He stuffed his victims, then mounted them on his wall. That’s why they referred to him as the Taxidermist. His arrest, and subsequent conviction, was thought to be the end. No juror would’ve signed off on an insanity plea. He was locked away and, by the time his appeals were exhausted and he finally met his fate, the story had become more legend than reality.

But he was more than just a serial killer. He wasn’t just preserving their skins, but also their souls. Now, with his death, those souls have been released. May God have mercy on us all.

In my visit to the pharmaceuticals factory, I discovered that there was no black dot serial killer. The black dots themselves were the murderer. It was a virus that was being manufactured as a biological weapon and it had somehow leaked out of one of the containment units.

In the end, I died alone.

The pharmaceuticals factory was something of a dinosaur, antiquated and larger-than-life at the same time. It loomed so ominously over the lake district that only the most desperate dared to visit. If there was a serial killer operating in its shadow, some of the more authoritarian city elders might have deemed it good for social welfare.

Turns out I was right about the pharmaceuticals factory but wrong about the killer. The reality was even worse than I’d imagined.

Every victim of the past month had been found with the same black dot tattooed to his or her forehead. We reported it to all the usual departments, thinking we must have a serial killer or cult on our hands. But each of the deaths appeared random, with a variety of causes and nothing linking them together.

The captain was mad at me so I was assigned the desk, going through all the case files. I was the one who discovered the connection, that all the victims had visited a certain pharmaceuticals factory on the east side before their deaths.

Joey always hated the scarecrow people, especially when everyone else welcomed them. They’ll keep the birds away, people said, and tend to the crops. Scarecrows are made to work in the fields. It’s their nature.

When the truth came out, and Bill Bates turned out to be a serial killer, Joey refused to feel remorse. They were still better off.

Later, he explained the solitude was good for him.

He grappled with what to do next, but everything made sense. The police scanners were quiet, news was normal. He was safe. Tonight, nine days later, he could kill again. The cycle continues.

From guest contributor, Kevin Reitz