CHAPTER SIX
There was the right way to do things and the wrong way.
If there was one thing to hold true in life, it was that doing things the right way often meant putting in more work than was expected of you.
That was why the killer sat in the car before the museum, looking over the files from the previous crime scenes, and preparing the artifacts to be placed with the body.
Most of the work was already done, and the only part left was the easy part.
Two people had been killed, and the killer had known they would be able to do it from the moment they decided it needed to be done.
There was no hesitation, no fear, no nervousness.
The decision was made, and from that moment on, they knew they would be able to kill those in their path.
It was a correction.
The world was wrong. It must be corrected, and they were best placed to do that.
In their professional career, they had put in the work but had been forced to watch the ineptitude of those around them.
And that didn’t only affect those who made the mistakes.
Time and time again, they had watched those around them make mistakes, only for it to affect everyone.
Not anymore, not anymore.
When they were done, there would be no more mistakes. They only had to show them where they were going wrong, and the wrongs of the past could be put right. That was the key. That was what they knew they had to accomplish, and—
The killer froze and looked toward the museum door.
The last of the employees were leaving for the night, and that meant it was almost time.
Of course, not everyone would be gone. Some remained all night.
Death had visited the museum once before when people were killed because of their connection to the museum, but that was a long time ago now.
And while the killer felt some remorse at killing the young woman who worked late that night within the museum, they knew that it had to be done.
There had been mistakes in the past that had put people in danger, and everyone knew that if history was not studied, they were doomed to repeat them.
The woman in the museum would be a sacrifice, but it was a needed sacrifice to cleanse the world of the evil that had befallen it.
The killer took a deep breath.
Then another one.
They shouldn’t get too carried away. It wasn’t evil, but incompetence. It wasn’t a sacrifice, but a way to show them, to make them listen. There was no need for a cleanse, only some tweaks. And it wasn’t the world, but the law enforcement around the country.
If they only did their jobs well, we could avoid so much death.
The killer saw the irony in what they were doing.
They picked up the folder from the passenger seat beside them and opened it, pulling open the pocket in the left-hand inside cover.
They took out the photographs that had been placed there earlier and checked through them to ensure they were all still there.
Then they consulted the original case files, though they didn't need to go over them again to understand what they contained.
They checked the autopsy reports, confirming the caliber of bullet that had been found lodged in each of their brains.
Then, with more excitement than when they had readied to kill the first two victims, the killer opened the box that had sat under the folder and pulled out the gun.
They hadn’t ever thought about holding a gun until the first visit to the shooting range in preparation for their mission. Not that they needed the target practice if they were to follow in the footsteps of the Collector. Still, it was better not to leave anything up to chance.
The weight of the gun was unusual. The killer had expected to hold the gun for the first time and it to be heavy in their hand.
It hadn’t been heavy, just as it wasn’t heavy now.
Yet, neither was it light. It was usual in that the gun felt just right, perfect for their need.
It was as if the gun had been made just for them.
It’s one thing to shoot a target, and quite another to shoot a person. Still, as long as the person doesn’t move, there won't be a problem.
There had been risks to the first two murders.
When the knife had been drawn, the killer’s movements had been quick to avoid the victim defending themselves.
And the sedative had worked well for the second victim, but it had taken more force than expected to strangle another human.
The gun would be the easiest of the three to take a life, but if the victim had a chance to run, they were not sure they could hit a moving target.
The killer dipped their hand back into the box the gun had come from, and pulled out the short, back, metal tube. They screwed it onto the gun to silence the shot that would soon come from it.
One shot. That’s all it takes.
They grinned.
I only have one shot.
The grin faded.
I hope. More than that, and I’m not doing my job properly. The Collector only took one shot to kill his victims, and I need to do the same.
The killer placed all of the folders back into the folder and placed the folder into a shoulder bag, along with the gun.
There were already tools in there, along with a map of the museum (which had been memorized), detailed instructions on how to disable the alarm (also memorized), and how to pick the lock on the back door should that access route be needed.
They checked left and right to ensure the coast was clear, then exited the vehicle. The killer slung the bag over their shoulder, leaving the top open for easy access to the gun should there be any trouble. There was a chance there would be, but only a slim one.
As they walked toward the large building, they knew it was a far bigger risk. Once they were inside, it would be far harder to escape should they be caught in the act.
I’m just a member of the public out for a late-night stroll. Nothing unusual about that.
The killer made their way to the stone steps leading up to the front doors, but diverted to the right, walking along the front of the building and then around the corner, down the side, passing a woman walking her dog, and around the next corner to the back of the building.
They reached into their bag and pulled out the bullet-pointed notes on how to disable the alarm, even though they knew them by heart.
It felt like a heist. They were entering a museum, but they wouldn’t take anything. They would leave a scene for people to view the next morning, a reverse heist.
Except it would be far easier than they imagined.
When they reached the rear of the building and the small shipping dock, they spotted the man going in through the open back doors, carrying a crate.
The killer quickened their step, rushing to the back door and peering around.
They saw the man moving slowly through the next doorway before turning right and disappearing from view.
If memory served, the killer, the man, was headed in the direction of the storage area, twenty yards down the next hallway, and through a door to the right.
The killer took a cursory look behind and at the van parked near the door, checking for a second person, before they hurried their step while still treading lightly to the next doorway.
They peered around the corner and watched as the man slowly made his way to the door before turning right and disappearing.
The killer rushed in the opposite direction, making no sound in the white corridor they were sure would echo with heavy footsteps.
Only when they rounded the corner and were out of view did they slow to a normal pace.
There was still a chance of being caught before reaching the research rooms, and if that happened, they could claim they were lost.
As their walking slowed to a normal pace, so did their heartbeat. Even with the knowledge that they would kill someone in the next few minutes; there was no excitement. There was no nervousness. There was only knowledge that they were doing the right thing.
They wove their way left and right through the hallway at the rear of the museum, past rooms that the paying public usually didn't see. Not once did they consult the map in their bag. Not once did they see another person in the museum.
Not until they reached Research Room 2.
There, they found the first sign of life.
There was no window in the door, but the killer could hear the footsteps of the woman within.
From the research they had done, it should be Maria Chen in the room, and she should be alone.
If she wasn’t, then it only meant that more people had to be killed.
It was no different. Killing one person to prove a point was the same as killing two… or three.
How many would be too many?
The killer might find out in time. There were fifty states, and within all of them, mistakes had been made in cases, both present and previous. There was a wealth of ineptitude to choose from. They could kill indefinitely, and there would still be much more to do.
The killing would have to stop at some point, or it would become gratuitous. As much as the killer took pride in their work, it had to stop when the message had been received by the powers that be. Then, they could slip away into the darkness.
There was always the chance that they might be caught, but the killer always laughed inwardly at that thought. They were smarter than them all. That eventuality wouldn’t come to fruition.
The sound inside the room beyond the door changed as Maria began to hum a happy tune.
At least you go out doing what you enjoy. So many people die in misery.
The killer listened for anyone coming their way, a security guard doing the rounds, or a colleague of Maria’s approaching. Then, they reached into the bag and pulled out the gun.
The killer took a deep breath, then pushed open the door.
Maria had her back facing the door, and it took a second for her to realize that someone had entered. She turned, but not with any urgency, expecting someone else—not expecting a gun pointed at her head.
That gave the killer enough time to take three large steps forward and close the gap between them.
Maria’s mouth opened, perhaps to scream or to beg for her life. No one would ever know what her last words would have been.
The killer fired a single shot into the middle of Maria’s forehead.
For a moment, nothing happened. A black hole formed on the researcher’s forehead. Then, a drop of blood emerged and trickled down to the bridge of her nose. Right after that, Maria’s knees buckled, and she dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes.
The killer let out the breath, then put the gun back in the bag.
It was not done yet. Sneaking through a mostly empty museum by themselves was easy.
Sneaking through the museum with a dead body was another prospect entirely.
They could have left her in the research room and surrounded her with the photos of the idiots who’d tried to solve the initial case, but the scene would have made much more impact on the museum floor.
They knew that the public wouldn’t find the body.
A security guard, cleaners, or some other museum personnel would find the body before the museum opened.
Still, when the news reached the media, it would be far grander and scarier than if the body was found in a back room. Fear was the perfect motivator.
The first two bodies had been positioned where they fell.
They had been awkward to move, and as they picked up Maria from the floor, taking her under the arms, they expected more of a dead weight.
That was not the case. The killer found it easy to drag Maria from the room, as if more than just her soul had left her body when she’d been killed.
The killer moved Maria from the back of the museum to the middle.
The position in the main area of the museum wasn't important, only that she was placed somewhere visible.
They didn't pay attention to the artifacts and artworks around them when they reached their destination.
What mattered was the artifacts they placed around the body, and then the escape route through the building.
The killer, when they saw the shadows, reached out before retreating.
They heard the man before spotting him.
"What are you doing?" he demanded.
The killer froze to the spot, the gun in the bag over their shoulder suddenly weighing them down.
"You shouldn’t be here," the man said.
The killer was hunched over the body, facing away from the man. The light was pointed at the killer’s back, and the killer quickly stood up and turned to face the man, bringing the light up with them.
"You shouldn’t be here," the security guard repeated.
The killer glanced from the flashlight in the man’s hand to his belt, where he had a short baton, a set of keys, but no gun.
The security guard lowered the flashlight, staring at the scene beyond the killer, and his eyes narrowed in fear.
The killer finally saw the man’s features when the flashlight was no longer pointed at the killer’s face.
The guard had soft and pudgy features, and the narrowing of his eye suggested he had never dealt with the scene he now saw before him.
His lower lip dropped half an inch as she struggled to comprehend what he was seeing.
"What…," the guard muttered.
The killer drew the gun from their bag and pointed it at the security guard.
"You shouldn’t be here," the killer told him.