The detectives tongue tingled uncomfortably as he took in the scene in front of him. A bloody alleyway, a forgotten knife, and another body. The killer had struck again, and again, the detective lost them. His mouth became dry at the thought, the taste of black liquorish sitting heavy in the back of his throat. The defeat was bitter, the taste of the emotion even more so. It was the same taste and emotion he got every time he thought of the killer and every time another body was found. It was overwhelming in its intensity, upsetting his stomach and furrowing his brow. It was tangy and thick and entirely unpleasant, but it wouldn’t go away. No matter what the detective did the taste stayed there, in the back of his throat and his mind, rising up when thoughts of the killer did like bile before settling, but never going away. There was only one way to be free of the disgusting flavor. He had to catch this maniac, and he had to do it quick.