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Yellow Kid Murderer

created by BOZART

Chapter.1

1.1

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"Welcome to the party, lieutenant.”

"Welcome to the party, lieutenant.”

I stepped out of the car and faced the officer. I took a deep breath through my nose before I asked the question.

"Who is it this time?"

"The MOST."

DAMN

“And the last time?"

“MOX."

“And before that?"

“MNN."

DAMN

“First was MYT, sir."

“Yeah, I get it. I know. Shall we?"

I gestured to the officer and we started walking towards the house. As we were walking, I continued with another question.

"How many times is this?”

“This would be the seventh."

DAMN.

“In which department?”

“Sports."

“And the last one?"

“Technology."

I brought my right hand to my forehead, massaging my temples between my fingers.

“And… before that?

“Culture."

“Well would you look at that.”

When we got closer to the house, I stopped in my tracks and looked around me. The whole front of the house was crowded with reporters and broadcasters.

“What a welcome from the crowd, especially today."

"There'll be more, sir."

I took one last breath before making my way through the sea of reporters. Finally, I was able to enter the house.

“That way.”

The men who were guarding the front of the door slowly moved away.

It was clearly an office.

I stepped into the room.

My eyes immediately fell on a figure who was lying with his head down on the desk in front of him.

He looked like he had fallen asleep from exhaustion.

He looked oddly... peaceful.

I cautiously walked closer to the desk to get a better look.

Hmm...

Next to him was an all too familiar picture that I had seen six times.

1.2

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A labyrinth.

Or a squirrel wheel?

Whatever you might call it.

And the cause of death?

The poison of a blowfish, although that was already figured out long before.

What we didn't know was how exactly it was fed to all the victims.

Moreover, there was a two hour delay from the start of ingestion to the moment of death that could not be explained.

And the motivation behind it all?

Not a single clue.

Only thing for sure was that the criminal, whoever he is, is targeting journalists.

We could not find any other correlation between the victims.

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"Are you going to order or not?"

I answered without turning my head.

“Do you really need to ask?"

The only reason I ever come to visit this crappy place is because there's no other place that's open late near the police station.

On the TV, experts were discussing what they called the "Yellow Kid Murderer."

I watched passively, clearly not entertained.

I wondered if they knew that they were basically eating themselves up.

Were they not aware that they could find themselves served on the lunch table?

Tired of watching the nonsense on the screen, I picked up a newspaper that someone had left on the table.

"Why weren't the police trying to catch this "Yellow Kid Murderer?"

DAMN.

Right as I was about to toss the newspaper to the side in frustration, I heard a voice from behind.

“Give me that one."

1.3

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I turned my head in the direction that the voice was coming from.

An older woman was smiling at the booth on the other side.

She looked to be in her mid 60s or 70s.

“This is fun. Wouldn't you say so?"

I gave a small smile and shrugged.

“I suppose it could be. But 'entertaining' is usually the word I use to describe reality shows. Not the press."

“I see..."

She looked at me quizzically and then proceeded to ask me a question.

"What do you think the mission of the press is?”

I paused for a second and responded.

"To tell the truth to the public."

She gave a disappointing look.

"He would be disappointed to hear what you just said."

"And who would that be?"

“The man who created modern journalism."

I tilted my head in confusion.

At that very moment, the sandwich I ordered came out.

I scanned my surroundings, looking for something.

"Are you looking for this?"

My eyes stopped and slowly moved toward her hand. In her hand was a bottle of mustard clenched between her fingers.

.

.

.

While I ate, the old woman continued to watch the TV, seemingly bored by its contents.

I put my sandwich down and asked another question out of curiosity.

"Can you tell me?"

The woman took her eyes off the screen and stared back at me.

"I'm sorry?"

"About him."

"Who?"

"The man who created modern journalism or whatever you called it."

"Ah, him."

"Why did he create it?"

The woman shifted in her seat as to make herself comfortable and smiled before opening her mouth to respond.

.

.

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(to be continued...)

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