Catching a Killer

A cold wind whispers through the small, rural town of Harper on a foggy night. The shifting clouds partially conceal the full moon and leave the streets in an eerie, blue haze. Sirens pierce through the night. Flashing blue and red police lights illuminate a small farmhouse enclosed by yellow police tape.

A rusty, old pickup truck drives up and parks nowhere in particular. A heavy-set man in an unbuttoned police uniform exits the vehicle with a can of Red Bull in one hand and a can of Copenhagen in the other. His crooked nametag says Butch. He puts in a pinch of dip and then takes a swig of Red Bull- emptying the can. He tosses the can into the yard and grunts as he steps over the police tape.

“Hey Dallas, what did I tell you about putting this damn tape so high?” He says with a heavy southern drawl.

A much fitter and healthier looking man is waiting by the door. He’s wearing a cowboy hat, which he tips respectfully as Butch approaches. “You know it’s protocol, Butch,” he says with a hint of a southern accent.

Butch walks up to him and slaps him on the shoulder.

“And you know I don’t give a damn,” Butch retorts.

The two men enter the house’s kitchen; a few people in lab coats are scouring the area. A body is slumped in a chair at the kitchen table; a plate with a half-eaten slice of chocolate cake is on the table a few inches from the victim’s head. Butch chews his dip slowly as he circles the body. He then leans down and sniffs the cake.

“You know him?” Dallas asks.

“Yessir. Ol’ Willie Wehmeyer. Best dairy farmer in the county,” Butch replies solemnly. “Looks like the same exact MO as the last 2 murders… Looks like we’ve officially got a serial killer on our hands.”

“MO?” Dallas asks.

“Um... mode of operation,” Butch looks over at him and shakes his head. “You know, you really gotta get yourself a TV. They love this type of stuff on the Netflix. Let’s get Hank in here, we were just talking about that Ted Bundy fella the other day. We were doing some overtime research after we found the first body.”

Butch leans out the door and calls out, “HANK… HANK, get your ass in here.” Another man walks into the kitchen. He has a toothpick in his mouth, and he firmly shakes Butch’s hand.

“Butch- good to see ya. How can I help?” Hank asks. Butch nods towards the body, and Hank walks over to investigate. He circles the body and leans down to loudly sniff the cake.

“Yep, this is our guy. Same MO,” Hank says.

Butch nods in agreement and points at the cake, “What do you make of that?”

Hank strokes his chin and takes a few seconds before responding, “He forces the victim to eat the cake until he dies… Death by chocolate cake? I think our killer has a sense of humor.”

Butch shakes his head, “That doesn’t explain why though. What would Holden Ford say?”

Hank pauses, “Statistically speaking, we are looking for a white male in his mid-twenties or early thirties.”

“I don’t think we can say that, can we?” Dallas responds.

“Dallas, it’s statistics. Let the man work,” Butch snaps at Dallas. Butch turns back to Hank, “That doesn’t explain why though. What would Holden Ford say?”

Hank continues, “The cake most likely references something from his childhood. Some type of trauma. It’s the main piece of the killer’s ritual.”

Butch looks over at Dallas and explains, “The serial killers in each episode always leave some type of signature that the feds use to understand the killer. It’s kind of like a umm.. subconscious calling card.”

“Oh, like the Joker in Batman with the card,” Dallas says excitingly.

“Yeah, except that’s a movie,” Butch responds dryly.

Dallas looks unconvinced, “Couldn’t he.. or she, just be a baker?”

Butch shakes head, “No, that would be too obvious. Here we are looking at the killer’s third face.” Hank and Dallas both look at him questioningly.

Butch recites, “You have three faces. The first face, you show to the world. The second face, you show to your close friends, and your family. The third face, you never show anyone.”

“Nietzsche?” Hank asks.

Butch shakes his ahead, “No, that’s um... Freud…”

Butch turns his focus onto the slice of cake, “The answer to catching this guy is in the cake. Everything we need is in the cake. There’s always some obscure detail in the shows that they can use to track the killer down, like a specific ingredient or some trace of something that only can be found in a specific location or something like that.”

Butch calls over to one of the guys in a lab coat- “Hey bud, can we get this cake analyzed?”

The lab analyst responds sarcastically, “No, we aren’t going to analyze the murder weapon.”

Butch continues as if he didn’t hear- “Find out the ingredients and see if we can trace them to a certain store or bakery. Which reminds me, find out if it is professionally baked. Let’s check out every bakery within a 50 mile radius and see if anyone has purchased a chocolate cake within the last week.”

The analyst asks, “How would our analysis show if its professionally baked?”

Butch looks at him. “I don’t know- that’s your job. Quality of ingredients… hell, you can taste it.”

The analysist looks unamused, “Yeah, we aren’t going to taste a piece of cake left behind by a serial killer.”

“Can’t get anything done these days unless you do it yourself,” Butch shakes his head, picks up a fork from the table, and takes a bite of the cake.

Hank calls out, “Butch that could be poisoned!”

Butch starts coughing as if choking on the cake. Hank and Dallas rush over to help him out. “Butch, you ok?” They slap him on the back.

Butch continues coughing, and his eyes are watering. He finally recovers, “Oh, (cough) that’s dry.” He walks to the kitchen sink and fills up a glass with water before downing it in one gulp. He clears his throat loudly, “We are dealing with a real sick SOB here. And he definitely ain’t no baker, Dallas.”

Hank also takes a bite of the cake and slowly chews it before forcefully swallowing it. He pulls out a small notebook and scribbles-

White male, mid-twenties, bad at baking?

“Alright, there’s nothing left for us to see here.” Butch claps his hands together and begins to leave. He pauses in the doorway, “Dallas, make sure we get that cake bagged and analyzed.”

A Few Days Later:

Butch is sitting with his feet up on his desk looking at his computer monitor. He’s wearing a pair of very out-of-date headphones. Flakes of food are sprinkled throughout his mustache, and an opened beer bottle sits next to his chair. The analyst walks by, and Butch pulls the headphones off, “Hey! Did we get the results back from that cake?”

“Well, it didn’t have any poison, but I guess you already knew that.” The analyst peers at Butch’s monitor, “Are you watching Sherlock?”

“That’s none of your damn business!” Butch responds.

The analyst shakes his head and walks off. Butch checks his watch: 6:00 pm. He finishes off his beer and heads over to a desk where Hank is seated with headphones on. Hank clicks his computer mouse and looks up at Butch.

“Mindhunter?” Butch asks.

“Nope, finished that. Criminal Minds.”

Butch nods approvingly.

“It’s time for Wayne’s birthday party. You better drive, I had a beer.” Butch chuckles.

Hank reaches down and pulls up 2 empty beer bottles, “One step ahead of you.”

They both laugh and call out simultaneously “Dallas? We need a ride.”

The three head out of the station and drive to a picnic area where a small group of people are gathered. There are some grills with smoke rising from them, a few ice chests, a few fold-out tables with igloos and solo cups, and one table with a large birthday cake with the words “Happy 50th Wayne!”

Hank nods toward the cake as the three men approach the party, “I wouldn’t get too excited. I heard they decided to go gluten-free this year.”

“Oh, c’mon. What’s happening to this country?” Butch shakes his head. He walks over to a balding man. “Wayne, what is this I hear about gluten free cake? Next, you’ll tell me them burgers ain’t real meat.” Wayne hesitates. Butch looks disgusted, “Wayne you better be joking.”

“They some type of soy-bean combination. You know Butch, it tastes a little like rubber, but it’s supposed to be healthy for ya,” Wayne explains, but Butch doesn’t look pleased. Wayne continues, “Look, my wife is convinced that everything from that new vegan chef in town is gold, and I ain’t gonna argue with her. She even had him do the cake too. Here, let me get you a plate.”

Wayne grabs a paper plate with an empty bun and a piece of cake; he uses some tongs to throw a soy-patty on the bun and hands it to Butch. Butch takes the plate and smothers the bun with ketchup. Hank and Dallas politely accept a plate as well, and the three head over to a picnic table to eat. Butch looks suspiciously at his burger before taking a bite. He tosses the burger back down on the plate with disgust. Hank looks at his burger and tosses it in the trash.

Butch then takes a large bite of cake and tries to talk but starts coughing mid-sentence, “God that’s dry… (cough)… can’t even enjoy cake anymore.”

Hank looks at him intently. Butch wipes his mouth with a napkin and notices Hank’s stare. “Hank what’s wrong with ya? You didn’t eat that entire burger, did you?” Butch asks.

Hank remains silent, deep in thought. He blinks and leans in, speaking quietly, “Butch the first victim was a butcher, wasn’t he?”

Butch responds, “Yessir, why?”

“And the second was Old Man McGee. He raises them chickens and turkeys. And now a dairy farmer. Butch… they’re connected.” Hank states.

Butch doesn’t look convinced, “What are you saying Hank?”

Hank takes a bite of his cake and chews it slowly. “The cake, Butch, when was the last time you had cake like this?” Hank asks.

Butch’s eyes widen. “Two days ago... at Willie’s.”

“And what type of person doesn’t like meat and dairy? That’s motive.” Hank adds.

Dallas catches on, “The vegan chef?”

Butch nods in agreement, “He may be vegan but looks like he’s still killing one type of animal.” The three throw their plates away and quickly walk over to Wayne.

Butch taps Wayne on the shoulder, “Wayne, you mind if we get the name of that Chef?”

Wayne, filled with suspicion, responds, “Why? Butch, you better not be up to something.”

Butch rubs his stomach, “We just want to give him our compliments.”

Wayne pulls out his wallet and hands Butch a business card. The trio head back to Dallas’s truck and drive off.

They pull up to a small cafe with no one in sight. Butch knocks on the door, and no one answers. He looks around and then begins to pick the lock.

Dallas whispers urgently, “Butch, we don’t have a warrant.”

Butch responds “Dallas, this ain’t TV. This is Harper. We don’t need no warrant.”

Butch finishes picking the lock, and the three enter the shop. As they search around, they come upon a freshly baked chocolate cake. Butch places his hand above it, “It’s still warm.” The three continue to search and come upon a cooler. Butch nods towards it, and the three cautiously touch their weapons and enter. There are several stacks of identical chocolate cakes. Suddenly, the door closes behind them loudly and the lights flicker off…