important, she is always here before us.” Octavia responded, turning in her chair to scan outside the door, “She should be here soon.” the detective turned back in her chair.

“I wonder wh--” Bellamy cut himself off when he heard the telltale clicking of heels on the sandstone tiles of the precinct.

Amina Rivera strolled into the room, her dark brown hair slicked back behind her ears and her onyx pantsuit pristine as always.

“You all know why you’re here,” she flicked her russet eyes to each individual in the room. “Our latest killer has taken the lives of three people, all within thirteen days. He, or she, has little to no cool down period. Based on the time between each abduction and the uncovering of their bodies, the next victim has already been taken. We need to find them before this psycho does any more damage.” she paused, “Now tell me what you know.” she requested of everyone.

Octavia was the first to speak up, “The killings are extravagant--brutal, which suggests they are done so out of rage or obsession. Most likely the latter based on the meticulous matter in which the victim's features are sewn. Every stitch, whether it was in their ears, lips, or eyes, were evenly spaced. Then there is the torture, the killer wants these people to suffer but leaving behind an iris at the scene suggests remorse. Most killers that leave a calling card, combined with the fact that the torture is not hands-on, they were not beaten by fists or strangled with hands, they were electrocuted and disfigured with objects, I think the killer is a woman.” Octavia looked up when she was finished.

“I second that. These killings do not show the brute strength that regularly accompanies when men kill,” Ward, a young agent newly introduced to the case, commented.

“The object that was shoved up and through the eye into the prefrontal cortex could have been a pick of sorts; it could be a makeshift lobotomy. That goes along with the electrocution. In insane asylums in the 1900s, they would use both of these as a method to cure psychosis. We could be looking for someone who has some mental illness of their own, using others as experiments to fix whatever is wrong with themselves,” Bellamy stated his theory as it took form in his mind.

“Interesting view Marks, good work. It is entirely possible and plausible that this is the case. When the M.E. gets done with her examination see if your theory about the pick is right. This could give us something to go on.” Director Rivera complimented.

Bellamy nodded his thanks to his director and then slide his eyes to Octavia’s. He slyly winked at the other detective. To anyone else, the wink could be mistaken for a twitch or a trick of the eye but Detective Grounds took it as it was meant. Another jab; another win for him in the everlasting game of trying to outshine each other.

Octavia gave him a mocking smile and then discretely flipped him off, using her middle finger to scratch the phantom itch on her nose.

Bellamy hid his resulting grin behind his hand.

▲△▲

The Killer

Why wouldn’t they stop?! She asked the question to herself. To anyone who would listen. To the heavens.

Why won’t they leave me alone?! All I want is to be left alone. The women sobbed the question constantly, both out loud and inside her own head.

She did not want to kill, couldn’t help it honestly. They kept encouraging her to do so and every time she considered ending her life to end the constant onslaught of voices, they would bring up the one thing that halts her from doing so. Iris. She was doing this for Iris. She owed it to her. That’s what the voices told her, anyway.

You brought this upon yourself now you must fix it yourself.

Avenge her.

Kill until you have brought justice for her.

She knew the voices were evil. She could not stop hearing them, seeing them, speaking to them. She tried to stop, she really truly did. And each time she would get so close to shattering, to falling apart completely, she would pull herself back up and continue her gruesome work. For Iris.

So she picked herself up off the frigid linoleum flooring and dragged herself over to the struggling human who kicked and screamed with all their might, raging against the bonds that held them. They had to understand that she must stop the evil ringing inside her head, infecting her every thought. She was only doing what she had to do. She must avenge Iris--the sister she had loved so dearly. It had been an accident that had taken her precious life; one that was never meant to happen. It was her fault, and yet not. But the voices did not care. They told her to do things and she did them, she would continue to do them. For Iris.

So the killer grabbed the pick off the metal table. Pushing down her tears she began her daunting work. She placed the pick up against the top lid of the screaming patient and began to push slightly before she grabbed the sledgehammer. A single tap of the hammer had the pick digging deeper into the patient's eye; their screams endless and echoing. She would continue her work, not because the evil told her to do so but because of Iris. For Iris.

Everything for Iris.