The Invisible Killer

Jackson Tel

A Macabre Crime Story

Rated Mature

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EPISODE ONE

PART 1: Party Train to Soho

1979 London

“I charge double for that specific service,” Gerald Blackburn said, meaning ‘strangulation’, to the nervous and confused man sitting next to him on the most popular evening train car into Soho for the nightlife crowd. Gerald sensed that the poor fellow was a stand-in for his actual client, but it didn’t really matter. ‘All the better,’ he thought.

Gerald was dressed in full drag regalia, so he did not stand out in that particular train car filled with the excited hubbub of revelers on their way to enjoy the Soho nightlife. However, the disguise made him entirely unrecognizable to both his new client and anyone who might overhear their conversation.

At the same time, Gerald was thinking to himself, “I should be paying this sad piece of shit for the pleasure.” Strangulation is far more satisfying and hands-on than other methods,’ although it is much more challenging to execute without leaving clues.

“Double!” the man protested from behind the newspaper he was pretending to read. The entire unpleasant business was turning out to be a costly proposition for the rapidly-becoming-bankrupt horse track gambler who had been coerced into posing as the real murder-for-hire client. The poor man was learning a lesson he would never forget: to stop borrowing money to pay his gambling debts, if he didn’t want to end up spending the rest of his life in prison for being an accessory to murder.

“Yes,” Gerald responded in a girly voice, “Plus three quid for the souvenir photos you requested. IN ADVANCE.”

A tired-looking factory worker, standing in an aisle nearby, moved away, thinking the two men seated side-by-side were discussing a sexual service of some kind.

When the car door closed at the Soho stop and Gerald was gone, the stand-in murder-for-hire client wondered if he had just sealed his own fate and would soon not only be broke but dead.

In the meantime, Gerald’s real murder-for-hire client, the corporate executive, took his dear wife and kids on holiday in Calais, knowing full well, all along, that they would be called prematurely back to London for his naughty niece’s sad funeral.

....

Gerald Blackburn, the English younger half-brother of Travis Mann, the famous rock star from Chestnut

Point in Maryland had been getting away with its contract murders for years.

After the clever, stealthy killer began his hobbyist side job in the mid-1970s, the press started calling him ‘The Invisible Killer,’ and the moniker stuck. Investigators, both in Britain and America, were stymied by Gerald’s illogical yet consistent traceless methodology. They could only guess the where, when, or who of the next victim.

Coincidentally, in the summer of 1979, when Travis Mann and his band were making their debut appearance at Hyde Park, Gerald was in London meeting with not only a potential client for a specific classical painting worth ten million dollars but also with some stupid, sad fuck who wanted his college-age niece strangled. It had to be strangulation; that was the only specification.

....

Blackburn handed his legitimate art client a business card that read “International Broker of Exclusive Fine Arts,” which clarified what Gerald did for a living but said nothing about his hobby side job as a contract killer. Or that he took great pleasure in practicing the fine art of murder. Getting paid was just the icing on top. And Gerald was extremely skillful at it.

....

During that week, while he was back in London meeting with his art client and attending his older half-

brother’s concert, just for the fun of it, Gerald took on one of his side-jobs,

However, the contract killing couldn’t take place during Travis’ sold-out concert, for which Gerald had surreptitiously purchased three premium front-row center seats. One for himself, directly up front in Travis’s line of sight, with an empty seat on each side, just so his older half-brother would know he was there. It was meant to be a surprise.

But then Gerald asked himself, “Why not? It would be a worthy challenge.”

Perhaps the unsuspecting young lass would be excited to unexpectedly ‘win’ two premium front row tickets to see The Travis Mann Band at Hyde Park that Saturday night?

However, several issues needed to be addressed first. What would she do with the extra ticket? Probably invite a guest, in which case he would have to kill them both. He liked the sound of that.

The scheme was rapidly evolving. Gerald felt he must somehow sweeten the deal for the college student to ensure that she was indeed attending the concert herself and not someone else to whom she had re-gifted the tickets. Therefore, the plan required some adjustments or might need to be replaced with an alternative setting altogether.

****

PART 2: Having a Ball

For a man who disdained ‘homos,’ Gerald sure was having a great time out for the evening in Soho dressed in drag. He totally got the whole ‘I am who I am, so fuck-youness of it all.’

Also, for a man who stalked his victims in the shadows outside one’s peripheral vision, being the hilarious center of attention was a delicious sensation.

Yes indeed, Gerald was being exactly who he was—The Invisible Killer who was always in plain sight.

****

PART 3: The Question

The vindictive question that the humiliated corporate executive, who had been jilted while cheating on his wife with his naughty grad-school niece, asked his unscrupulous and equally despicable lawyer, in confidence, was, “Hypothetically, how might one connect with a hit man to have someone strangled to death?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” the lawyer replied calmly, glancing over at the door of his office to make sure it was securely closed. He then held out a notepad and pen with his right hand and made the shape of a capital C with his left thumb and index finger, which indicated the use of their special code.

The lawyer stated, “No need for you to get involved in matters that don’t concern you, or receive an invoice for services you never asked for. Am I Correct?”

“Yes. You are correct,” answered the corporate executive who wished for his brother-in-law’s college-age daughter to die a horrible death.

****

PART 4: The Third Concert Ticket

Not long after that, a persnickety freelance crime reporter named Marcus Dooley received an anonymous gift of one free front-row ticket to the sold-out Travis Mann concert that Saturday night at Hyde Park.

The prized ticket was contained inside a plain, white, unaddressed, unwritten note card from a train depot gift shop. It came with a bright-white business card, blank on both sides. The reporter recognized it immediately as the signature of The Invisible Killer, whom he was dying to interview.

The note card had been delivered to the reporter‘s front door by a professional courier service that could not disclose the sender‘s identity, saying it apparently came from someone who knew someone who knew someone at the pub the reporter frequented.

Those new, unexpected clues from and about The Invisible Killer were tantalizing to the reporter.

Of course, he would be attending the concert, but not before conferring with his best friend, ‗Creepy‘ Calvin Crawly, who worked as a technician at the newly

constructed ‗prototype‘ forensics lab at the city‘s premier detective agency.

****

PART 5: Whistler’s Alley

―Promise me that you‘ll never take the shortcut down that lane late at night,‖ the most popular butcher in Soho told his red-cheeked adolescent son as they

passed Whistler‘s Alley that evening after closing his butcher shop. At that moment, they just so happened to be walking on the sidewalk in front of a certain drag queen, who just so happened not to be a real drag queen, but Gerald Blackburn, The Invisible Killer, in disguise.

Upon overhearing what the man had said to his son, Gerald wondered what it was about that alley that made it so dangerous at night. Therefore, he decided to investigate the situation in the early hours of the morning, on his way back to his hotel to rest.

....

But that very night, there was a terrible gust from the cold north that threatened to blow the roofs off the houses and send the river over its banks into the streets.

That same night, the members of the Travis Mann Band were white-knuckling it and vomiting into

waxed-paper bags, compliments of the private jet service, as they flew through the storm from Bremerhaven, Germany, to London in advance of their upcoming concert tour in Great Britain.

―Dear God, if you spare my life, I promise to stop snorting coke and screwing groupies behind my girlfriend‘s back,‖ was the most common entreaty of the musicians in the band, sitting in first class, and their road crew, who were crowded into the bargain seats at the back of the plane.

....

When the hotelier made the rounds of the historic Thames View Hotel to secure the wooden shutters against the raging storm, Gerald had long been settled into the luxury of his silk pajamas, Indian cotton sheets, and beloved copy of The World Atlas, with its well-worn pages, the margins full of finely penciled notes. Strewn upon the paisley bed cover across his legs was an array of travel guides and tourist magazines.

Gerald felt antsy. He would have much preferred being out and about to satisfy his curiosity about Whistler‘s Alley, mainly because of the delicious details that the newsboy camped out on the corner on the opposite side of the street had finally coughed up.

In response to the unfamiliar drag queens‘ questioning, the newsboy‘s jaded eyes darted about, and he acted exactly like a real cat had gotten his real tongue. Then

the raggedy imp dropped his papers, and he ran off like a rat.

One can only surmise the effort it took for Gerald to catch up to that fucking rodent boy while wearing stilettos, falsies that chaffed with every stride, and a wig threatening to fall off.

The convoluted chase itself was worth a story of its own.

Finally, Gerald, wheezing like a nearly-boiled-empty tea kettle, held the wiry little fellow captive against a brick garden wall with a hairpin to his neck. The tough little fellow cried out, ―If I tell you, they will kill me.‖

―Not if I kill you first for not telling me,‖ Gerald sweetly whispered first, then simply demanded,

―NOW!‖

But the wily kid called Gerald‘s bluff. ―No, you won‘t.‖

―Why not?‖ Gerald asked.

―Cause you left so many clues behind, it will be easy-peasy for my granny to track you down. And believe me, you don‘t wanna get on her bad side.‖

―What makes you think I‘m afraid of your granny?‖ Gerald responded in bemusement. He was starting to take a shine to this raggedy, dirty-faced four-foot-sixish-inch new adversary.

―‘Cause she‘s got three big brothers who don‘t take kindly to strangers mucking about with their little sister, or with their favorite nephew, me.‖

―Alright, kiddo, then don‘t tell me,‖ Gerald chuckled as he put the hairpin back in his wig and then took a ten-pound note from his purse, ―Here, buy your granny something special just for her, from me.

Along with the bill, Gerald handed the newsboy a bright white business card, blank on both sides.

The kid turned the card over several times, looking at Gerald, confused. He obviously didn‘t read the newspapers that he sold on his corner opposite

Whistler‘s Alley. Otherwise, he would have known that it was the calling card of The Invisible Killer.

―Your granny will know who the gift is from,‖ Gerald stated and turned to leave.

His captive gave a churlish smile and asked, ―What

granny? I don‘t have a granny. Hey, don‘t you want to know about Whistler‘s Alley?‖ the boy called out after him.

Gerald halted, turned about, and answered, ―Yes.‖

―Ten more quid.‖

―Five.‖

―It‘s a deal, Mister, but what I have to say might blow your mind.‖

―Try me,‖ Gerald responded. Then let‘s talk about a sweet deal: you can run some errands for me.

****

PART 6: The Dire Emergency

As mentioned before, that night a mighty storm descended upon the city from the northwest. The Soho butcher, his rotund wife, and fourteen children sat huddled together to stay warm and dry in the parlor of their new, much-larger but ancient Tudor residence, at the far end of Whistler‘s Alley.

Hooligans had stolen the shutters during the decades while the house was on the market, and the old roof had not yet been re-thatched. Consequently, the rain leaked into every room except the parlor.

The historic abode had gone unsold for several decades, primarily due to persistent rumors about the dark, stone-walled lane behind it, with its hidden alcoves, unmarked gates, and stone staircases leading to places unknown.

Whistler's Alley was never featured in a tourist guidebook, yet it remained a favorite destination for visitors to Soho interested in the occult. The horrible tales associated with the lane inspired more than one safari of drunken thrill seekers to explore it late at night. And those who lived to tell about it

afterward were sobered enough to keep them drinking heavily for many years ahead.

But it was the main reason the butcher was able to obtain Alley House, the only large enough house near Soho at such a bargain price.

....

The family‘s favorite midwife, Jillian Brody, who lived in the same neighborhood bordering Soho as Alley House, recommended the long-unsold Tudor to the butcher because he was desperate for an affordable house near his shop that was big enough to accommodate his exceedingly large family.

That's how the butcher's wife and her favorite midwife ended up living right across the street from each other and becoming fast friends.

The veteran midwife, having been on call day and night since she was twenty-two, had eventually melded the distinction between day and night; her daily clock became measured in long naps. But that night, the veteran midwife didn‘t go to bed for her customary midnight snooze.

Instead, Jillian sat up fully dressed at her kitchen table, nursing a cup of tea, and keeping an eye on the storm through the window. The ferocity of the straight-line onslaught, its crescendos of thunder and lightning whipping the wind-driven rain, was extremely concerning. Jillian busied herself by restocking her black leather medical bag, strategizing how to navigate

the storm if called upon for a birthing, and solving the daily crossword puzzle in the paper.

She was especially apprehensive about a thoroughly miserable woman named Abigail Cowpers. Miss Cowpers was the District Magistrate‘s young third

wife, who was a month and four false labor pains late giving birth. Jillian wouldn‘t put it past the little devil camped out inside her to pick a terrible night like that to make its appearance in the world.

A nearby lightning strike, hardly a stone‘s throw away, momentarily lit up the kitchen with blinding hot-white light, almost instantly followed by an ear-shattering boom of thunder. Jillian saw the sizzling bolt hit the Alley House across the street before being momentarily blinded by its flash.

Even before her sight fully returned, Jillian was up out of the kitchen chair and out the front door with her medical bag in alarm!

Minutes later:

The midwife, Jillian Brody, was met with the awful scene of the exterior stone wall of the Alley House parlor having collapsed upon the Soho butcher, his rotund wife, thirteen daughters, including two sets of twins and one brood of quintuplet girls that all looked exactly alike, and one chubby red-cheeked, dutiful son.

Because the telephone lines are down, Jillian bandaged up the butcher‘s son‘s bloody head and left elbow, and sent the injured boy out into the deluge to seek rescue

at the nearest firehouse, which is on the far side of Soho, at least three-quarters of a mile away. Although the firefighters there would likely be overwhelmed with requests for help, Jillian had an in with them, having given birth to many of their children. It was a chit she had never redeemed, up until then.

By the time the firefighters arrived, the storm had made its exit, and the Man in the Moon was gawking between the trailing parade of clouds to see the carnage below.

No one should have to hear the description of the blood and shattered bones amid the pile of rock and rubble, the rescuers gingerly trod upon as they carried both the survivors and lifeless bodies of the butcher‘s family into the hallway and separated them with a make-shift curtain.

Jillian managed to stabilize and bandage the butcher whose face was severely cut by glass, and his left leg was crushed. He kept trying to break away from her to crawl to the aid of his dear wife and children.

Jillian barely had the strength to hold back the man and attend to him at the same time, so she ripped a woven curtain braid from the broken window and tied him to the nearest radiator. And despite his anguished pleas, she wasn‘t going to give him a casualty report.

His heart must wait to be broken forever.

****

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The Invisible Killer

EPISODE TWO

By Jackson Tel

PART 7: KISS

In the meantime, Gerald, the Invisible Killer, could not sleep either because of the extreme weather. So, instead, he lounged with his back against the padded backboard of the extra-large double bed in his grandiose hotel room at the Thames View Hotel.

He was playing around with ideas for his current job, which he hoped to execute during his older half-brother’s debut rock concert at Hyde Park. However, there was a pre-determined stipulation around which the plan must revolve; the female grad student had to be strangled, which made the time-consuming, limb convulsing act highly problematic while in the presence of thousands of Travis Mann Band fans, venue personnel, and the hired security at the event.

Gerald, thoroughly enjoying the process, sipped from a gold, chalice-like goblet of the hotel’s most expensive blood-red burgundy and snacked on delicate Andruty Kaliskie wafers he had recently purchased in Poland, while secretly negotiating with a corrupt government official for state-owned works of art stored in the Vault of National Treasures.

But then Gerald tilted his head back until his crown rested on the padded backboard of the grand double bed in his room at the Thames View Hotel and admonished himself. ‘Keep it simple, stupid.’

He began toying with an entirely different idea, one much, much, much easier to pull off. He had sleuthed out some interesting things during his ‘visit of charity’ to his prospective victim’s apartment building, wearing the black robe and wooden cross of an Orthodox priest, with a false beard, and clutching a black leather bible he had taken without asking from the Greek Church on the corner.

The rickety old apartment building that the grad student lived in was like an ugly, stubborn wart on the face of the recently gentrified neighborhood. Gerald had discerned that the property developers wanted it gone. “Oh, but that dangerous, eyesore, driving property values down, was a ‘hhhhhiiiiissstttooorrriiiccck’ landmark dating back to the nineteenth century-blah-blah-blah-blah,” they complained.

Nevertheless, the rent there was affordable for college students, who had turned the crumbling apartment building into a haven for intellectual hippies.

That was another greedy reason the wealthy, conservative developers of that newly commercialized district wanted the building gone. And they would hardly be saddened if the structure just so happened to burn to the ground, let’s say, after a certain contract strangling had taken place in it. “Condolences to the family of the murdered woman, but it’s ‘Let’s Make a Deal’ time now.

On the other hand there were some people in very high places, like say the influential executive of a major local corporation, who, for undisclosed personal reasons, wanted the apartment building to remain as is, at least for the time being, until his college student niece graduated or he finally gathered up the courage to leave his wife and kids, which he would never do, so it was down to her graduating, and then, after that, who knows what.

However, the illicit sexual relationship between the executive and his niece had suddenly gone south. And we are not talking about going to the warm, sunny French Riviera south, but the icy, cold Antarctica south...so far south the angry executive wanted his lovely, naughty, youthful paramour to be brutally assassinated, specifically by strangulation. And he was willing to pay a small fortune to have it done.

....

The most interesting thing that Gerald had learned about the historic apartments haunted by university students was about the vintage turn-of-the-century elevator, the kind with an ornate iron gate. It was still being operated by the very same fellow whose first day on the job was the same day the elevator was installed in the already old building, 63 years prior.

Now, six decades later, he was a thin, wan, ghost of a man who could barely get off his operator’s chair to

open and close the iron gate. However, his smiling affability had remained unchanged. The student renters and their friends loved him. They called him Tunny; his real name was Thurmond, Thurmond Tunny.

Gerald, being a grand-master of murder, followed five simple rules while executing his victims. The first rule had two parts: always tell the truth and blend in. If you can’t reveal the truth, say nothing. If necessary, create an alternative truth in advance.

The blending-in part was an art form in itself, one that Gerald enjoyed immensely. It was all about devising ingenious ways to ‘hide in plain sight’ by portraying someone forgettable enough that witnesses would dismiss their logical presence at or near the crime scene without giving it a second thought.

Gerald thought, “It would be relatively easy to do away with old Mr. Tunny on a typical day, possibly just before the young lady was leaving to go to class.

Gerald would say to his unwitting victim when she entered the elevator, “I am the temporary elevator operator, called in to replace poor Mr. Tunny, who suddenly and tragically passed away while on the job,” which would be true. “The undertakers have been notified to come for his body,” accurate as well, “which was taken to the basement Maintenance Office next to the boiler room.” All true.

Then the elevator would halt between floors for a few minutes before descending directly to the basement without stopping.

Gerald would have to obtain a suitable uniform and some distinguishing, yet subtle, touches for any unplanned-for witnesses to identify him, such as a pair of wire-rim spectacles and perhaps a gold front tooth. Then he must conduct a quick study of the rhythm of activity in the apartment building and the woman’s daily and weekly routine.

This much simpler alternative plan had promise, but Gerald was still intrigued with the daring, brazen aspects of executing the murder during the Travis Mann Band concert that Saturday night, surrounded by thousands of rock-n-roll fans. He was attracted to the challenge

****

PART 8: The World’s Longest Schlong

Before continuing with the story, one should know a not-so-little something about the man from whom Gerald purchased the ‘slightly used’ drag queen outfit for his meeting with his new murder-for-hire client on the train into Soho the previous evening.

The tailor was a well-spoken, dark-skinned shop owner named Richard Longfellow, the tallest man in Soho, and reputed to have the world’s longest schlong. Though that oft-quoted ranking of his member was quite believable to those privy to its majesty, the actual standing among the greats was, of course, scientifically unverified.

The 7’-8” tall Longfellow specialized not only in designing fabulous costumes for drag queens to be worn on-stage and off, but also in designing wedding dresses and men’s formal wear. And like many other purveyors of designer clothing, he had a rack of almost-like-new, slightly worn apparel that had been sold back to him for a pittance.

Richard didn’t like the informality of being called by his common nickname, Dick, because using “Dick

Longfellow sounded contrived. However, some of his friends insisted on it gleefully to get his goat.

The tailor was neither a homosexual nor a drag queen but a heterosexual, successful, hard-working businessman, who was attracted to women despite the physical challenges of copulating with those of normal proportions. Aside from his head-turning stature, Longfellow was a regular, kind, and thoughtful professional who got along well with his clients, despite differences in size or sexual orientation..

Actually, having to sew his own uniquely sized clothing was how Richard got his start in the business. Back then, the slim gargantuan was employed as a professional paperhanger, an occupation well-suited to his extreme height. Fitting through the small doorways of old houses was always a challenge. “And if he had a hard-on, forget it,” was the standard, below-the-belt joke about him then for those familiar with his endowment. However, outside his custom-built, extra-large residence, he was able to navigate the bedrooms and bathrooms at the homes of his girlfriends naked with an erection without incident, except for an occasional broken vase or dislodged alarm clock.

Which he happily replaced, at his own expense.

....

When Richard opened his shop the next morning, after cleaning up the storm debris from the sidewalk in front of the entrance door, he was not at all surprised to see his client from the day before, Mr.

Blackburn, who was returning the now-twice-worn but none the worse for wear drag ensemble he had purchased off the rack.

But, during the polite, light-hearted exchange, Gerald mentioned something to the tailor that he shouldn’t have.

****

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The Invisible Killer

EPISODE FIVE

By Jackson Tel

Copyright Curtis Kaltsukis 2026 All Rights Reserved

PART 14: The Fox Hunt Catering Company

As Gerald was driving the Chinese laundry van to the east end of Whistler’s Alley, he had a brilliant idea for how to dispose of the body of the Chinese shop owner’s twin brother that lay in the back. There was an old friend of his from university who, after graduation, started an exclusive specialty catering company serving the members of a very, very, very secretive society of upper-crust cannibals.

‘The Fox Hunt Catering Company,’ Gerald remembered.

So he pulled over at the next public phone booth and called his old friend, Malcolm Comstock, the owner.

The catering company normally procured its fresh edible bodies exclusively from reputable suppliers who met all the secret society’s health inspection requirements. However, Gerald was an old Uni buddy, so Malcolm made an exception only for him. “Just this one time,” he said, “But it sounds to me like what you’re providing is only good for feeding the members’ dogs. But no matter. When you are ready for pickup, park the van in a ‘No Parking’ spot at Tooter’s Ferry on the Thames, then immediately call Crunchtime Towing to have it taken away. Remember, leave it in a no-parking spot at Tooter’s Ferry, then call Crunchtime Towing immediately. Got it?”

Yes, Gerald responded, “I’ll be there around two. And thanks.”

“You are very welcome, old friend. But this is a one-time thing, only for you.”

“Yes, one time, only for me, got it.”

Gerald hung up the phone and got back in the van.

****

PART 15: The Trade

The exhausted midwife, Jillian Brody, who had been awake for twenty-eight hours straight, attending to storm casualties and delivering the little devil baby of the third wife of the District Magistrate, kept nodding off on the bus stop bench on the far side of Soho.

And guess who plopped down beside her with a hot cup of carry-out tea he bought for her. It was Bub who was in the process of making his daily inspection of the neighborhood when he spotted Mrs. Brody struggling to stay awake at the bus stop. The sighting presented the shrewd adolescent deal-maker with an unexpected opportunity to make a trade.

The widow Mrs. Brody, who didn’t have a normal sleep cycle anyway, when she wasn’t midwifing, kept herself busy in a myriad of ways too boring to list. One of her diversions was taking on the role of the Captain of the Whistler’s Alley Neighborhood Watch Association, the W.A.N.W.A., or Wanwa if one prefers.

Under her command, Jillian had eight regular Wanwas and three reserves. The Wanwas on duty each night manned their stations in two shifts of two, with one Wanwa stationed at each end of the alley. Each of them carried a walkie-talkie, a battery-operated torch, a pad and pencil, a camera, a stout, sharp-tipped reflective umbrella with a matching poncho, a thermos, and a lunch pail.

Every Wanwa volunteer was required to complete 10 hours of martial arts self-defense training and to attend at least one free sensitivity training session offered by a nearby Personal Relationships Counselor.

The command center for the operation was run by a slim, silver-haired, retired Navy radio operator who lived two doors down from Jillian. He had a thing for her, which she carefully neither encouraged nor discouraged.

Please understand that the widowed midwife’s reluctance to enter into a romantic relationship with the handsome retired Navy man was not for any of the reasons one might think. It was because she was a closet sex addict who couldn’t stop at one orgasm, like most normal people did. All it took was one fling, and Jillian was off to the races, and before long, she was selecting random men on the street to scratch her itch, so to speak. But that wasn’t all of it. Jillian liked the thrill of screwing in public places where she might get caught.

Of course, Bub was utterly ignorant of Mrs. Brody’s private sexual proclivities when he sat down beside her in the covered bus stop with a paper cup of hot tea and one of Madame Marvella’s delectable pastries rescued from the always tidy rubbish bin behind her shop, to have a friendly chat. What the off-duty newsboy did know about the woman was her pivotal managerial position in the Whistler’s Alley Neighborhood Watch Association, and he had a juicy bit of information to trade.

It seems that Bub, the always-hungry, hawk-eyed, opportunist, wasn’t only the recently promoted rookie detective, Theresa Chandler’s favorite snitch, but Mrs. Brody’s as well. There were five reasons for that:

1. Bub always slept with one eye open and an ear to the ground

2. Every day, like clockwork, he made a thorough inspection of the neighborhood, looking for opportunities to help himself get by. And, those rounds necessitated a rummage through a routine list of his favorite rubbish bins.

3. Bub didn’t miss a thing because he had eyes in the back of his head. Just kidding, but he did have a third nipple, a little runt at the bottom of his ribcage up front, that most people didn’t know about.

4. Being nosy came naturally to the kid.

5. He was always hungry and could easily be bribed with a hot meal.

Alright, getting back to the rubbish bins.

Bub’s absolute favorite bin was located behind Madame Marvella’s Fine Delicacies, a local pastry shop famous worldwide. ‘Divinely inspired’ would be the best description of Madame Marvella happily baking in the wee hours of the morning, while everyone else was snoring, drooling, tossing and turning, getting up to pee, or sneaking out of some gentleman’s bedroom on tiptoes.

And that very afternoon, while making his rounds, Bub had come across a box of perfectly good French croissants, wrapped with a bow and a fancy greeting card. Apparently, some call-ahead customer had not picked up his order, which Madame Marvella had tossed out unopened before closing up shop for the day.

However, Bud had something more to offer Mrs. Brody besides hot, sweet tea and croissants; it was a tip about a certain shifty drag queen who had been sniffing around about Whistler’s Alley and who probably would be lurking about the area late at night.

This was information that would pique the Wanwa Captain’s interest in exchange for something Bud personally wanted: protection. The Wanwas may have been a bunch of over-the-hill fuddy-duddies, but no one wanted to be at the wrong end of their martial arts kicks or the stab of their umbrella. And that particular group of solid citizens was known for sticking to its agreements.

****

PART 16: Dog Food

The abattoir, who posed as the mortician for Specialty Funeral Services, which shared a warehouse wall with the Crunchtime Towing Company’s impound garage in a remote area outside of London, got a good laugh when the small, gristly body of the elderly Chinese man was delivered. The body wasn’t even worth the effort to chop up, except maybe as food for the guard dogs kept in the kennel out back. “That’s what I’ll do,” she decided.

Most of the fresh bodies she received were those of well-marbled young adults like backpackers on holiday, or Peace Corps volunteers, whose disappearance would go unnoticed for some time. The fussy customers of the Fox Hunt Catering Company demanded only the finest cuts of human flesh. And her boss, Malcolm Comstock, who also discreetly owned Specialty Funeral Services, behind a Chinese Wall—please forgive the analogy—of legal paperwork, was also very particular about the quality of the meat provided to the members of the upper-crust secret society of cannibals whom he served.

The mortician/abattoir’s assistant was a strong, hard-working, mentally disabled man in his late twenties named Bernard. Bernard, whose parents had owned a crematory, removed the small, light corpse of the elderly Chinese man from the back of the impounded laundry van. He then carried it through the entrance of the shared warehouse wall into the cold locker next door, whereupon he closed the door and locked it behind him, as usual.

Bernard then went to the fenced-in kennel out back of the warehouse to feed and play with the guard dogs that were lodged there during the daytime. The normally vicious attack canines were his friends and companions. The only annoying thing about them was the playful jumping up on him and the slobbery licking he received in greeting whenever he entered.

After spending some time with the trained attack dogs, Bernard went to his windowless, cinderblock-walled room in the kennel to resume his favorite hobby —once again, for the umpteenth time —reassembling a worn thousand-piece picture puzzle of the Swiss Alps featuring a St. Bernard rescue dog. That was his name, ‘Bernard,’ and it made the cognitively impaired man feel proud.

In the meantime:

Travis Mann, the rock star, still exhausted and hungover from cocaine and Jägermeister, after the harrowing plane ride from Germany through the storm the night before, was not his usual, easygoing self. As he watched the filming of his longtime childhood girlfriend, Eleanor Schloss, now Ellie Best, enthusiastically screwing the leading man, six ways from Sunday, over and over again, through multiple takes, he became more and more jealous and angry until finally he made a complete fool of himself. However, it’s best to save the description of what Travis did to completely embarrass and humiliate Ellie Best and make her run naked from the movie set for later in the story.

****

PART 17: From That World

As one might imagine, sitting on a standard-height toilet posed a problem for a man like Richard Longfellow, who had the world’s longest schlong. For him to sit way back on the seat to prevent his member from getting wet, as some well-endowed men did, was a laughable solution.

First of all, being 7’8” tall, Richard felt like he was sitting on a child’s potty, and secondly, he had to hold his prize-winner up out of the way like it was a baby python while struggling to accomplish his number twos.

The situation was highly irritating to Richard because he wanted both hands free during his often lengthy evacuations. He, as many other people did, enjoyed either reading or solving puzzles while perched on the porcelain throne. Richard’s new obsession was Walter Shedlofsky’s Poetic Detective Challenge from Acrostic Press.

So there Richard was, holding his python to keep it out of the way while trying to solve one of the detective-style puzzles in Shedlofsky’s booklet, when something weird about one of his customers from that morning surfaced in his mind. The odd fellow was returning a drag ensemble he had purchased the day before.

During their friendly banter about what good shape the outfit was still in after his night on the town, Mr. Blackburn, his name on the receipt, just so happened to mention that he had been planning to pay a visit to notorious Whistler’s Alley on his way back to the hotel after the pubs closed, but the storm cut his plans short.

Richard laughed. “Why on God’s good earth would you want to do that? I’ve heard stories about amateur ghost hunters who ventured into the alley on moonless nights. They come back changed! One young man was in a deep mumbo-jumbo trance, covered in the blood of a rooster, when he wandered back out. His distraught parents had to call in an exorcist, to no avail. I hear the poor lad was confined to a psychiatric hospital, and he’s still there. People have spotted him staring at them through his hospital room window as they passed by on the sidewalk outside. And, it gave them the willies. That’s what I’ve heard.”

That’s when Mr. Blackburn said something that Richard later found bizarre. “Oh, I’m not afraid of places like that because I’m from that world and know my way around.”

Richard had been busy counting out the cash to give Mr. Blackburn for the return of the drag outfit, so he was only half-listening when the man made that curious statement, which, without giving it any thought, Richard had immediately deposited in his subconscious memory bank.

But now that Mr. Blackburn’s strange utterance had re-emerged into Richard’s consciousness, it brought on a completely unexpected feeling: fear. ‘What?’ Richard asked himself, ‘Why do I feel afraid? It makes no sense.’

However, that morning in his shop, if Richard Longfellow had known who Mr. Blackburn really was, the trepidation he now felt, seemingly without reason, would have made perfect sense.

Much to DCI Jonathan Oakes’ annoyance, his new Assistant Detective, Theresa Chandler, was at the forefront of a whole new era in criminal investigation.

After thirty years on the force, Oakes was a dinosaur from the ancient days of shoe leather and deductive reasoning. Forensics was the name of the game now.

However, Oakes had learned a thing or two the hard way during his years of catching bad guys, and now he was determined to corner The Invisible Killer before Assistant Detective Chandler did. That’s why he was giving Chandler free rein to investigate the case with a minimum of interference on his part. He wanted their competition to be on a level playing field, if for no other reason than to prove to her the value of using old-fashioned, tried-and-true methodologies.

****

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The Invisible Killer

EPISODE FOUR

By Jackson Tel

Copyright Curtis Kaltsukis 2026 All Rights Reserved

PART 11: West End Stroll

In contrast to the misery inflicted upon the Soho butcher and his family by the previous night’s storm, the weather was absolutely gorgeous that following day, proving the adage that the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.

When Gerald awoke, he was in fine fettle. The world was his oyster. The only thing he needed to accomplish that day was deciding which course of action he would take to strangle the corporate executive’s naughty college-aged niece...in her apartment elevator, which would be easy, or during his older half-brother Travis Mann’s debut concert at Hyde Park that Saturday night, a complicated challenge that he would have to begin scripting immediately.

But first, he wanted his new accomplice, Bud, the newsboy who sold his papers on the corner opposite Whistler’s Alley, to go on an errand for him. So Gerald dandied himself up in a wide-collared suit with a carnation in the lapel, a brand-new broad-brimmed felt hat, and a large, brown, fake facial mole and took a leisurely stroll from the Thames View Hotel, where he was staying, to Soho.

Before speaking with Bud, Gerald wanted to check out Whistler’s Alley during the daytime. He would have investigated the storied lane in the small hours after midnight, but was forced back to his hotel early because of the alarming straight-line storm that tore through the West End.

He decided to enter the alley from its east entrance after studying a street map he had purchased at a cute little bookshop run by a Lesbian couple, whose contented Tuxedo cat was curled up asleep amid the storefront window display. While the manly half of the proprietorship was stocking shelves, the matronly half rang up Gerald’s purchase with a motherly smile at the antique brass cash register. She had no idea the dapper man standing before her was The Invisible Killer..

Just how many homicidal sociopaths had she unwittingly served over the years at the book shop, or stood behind in line behind at the market, or accidentally bumped into while navigating through a crowd? One never knows, does one?

Gerald decided that by walking through the alley from east to west, he would then exit directly across from the street corner occupied by his impish new associate, Bub, the newspaper boy. The morning’s itinerary was set.

However, Gerald wasn’t clairvoyant, so he did not foresee what would happen next. He was pooped on by a pigeon flying overhead. A big, slimy, nasty, runny, gob of bird shit had despoiled his expensive, hand-tailored suit coat.

Out of character for a man whose heart was devoid of empathy and whose veins ran with ice-water, diabolical Gerald Blackburn became flustered. That was because, to him, appearance was everything.

Blackburn quickly ducked into a Chinese laundry three doors away from the bird poop incident, only to find himself face-to-face with the wrinkled owner, who looked as if he had been born a thousand years before. The man took one startled look at Gerald and ran from the customer service area through an embroidered curtain into the back. Moments later, the man’s equally ancient wife peered out through the curtain at Gerald with one eye, then disappeared.

A faint whispering came from the back room. Gerald, left unattended in the shop holding his sullied suitcoat, was confused. He made out the word, “Devil,” and then the phrase, “Get the knife.”

Then, suddenly, the wiry old Chinaman came charging through the curtain, brandishing an antique Dao saber with a glinting blade that was razor sharp. He hissed, “I kill Devil. I kill Devil!”

Gerald felt like a vicious guard dog was attacking him to tear his throat out, which would definitely put a damper on the lovely day he had been enjoying, thus far. So Gerald flung his soiled suitcoat onto the check-in counter and assumed a defensive Aikido pose.

But The Invisible Killer, who was feeling quite the opposite at that particular moment, had met his match. Moments later, he was immobilized on the floor with the long blade of the Doa at his neck. The laundry man’s breath smelled of seaweed. His wife hurried out of the back room with a length of rope, screaming through her red betel nut-stained teeth, “I tie Devil. I tie Devil.”

Gerald’s agenda for the morning was going to all hell.

....

To pass the time while tied up to a chair in the midst of the washers and dryers in the production area of the Chinese laundry, Gerald re-contemplated the issues involved with executing his young, lovely, murder-hire-victim at the Travis Mann Band concert rather than in the elevator of her apartment building, which were considerable.

That, and how he could escape from his current predicament without having to do away with his captors, for whom he had great respect. He was confident they would not go to the police afterward. The “we captured the Devil, but he got away,” story would be too far-fetched for anyone to take seriously.

That was everyone on the force, except for a recently promoted rookie detective at the Charing Cross Homicide Department, who, as it would turn out, had a sixth sense about such things.

That was neither here nor there at the moment because Gerald was not yet aware that Assistant Detective Theresa Chandler even existed, much less that she was about to become a thorn in his side and a real pain in the butt to boot.

....

To pass the time while tied up to a chair in the midst of the washers and dryers in the production area of the Chinese laundry, Gerald contemplated how he could escape from his current predicament without having to do away with his captors, for whom he had great respect. He was confident they would not go to the police afterward. The “we captured the Devil, but he got away,” story would be too far-fetched for anyone to take seriously.

That was everyone on the force, except for a recently promoted rookie detective at the Charing Cross Homicide Department, who, as it would turn out, had a sixth sense about such things.

That was neither here nor there at the moment because Gerald was not yet aware that Assistant Detective Theresa Chandler even existed, much less that she was about to become a thorn in his side and a real pain in the butt to boot.

****

PART 12: The Hijacked Lorry

Travis and his bandmates could sleep off their hangovers and the jitters left over from their prayerful near-death experience high in the furious skies over the Channel in a private jet from Bremerhaven, Germany, to London to begin their Great Britain tour.

“How exciting, now fuck off and let me get some sleep.”

But the road crewers, though equally exhausted, were entirely at wits’ end. They had all been awoken to the news that some shites had hijacked the rented lorry that was transporting all of the band’s musical and stage equipment shortly after it had left the airport to go to the venue.

One of the roadies, from Ohio, while rubbing the sleep from his eyes, asked, “What’s a shite?”

....

Because bad things, more often than not, happen in threes, after the hijacking of the band’s equipment, which was bad enough in itself, two more unfortunate events occurred to Travis Mann and his band in rapid succession.

****

PART 13: Nobody Noticed

Nobody noticed when the elderly Chinese couple wheeled Gerald, who was securely tied to a chair and gagged, out onto the modest loading dock at the back of the laundry shop, where a van being driven by the shop owner’s twin brother was waiting for them.

And no one noticed when the van ran the stoplight at the busy intersection while being driven by an elderly Chinese man, who was struggling for control of the wheel with a dandy wearing a broad-brim felt hat with a dark mole on his cheek, who was in the process of stabbing his finger into the man’s fatal death spot.

Bullshit.

Every driver who was navigating the intersection at that moment noticed. You can be sure of that, especially since time seemed to slow down for most of them while it was happening. Some said it was a miracle that no one was injured, or that not a single car was damaged, as the teetering van threaded its way through oncoming traffic from both directions and somehow made it to the other side unscathed.

Don’t even bother asking how Gerald managed to kill the fellow with one hand on the wheel because no one but him would ever know. Except that, if someone were dying to know, Gerald would gladly oblige; otherwise, he planned to stay mum on the subject for eternity.

But even that statement was not wholly accurate.

Gerald was scheming to recruit one particular writer to pen his memoir, and that person was the persnickety freelance crime reporter Marcus Dooley.

However, for Gerald, at that moment, the supreme question was how to deal with the body of the dead twin brother of the Chinese laundry shop owner rolling around among canvas bags of dirty laundry on the back bed of the van. Gerald slowed down to the speed limit and sat back smugly to enjoy the ride and formulate a plan. But first, he had a morning schedule to follow.

Where was he headed?

To Whistler’s Alley, of course. It was his first planned stop before talking to Bud about the errand.

And it was a beautiful day.

In the meantime:

Travis Mann’s longtime childhood girlfriend, Eleanor Schloss, from Reading, Pennsylvania, showed up unexpectedly at the band’s hotel to visit him. Coincidentally, she was in London with a movie crew, playing the leading lady in a high-budget blue movie. She had been given that gig as a real actress playing a real leading lady after the huge international success of her first film role as the uncredited double for the international movie star, Catherine Beaumont, in scenes that were either X-rated or too dangerous for the production company to insure adequately. The starring actress of that previously released A-List hit film, and many more before that, Miss Beaumont, was a stuck-up prude with a religious upbringing who would never, ever, appear in a scene naked, especially if it involved panting or screaming with delight.

So, Eleanor’s first job in the film industry was playing the double for the world-famous, multiple Academy Award-winning actress. And the talent agent who landed the gig for Eleanor did so specifically because she was Miss Beaumont’s previously undiscovered doppelganger. Whereupon, he renamed Eleanor Schloss to Ellie Best as her new stage name.

Note: Neither Travis nor Eleanor, at the time, knew that that first time movie gig would be her big break into the film industry...as the first wildly successful porn star to be nominated for an Oscar, two years later. An event that made Catherine Beaumont absolutely furious. Furious enough to want her dead.

....

Anyway, as a side note, four months later when the film was released, both the men and the women in the darkened audience loved to watch the leading lady falling down a set of stairs, seeing the look on her face when a bottle was broken over her head, spying on her naked, soapy figure in the shower, or catching a glimse of her undressing in her boudoir while changing into a glittering evening gown, or savoring the delicious, sensual way she made love with the male lead, playing the secret agent. That was because her contrasting sweetness and genuine innocence were absolutely believable. Surprisingly, the female audience members who watched the film liked it more than the men did. The woman not only identified with the stand-in actress as she struggled with danger, but the sex scenes made their panties get wet and gave them ideas that good girls should never have.

....

The second unfortunate incident involving The Travis Mann Band also occurred between the time they landed at Heathrow during the fierce storm and their performance fiasco at Hyde Park the following weekend. For starters, all hell broke loose when Travis discovered that his longtime childhood girlfriend, Eleanor Schloss, from Reading, Pennsylvania, had landed an acting role as the double for famous film icon Catherine Beaumont in a racy spy thriller, with many of the scenes being filmed in London.

That’s when Travis learned, in person, from Eleanor that she had changed her name to Ellie Best. And, her first acting job was to be the double for the world-famous actress, Catherine Beaumont, not only in all the shoot-’em-up chase scenes but also in two very racy, even for those days, sex scenes, which the real leading lady refused to play herself.

Because Travis Mann was a red-hot rock star on tour worldwide, he was given the royal treatment when he popped in on the studio film set the next day.

The scene the crew was currently shooting was the one set in the British Secret Agent’s master bedroom after he meets his nemesis, the Female Secret Service Agent from Washington, D.C., in the grand ballroom of the American Consulate in London.

And Travis became progressively more jealous as he watched the same sex scene being re-filmed from multiple directions and angles, amid numerous calls of “Cut!” to stop the cameras, during which the director chided the leading man for a flub or a misspoken line —but never Ellie, whom he seemed to adore.

And also, as everyone will eventually find out, jealousy can be a real mother fucker.

****

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The Invisible Killer

EPISODE THREE

By Jackson Tel

Copyright 2026 Curtis Kaltsukis, All Rights Reserved

PART 9: The Ultimate Fly

DCI Jonathan Oakes, who should never be addressed as John, was sitting at his office desk thinking about the trout fly that he had been inventing at home for weeks in anticipation of his annual vacation starting tomorrow. It was 4:46 in the afternoon, and he was waiting for 5:00 just to set a good example for his new female Assistant Detective. She was a rookie street cop who, at great peril, single-handedly broke up one of the city’s largest smuggling rings and was subsequently promoted to Jonathan’s office as a promising detective, thereby utilizing his veteran mentorship.

The timing of the energetic and talkative young officer’s promotion to his office was highly annoying to DCI Oakes. That was because he was about to begin his annual vacation to go trout fishing, and was planning to make his thirty-year retirement announcement afterward. Jonathan was eagerly looking forward to starting his second career with the official sounding title ‘Happily Retired Fishing Enthusiast, so Sod Off.’

But who was marking the days off the calendar? Certainly not his lovely, busy, socialite wife, who dreaded having him underfoot. But, she needn’t worry about that because Jonathan had no intention of hanging about the house or tagging along with her. Despite loving her to death, Jonathan would rather shoot himself in the head first.

So, there DCI Oakes was in his office on the third floor of the Charing Cross Homicide Unit, with 14 minutes remaining until the start of his trout fishing vacation in Scotland. The desks of his staff, outside the glass panels of his office, were empty; the detectives working under him were either in the field or had already left work for the day. That was, except for his perky, new Assistant Detective, who was visible to him sitting sideways in the outer room. She was busy sorting and reviewing old, unsolved cold-case files for archival storage while sipping a cup of bright yellow tea.

Chamomile, Jonathan guessed.

Suddenly, Assistant Detective Theresa Chandler sat bolt upright, holding in her hand a clearly marked plastic evidence bag containing a bright white unprinted business card. She quickly rummaged through the other cold case boxes stacked beside her desk until she came upon one containing an identical piece of evidence that had been collected among the miscellaneous household items at another murder scene.

She abruptly stood up and strode towards the glass door of Jonathan’s office, holding in each hand one of the clear plastic bags.

“Fuck me,” Oakes swore to himself as he watched her approach, and his long-anticipated trout fishing vacation plans morphed from being absolutely definite to hold-your-horses, maybe not.

DCI Jonathan Oakes knew all about those damn business cards. They were the signature of The Invisible Killer. If there was anything he wanted to do more than test out his newly created ‘Ultimate Trout Fly,’ it was to finally put that elusive, evil bastard behind bars, forever...before retirement. He could then go out in a blaze of glory.

....

The discovery of the identical blank, bright-white business cards by rookie Assistant Detective Theresa Chandler while sorting and reviewing the cold case files for archival purposes was spooky enough, but what happened next, while she was driving home from work, was more than that. It was the mother of all coincidences.

Theresa just so happened to be passing Whistler’s Alley on her right when she looked over to the opposite corner on the left to give a wave of the hand to one of her favorite snitches, the impish newsboy who went by the name Bub, or Bubby, depending on how well one knew him; no surname was ever forthcoming.

Oddly, it looked to Theresa like he had left his unsold papers in a stack, unattended, on the curb, and was just then returning to pick them up to sell again. While strolling back to his corner spot, Bub held in his hand a bright-white business card that, at a glance, appeared to be blank.

Despite being off-duty, Assistant Detective Chandler pulled off into a parking space along the street and got out of her automobile.

When Bub spotted the officer, he quickly stashed the business card behind his back as he greeted her with a roguish smile. “Hi, Gorgeous, want to buy a paper?”

“Hi ya, Bub, sure thing,” Theresa responded, pulling out her coin purse. She peered around the newsboy’s shoulder. “What you got there?”

“Nothing,” Bub answered while palming the card like a street magician, which he was practicing to become. He then held out both hands, palms up, for her inspection.

That made Theresa laugh. “Either cough it up, or I’ll have to haul you into the station for a thorough body search.” And, she meant it, because she was almost 100% certain that the object he was withholding was the calling card of The Invisible Killer, but needed to verify it for herself.

“What’s in it for me if I show something to you that I don’t have?” Bub asked.

“How about dinner? I’m starved.”

Those were the magic words.

“Kabobs.”

It was no secret to Theresa that her favorite snitch, Bub, loved kabobs. “Show me what you’re holding first,” she insisted.

At that, the newsboy started pulling a long, multi-colored scarf from out of his left sleeve.

“Very funny,” Theresa snorted. “Okay, Bubskie, have it your way,” she stated brusquely, pulling the handcuffs from around her belt, which her suit coat had previously hidden. “I hope you’re in the mood for prison food tonight.”

“Alright, already,” the scruffy kid relented, handing over the card.

After closely examining it, Theresa asked, “Where’d you get it?”

“Some queen I never met before who can’t run for shit in heels. That’s who. That’s all I can tell you. They all look alike, don’t they?”

“So, where do you want to go for kabobs, Bub? Theresa asked, “Maybe stuffing your face will jog your memory.” She motioned for him to follow her to the parked car on the opposite side of the street.

So, her favorite little snitch, holding his stack of papers like a sheath of schoolbooks at his side, followed behind.

....

Upon leaving the kabob restaurant and saying her thanks and goodbyes to Bub, the newly promoted Assistant Detective went to the nearest phone booth and dialed her supervisor, DCI Oakes, at home. He was in the middle of dinner with his wife, his bags already packed and his car loaded to go on his long-anticipated solo trout fishing vacation the next morning.

****

PART 10

Tampering With Evidence

The freelance crime reporter, Marcus Dooley, put the finishing touches on the murder story mere minutes before his submission was due to the lurid daily rag, The London Yellow Dispatch, by writing:

Veronica Simms, the sexy French Maid, employed by the handsome, athletic martial arts instructor of Soho, Thomas Ramsey Jones, had fastidiously rehearsed her famous last words in preparation for the moment of her death. She must not have realized that her end would come instantly and wordlessly when her head was severed by the Samurai sword wielded by Mr. Jones. So, the one opportunity the pretty young woman had to leave behind a memorable legacy, however banal, went unspoken.

Although Marcus had somewhat abused his literary license, the facts of his exclusive story were essentially accurate.

At the time of the murder, he had been listening to the police scanner, waiting for something unique to pop up that was worthwhile writing about. The address given by the dispatcher was only a block away, so he managed to arrive at the bloody scene of the crime before the police did.

There, he found that the door to the studio apartment had been left open a crack. After entering unchallenged, he discovered the woman’s unattached head lying near her body in a pool of blood in the living room. He assumed that the murder weapon was a Samurai sword because one was missing from the collection displayed on the wall of the room. Ramsey Jones was decidedly not present when Marcus arrived.

The woman’s unmoving lips were heart-shaped, accentuated by blood red lipstick. An opaque silk blindfold was secured across her eyes, and the unusually long fingernails of her manicured hands were painted with the same shade as her lipstick. Her arms and legs were covered with intricate tattoos. It appeared to the reporter that the woman had been kneeling at the time of her execution. ‘And, it was definitely an execution of some kind,’ he decided.

Marcus could hear the police sirens approaching the building from a distance. Time was short, so, careful not to leave fingerprints or shoe prints, he quickly took photos of the crime scene and searched the room for evidence and clues to bolster his story and answer his own questions about what had actually transpired.

Running out of time before the police arrived, the reporter rummaged through the housemaid’s purse and discovered the folded slip of paper on which the woman had written the script of her unspoken adieu. Its very presence indicated to him that her death had been planned, but he wasn’t sure about it.

Despite knowing that it was illegal to tamper with crime scene evidence, Dooley took the note with him anyway as he slipped out of the building down the rear stairwell, then out into the service lane at the back. While hurrying home to write the story, the reporter played with headline ideas, such as “Decapitated French Housemaid at Loss for Words.”

Back at home, while busy writing, Marcus was interrupted by an unexpected delivery of an unmarked envelope from a courier service. It contained a blank note card with a front-row, center ticket to the upcoming Travis Mann Band concert at Hyde Park. Included with the surprising gift was a bright-white business card, unprinted on both sides. Marcus recognized it immediately as the signature trademark of The Invisible Killer, whom Marcus was dying to interview.

****

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