The Puppet Show

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.
—

‘First impressions?' Flynn asked.

He studied the slash marks again. Not including the messy number five, he counted forty-two. Forty-two wounds to spell out ‘Washington Poe'. Forty-two individual expressions of agony. ‘Other than the victim wishing I'd been called Bob, nothing.'

‘I need you to come back to work,' she said. She looked around at the desolate fells he now called home. ‘I need you to re-join the human race.'

He stood up, all previous thoughts of resigning dismissed. There was only one thing that mattered: the Immolation Man was out there somewhere, selecting victim number four.

He knew some people thought his reputation for following the evidence wherever it took him was because he felt he held some sort of moral high ground. That he had a calling to a purer version of the truth that was unattainable to other, lesser, cops. The truth was simpler – if he thought he was right, the self-destructive element to his personality took over. It frequently allowed the devil on his shoulder to shout down his better angel. And at the minute, the angel couldn't get a word in edgeways . . .

His face turned to granite. If he didn't do it, who would? Sometimes someone had to step up. Do the unpalatable so others didn't have to.

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The Puppet Show