I stood there with a pale and blank expression on my face. I couldn’t find the words to describe the horrific scene I was witnessing. The blood was dripping in rhythm from one of the overdrawn bedsheets, as if death was keeping tempo. This one was just like the others. The bed, covered in white roses and leather straps, contained streaks of blood that told of an attempt to flee. Like the others, the longer you looked, the worst it got. The red tint from the lights and the crimson walls surely hid more horrors as well.

On the bed lay a young woman, possibly early thirties, with her back opened from the rear of her head down to her tail bone. The rib cage had been ripped open and lungs lay delfated, hanging just outside her body. The liver had been removed with a precision of a surgeon who had years of experience.

As the grunts from the local precinct began pouring in, I watched as they all turned and ran, searching for a place to vomit. Aside from the gory scene on the bed, the stench was almost unbearable. Blood had began to coagulate in some areas and the rich iron smell of fresh blood was giving way to the rot of decomposition.

“Just like the Welton lady?” Mitch said as he covered his mouth with his trusted handkerchief.

“Exactly like the Welton lady.” I said without a hesitation.

We both knew we were dealing with someone or something that showed no empathy for human life. The actions that had taken place here were almost animal like, but the approach was driven by an absolute hatred for women.

“Think it’s possible that this guy’s got it out for prostitutes only?” Mitch questioned while holding back the urge to vomit.

“Nah. This guy or whatever did it, considers himself an artist.” I muttered while still examining the room.

“This took too much time. If it was an act of hatred then he would be in and out, on to the next one. Whoever did this wanted his work to be photographed. He wanted it to be remembered.” I said while walking around the forenscics team.

The forensics team had began to swab every crevice in the room. Their diligence didn’t matter though. The artist knew where to cover his tracks. He or she knew where every drop of blood would land; where every spec of possible evidence would be found. As the team continued their work of recovering anything they could, I laughed to Mitch.

“These guys are wasting their time. Whoever did this knew that the their art would be photographed and combed through. They won’t find so much as a puece of dead skin from the killer.”

As we stepped outside to gather our thoughts and light a smoke, I couldn’t help but think of what scene the next victim would look like. The colors of the rooms were all vibrant in these previous death traps. The victims were contorted and displayed with malice yet meticulous precision. The artist knew everything they were doing. They knew that their paint would dry slowly. We were all just observers in his or her gallery of death.