“Of course, detective. You officers of the law are always so thorough,” said Turner, still smiling.

The courtroom was silent as a grave. The judge nodded to the jury foreman to proceed. The rotund man fumbled with the verdict, trying once and then twice to retrieve it from its envelope. 

A man in an orange jumpsuit stood before the court muttering quietly to himself, his face gaunt and pale from months of anxiety and stress which were culminating in this very moment. Cameras trained on him as media anchors outside breathlessly covered the divisive and polarizing trial which had captivated the country for almost a year now.

The foreman began to speak. Everyone held their breath.

~~~

“Please chief, I’m begging you,” implored Detective Bennett, his eyes filled with sorrow and anger. “Just give me ten minutes. I can crack him. Please.”

“You know I can’t do that,” Chief Kilroy replied. “I’m sorry, son. Truly, I am, but we cannot risk a mistrial.”

Bennett stepped back in disbelief, slumping into a nearby chair as his rage crumbled into despair. Burying his face into his hands, he quietly began to sob. Detective Hughes stood close by, reliving the horror he had felt at the crime scene and the worst phone call he had ever been forced to make to his partner, or to anyone for that matter. There was nothing he could do or say to help and he knew it. What Bennett had been through in the last 48 hours would break any man.

The chief motioned to him. “Detective Hughes, I want you to take the interrogation. You have a way with men like this. We still need something actionable to justify an arrest. ”

The aging detective nodded. Walking past his partner, he gently squeezed his friend’s heaving shoulder. “Courage, Michael,” he said softly. The grieving man looked up through his tears, the anger having returned. “Don’t let him get away, Ben.” 

Hughes grabbed the case file from the chief and made his way to the interrogation room. Before entering, he was intercepted by an impeccably dressed man.

“Detective Hughes,” the man started. “I represent Mr. Turner. My client is… unique. Against my wishes, he has asked to speak with you alone. I will wait outside, but if your department doesn’t issue an arrest warrant, your window to hold my client is almost over.”

Hughes grunted his acknowledgement and proceeded past him. Before entering, he stopped for a moment and prayed quietly to himself.

The door buzzed loudly as it opened. Seated at the lone table was Ezra Turner. He was well dressed and groomed and his eye glasses rounded out his face rather nicely. He smiled at the detective though Hughes thought he sensed a faint menace in his eyes.

“Professor Turner, I believe you’ve been made aware of your Miranda rights already?”

“Of course, detective. You officers of the law are always so thorough,” said Turner, still smiling.

“You are aware you are allowed to have your lawyer present in the room if you would like?”

“Of course, but I would rather just talk.”

“Me too. Just talk," Hughes responded warily. “You are a professor at the college, correct? What is it you teach?”

“Yes,” declared the professor. “But I don’t teach anymore. I’m tenured and hold the chair over the Psychology department. I mainly organize researchers now though I do some occasional charitable clinical work for struggling students on the side. Recently though, I have been taking more time to indulge in my passion projects, especially my painting. ”

Hughes looked down at his notes. Bennett’s daughter had recently started seeing a psychologist. Could that be how the professor was meeting his victims?

“How noble of you. Have you been counseling anyone recently?”

“No, though I have been itching to find some casework. I just adore helping young people bloom into their beautiful potential.”

The detective felt that the man was lying to him, but chose to move on for the moment.

“Well, forgive me for being blunt, but we should address the matter at hand.”

Dropping his manilla folder down on the table, he opened it to reveal a number of pictures, each showing different murder victims, all young and pretty girls.

“Professor Turner, do you know any of the victims in these photos? They all went to your college and were all psychology majors.” 

The professor gazed at each picture, his eyes dancing and a slight grin curling the edge of his mouth. “Ooh, a murder mystery? How fun! No, I can’t say I know any of these lovely ladies, but I would certainly have liked to. They would be such beautiful subjects for a series of portraits, don’t you think? I really ought to teach some classes every now and then so I could get to know them.”

Hughes’ temper flared. Each of the pictures painted grisly crime scenes. These poor girls had been brutally raped and cut to pieces, most likely while they were still alive. In some of the more heinous cases, bleach had been forced down the victims’ throats to neutralize any DNA evidence which could have been collected. The bodies were all found in different abandoned warehouses at the local marina, leading to the media’s overly-sensationalized moniker for the killer: the Shipyard Slasher. Only a monster could look at these bloodbaths and not recoil.

The professor leaned in. “Say, didn’t I hear on the news today that one of the victims was the daughter of a police officer? What a shame. Which one was it? Ooh, let me guess. I bet it was this one, wasn’t it? She really was quite lovely, wasn’t she?”

Hughes felt a spike of adrenaline as the professor pointed to the correct picture. For a moment, he felt himself almost entirely overtaken by rage.

The professor seemed to not have noticed his reaction though, but continued to prattle on. “To be tasked with protecting the public, but not able to protect even his own family? That must destroy a man. If you know him, you should give him my card. I’d be happy to counsel him through it.”

The detective paused for a moment, trying to make sense of the professor’s antagonizations. Could it be that he was hoping to elicit a physical reaction in order to cause a mistrial? No. It was something much more visceral than that. He wanted to brag about what he had done.

“I have an eyewitness who has seen you down by the docks where the bodies were found on several occasions. Why? What is a professor doing out by a shipyard?”

“Oh, I don’t know why, detective,” answered the man innocently. “I like to paint in the evenings and I like the water? It seemed harmless enough to me. I’ll show you some of my art sometime. I think you would love it,” he said winking.

Hughes recoiled at the remark, knowing full well what Turner was saying between the lines. He swore under his breath knowing that the verbiage the professor had chosen to use would be inadmissible in court.

“And what do you paint?”

“Oh, whatever I want to really. That’s the thing about canvases. They just have to take whatever you do to them without complaint or recourse. And if you do your job correctly, the result is… stunning.”

“And by canvases, you’re speaking of blank painting canvases?”

“Of course, detective!” smiled the professor. “What could I possibly mean otherwise?” 

The detective knew that he was being toyed with and that he was running out of time and options. He decided to switch tactics. Maybe open provocations would shake the professor into admitting something.

“Professor, I think you killed those girls and I think that you’ve been bragging about it to my face.”

“Oh, what a nasty thing to say!” said Turner with mock hurt feelings. “And to think I was going to show you some of my work.”

Before the conversation could continue, the silence was interrupted by a sudden beep over the intercom.

“Detective, a moment?” the chief said.

“I’ll be right back,” said Hughes.

“I’ll be waiting with bated breath,” smirked Turner.

Hughes ignored the quip and exited. Chief Kilroy was waiting for him in the observation room. 

“Detective, we aren’t getting anywhere. We’re going to have to let him go.”

“Chief!” declared Hughes. “You just saw what I saw.  That man is a sadist and he is not about to stop!”

“I don’t like it any more than you do, detective, but our holding window is up and his lawyer is going to have a field day if we keep him any longer. We’ve got to cut him loose and try again once we have solid evidence.”

Hughes swore loudly. “There won’t be any evidence! He’s going to destroy any evidence there is the moment he walks out that door!” He swore again, and then calmed himself. “Okay, give me five more minutes and, if I can’t get anything out of him, we cut him loose.” 

Kilroy nodded his assent and the detective returned to the interrogation room.

“You can’t hold me much longer, detective, can you? I’ll be free to go and I’ll be able to paint to my heart’s content. Do you have anyone you love who might want to have their portrait done? I’d be happy to do it, no charge… just for the love of the thing.” A darkness came over his eyes and smile which caused chills to run down Hughes' spine.

“Mr. Turner,” he started, changing the subject. “Did you know that I am retiring next month?

“Oh? Congratulations. Might I suggest taking up art in your spare time? It’s terribly gratifying.”

Hughes ignored him. “Thirty years in the service. I have closed hundreds of cases. In twelve of those, I was forced to kill evil men. I never did this for the money. We don’t get paid that much. I didn’t enjoy it either. I did it because it needed doing.”

Before the professor could respond, the door beeped and the chief walked in with Turner’s lawyer. 

“We’re done,” declared the lawyer. “Mr. Turner, let’s go.”

The detective ignored him. “Do you know who the most dangerous man in this room is, Mr. Turner?”

The professor, who had stood up, stopped and smiled mischievously. “Oh, yes.”

“No, I don't think that you do. You see, you kill little girls who can’t defend themselves to slake your lust. When I kill, I kill monsters.”

“That’s enough!” shouted the lawyer. “Stand down, detective!” roared the chief in agreement. The professor and the detective were entirely focused on each other though, like two apex predators sizing each other up.

“Allegedly kill little girls, you mean?” chuckled the professor.

“Of course. Allegedly,” repeated Hughes coldly.

The two locked eyes, each refusing to break away first. The detective’s gaze shone unwaveringly. A hint of cruelty lingered in the professor’s amused eyes. After a few moments however, it became clear that the professor was not used to exerting his will over those who were stronger than he was. He broke under the detective’s fierce and vengeful glare, looking away for a moment. 

Knowing full well that Hughes had bested him in this cerebral duel, his calm demeanor dissolved for just a moment, his eyes shifting from entertained indifference to venomous fury. His face contorted as if he were about to scream the vile obscenities which he carefully kept hidden in the depths of his true nature. In the blink of an eye however, he caught himself. Jerking suddenly, his face returned to his half-amused smile. He nodded to Hughes. 

“Goodbye, detective. I look forward to getting to know you and your family better soon.”

Time slowed down. Images of his own wife, Bennett’s daughter, the other victims, and memories of their parents’ reactions to being told that they would never see their little girls again flooded his mind.

“No. I do not believe you will.”

In one deft motion, he drew his pistol and fired twice into the professor's skull before he, the chief, or the lawyer had a chance to react.