Fourth Disappearance: Trevor and Martha Tremblay. Age: 34. Job: Photographer. Priors: None. Last Seen: Leaving their home for some sort of exotic getaway. According to friends of the couple, they had received tickets to some kind of vacation. The two were very private in their lives, so they never shared what the tickets were to, but when the two of them didn’t return a couple days after their designated week of leave, police found that neither their car or themselves could be located.

  Angelica paced the hallway outside Amaros’s workspace, Joan and Colby leaning against the wall. After Mr. Keller’s unfortunate reappearance, the department hoped to find any clues on the old man’s corpse, but initial tests came out negative. So now they waited for the coroner to pronounce the man’s cause of death. As Angelica continued to pace, the chief and detective read the newest letter aloud.

  APD

  So simple, yet so divine, wouldn’t you say, coppers? I certainly think so! Garry was always causing problems, so much like Sam! I think this is something to rejoice in! But perhaps not, as you continuously hunt me down! Such a fun game, such fun I am having! Talk to you soon, coppers!

  Your Local Artist

  Azrael

  “Glad someone’s having fun with this.” Colby snarled, his hands tightening around the letter. Joan shook her head miserably, head leaning against the bricks behind her. Angelica groaned aloud as she stopped her movement.

  “We’ve been sitting ducks this entire week. We have only a sex, a voice that was so filtered I doubt we’ll ever actually get through it, and a personality that can easily be faked. We have no witnesses, no evidence, nothing! How?! How can someone not even leave a hair, a skin flake? And his name! Who calls themselves ‘Azrael?!’ It’s… it’s… oh my fuckin’ god.” Angelica nearly punched the wall in frustration, but stopped herself. As she regained her composure, Amaros exited his room, fingers interlocked.

  “I’ve determined the cause of Mr. Keller’s demise to be a lethal dose of cyanide, most likely in the form of a good handful of almonds and applesauce. My guess is that instead of buying your normal almonds, our killer bought the bitter kind, and bits of apple seed in the applesauce explain that. However, considering how much is needed to consume these to actually have such an effect, my guess is force feeding. But this might not be the case, as very little was in the stomach. It may have been injected, but no puncture can be found. I will look into this deeper, but at the very least, the cause of death can be pinned to cyanide poisoning, meaning that this Azrael has more than likely killed his victims first before desecrating their corpses.” Amaros finished, giving a slight bow to everyone as he returned to his office.

  As the three of them absorbed the information, walking out of the hallway and back up into the main portion of the building, Angelica thought of the clues she had been noting, despite just how little there was. First, the name. Azrael. Angel of death in Islamic cultures. A bit on the nose, but still important. Second, the letters. Each one was a collage of magazines and newspaper clippings, making it all the harder to track down, but this person certainly knew what they wanted to say. There were also the wax seals, the green wax in particular. Most people would use red, but Angelica had noted an iron smell. Rust or perhaps blood hidden in wax, so there was something chemical in them. At least, with the letter related to Kiln.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  The first seal produced an odor of lemon, and the latest one, Keller’s, smelled a bit like fish. Third, the non-traceable phone call. The man’s voice had certainly been filtered somehow, almost as if it had gone through over a dozen filters just to make sure that it wouldn’t be restored. It was clear, however, that the man was eccentric. Finally, the victims themselves. Random, so a serial killing. That was obvious, but these “art pieces” were another matter. There was the burnt abstract, the grinded painting, the dissected statement, all had meaning, if only surface level. Blan worked at the middle school, hence the “still had questions” and arm raised. Kiln was looked at as a pig by the killer and seemed used to grinding people under her foot, hence the painting. Keller was a generally sour old man, who might have been a bit of a nuisance to smaller businesses. How that connected to his death, that was trickier.

  Angelica sat down at her temporary desk and leaned in her chair. This Azrael… whoever he was, he certainly had balls of steel, especially by sending the painting directly to the station. She pondered the events thus far when she noticed a commotion happening at the front doors. A group of people had gathered, holding signs. Protestors, it looked like. Very… awkward… janky…

  Angelica jumped up, running toward the doors. No one had taken notice yet, despite the sounds of disgruntled voices… or agonized pleas. Swinging open the door, and upon closer look of the scene, lunch was lost. There, standing before her, was Mr. and Mrs, Tremblay… stitched together and forced to move in death by a devastatingly painful looking hydraulics system powered by blood. Small gears and pistons struggled to wave the signs, the bodies of the couple so dismantled that there was no way it was built to last. The couple themselves were stitched at the hip, their legs forming a spider-like formation, their arms placed at random angles. Their heads had been stapled at the neck, with grafting of sheet metal and plastic to strengthen the hold. The signs they held said “Silence is Loud!” A clear jab at their private nature. A small record player had been jammed into Mr. Tremblay’s mouth, echoing their screams of torment, pleas for help, and disturbing sputters for breath. Unlike the last few, where their deaths might have been painless, these two were not given that luxury. And, just to add insult to injury, between the breasts of Mrs. Tremblay’s distorted form, that damned letter.

  Instead of waiting for the next day, to allow for quick testing, she stormed over, wiping her mouth of the chunks of meat. Pulling the letter away from the… statue, she cracked open the seal, a pickle-y smell radiating from it. Formaldehyde. Angelica snarled. It had always burned her sinuses whenever she was exposed to it. Pulling out the letter, the same collage format attacked her eyes once more.

  APD,

  Bold ain’t I? Right in front of you! To think you missed your chance to find me! To catch me! I know your camera system is kaputt at the moment, so all the better for me! The Tremblay’s never shared, but now they get to share everything! Arms, legs, blood, they share it all! I can’t wait! We’re almost done! Almost done for me to reveal myself to you all!

  Your Local Artist

  Azrael

  Angelica, pieces slowly coming together, grumbled. You can’t catch a serial killer. Their kills are random, maybe have something connecting them, but nothing concrete. However, there is always another way to catch a killer, especially a killer such as this. And for Angelica, she might have collected just enough information.