[Downtown Chicago, November 1928]
A city where crime has been a way of life ever since the Great
Depression hit this godforsaken city. Almost every night, one can
hear screams coming from the city's dark and ominous alleys which
are often followed by gunshots or the faint sound of a knife
digging its way into its prey's body. Even the police force was a
bunch of crooks. They were all corrupt and dishonest. But there
was a man from Miami who came to Chicago to join its local
precinct upon orders from the Miami Police Department.
Carrying a box filled with his old stuff, he stepped in his new
office. He put the box against the wall and grabbed out a
nameplate. He examined his desk and placed his nameplate on it,
Inspector James E. Price. He then turned and faced the window,
opened the blinds and stared at the dreary city skyline. He
It was raining that night.
After a few minutes, he heard a knock on the door. "Come in," he
said, still staring at the city with his arms crossed. The door
opened and the precinct's secretary, Ms. Margaret Louise, came
in. "Are you the new guy? Inspector Price?" asked the lady. James
turned to her and said "That's what my nameplate says," He looked
at the girl. She looked like she was in her late twenties. She
had wavy shoulder-length auburn hair, a pretty face with baby
blue eyes and red lipstick on her lips. As for her clothes, she
wore a sky blue jacket on a plain white shirt, a grey skirt and
heeled shoes. "Here's a dossier about your first case. The guy in
that file has been on the loose for a year now," She handed the
inspector a rather thick but light folder. "He murdered my two
brothers some months ago," she grimly added. "I hope you catch
that no good son of a-" She burst into tears and hugged James. He
felt awkward hugging a stranger he only met for 3 minutes but he
tried to reassure her. "I'll do my best," he said. She then ran
out the door sobbing.
James proceeded to his desk and sat down. For some reason, he
felt that his pants were lighter. He checked his pockets and
discovered that the girl stole his 20 bucks. "This proves Chicago
is a rat hole," he taught in his mind but he decided to shrug the
theft off. He opened the dossier and saw a faded picture of the
killer. It startled him. The killer's face was severely burned
when the picture was taken. He took the picture and put it aside,
faced down. He read reports about the man mutilating his victims
and keeping some of its body parts or scattering it around the
scene of the crime. In one file it says that the killer
perpetrates his crime with a Bowie Knife, a dangerous knife that
has been banned since the late 1830's. How he even got hold of
one, the cops might never know.
In another file, it states he was a poor butcher by the name of
Lance Anderson. It was in 1927 when an arsonist burned his shop
down during Christmas Eve. He was working inside, chopping and
cleaving meat when a burning beam fell on him and knocked the
future-serial killer unconscious. He had to spend a year in
therapy in an asylum afterwards. Since then, after his disfigured
face had been mended, he was observed to be criminally insane and
eisoptrophobic or afraid of seeing his own reflection. But a
simpler way of saying it is that the man is afraid of mirrors.
It is also said that shards of glass are found in every victim's
body and that murders happen in restrooms or department stores.
"I guess he goes psychotic when he sees mirrors," James thought.
He started his killing spree on the 2nd day of March the year
after, seven souls taken by that wretched demon.
When he flipped to the last file, there was a hand-written note
with dried blood on it. The note read "C'mon Capone! Show
yourself you coward!" A sheet of paper was attached to it by a
paper clip. The document said that it was found taped on the
seventh victim's forehead.
"Gang rivalry. The usual," he said to himself.
He gingerly picked up the man's photo again and placed it in the
folder. Then, he opened the first drawer on his desk and shoved
the dossier inside. Subsequently, a yellow sticky note that has
lost its stick fell on the floor. He picked it up and read it.
"To the person, who will investigate this case, please contact
the murderer's illegitimate son, Arnold, who works at the diner
two blocks south of this building," He dropped the note on his
table, stood up and glanced at his watch. "6:15 PM. I better make
this quick," he said. He went to the box with his stuff and
grabbed out a hat, a grey fedora. He put it on, turned off the
room's lights and went out his office's door.
Inspector James E. Price's first case, a string of murders in
downtown Chicago, set on the brink of a gang war in the late
20's. He took a deep breath, stepped out the precinct's doors and
into Chicago's vast abyss of crime and sin.