In the center of the shop, surrounded by burnt out candles, lays the body of another victim. I grimace when I see what it is: a kitten. The little guy would fit in the palm of my hand. I turn from the scene. Thirty years on the job and there’s still crime scenes that surprise me. Not just scenes, either, but hunts. Murderers? Common. Serial killers? Less common, but more common than you’d think. This killer is a new type for me, though. They aren’t murdering people as far as my team can tell. Each time we stumble upon one of their scenes, it’s a small animal they leave for us. Always in the ritual circle. In textbook serial killer format, too, there was always a note. “What’s the note say this time?” I ask the lead investigator, who hands me the bloody paper. The torn sheet is already in a laminate sleeve. “Read for yourself,” she shrugs and walks away. I hold the letter to the candlelight. In a scrawl almost like a small child’s, it says: “Look upon the innocents and wonder - why? These beings seen might make you even cry. Think to the slaughterhouse, on the outskirts of town. There many more innocents fall down, down, down.” I sigh. There’s always a note like this, mentioning the new slaughterhouse just outside town. We know the killer is a protester, but for what cause? Animal rights? How does killing an animal prove anything to anyone? I stop. I think of it again … _How does killing an animal prove anything to anyone? _It doesn’t, and maybe that’s why they’re doing this. To make us realize that the debauchery in the slaughterhouse needs to be brought to light. Otherwise all those animals die in vain … At home, I think of what turns this case might take over a spendid chicken dinner with my wife. “I hope that kitten didn’t suffer,” she says as she forks the meat into her mouth. “Me too,” I reply, shaking my head and doing the same.