text: Detective Matthews sat across from me at an old table in the dingy hotel room we'd been calling home for the last two weeks. A tasteless, faded painting of a farmhouse, three half-finished cups of coffee, and an overflowing ashtray provided the place with a depressing ambience that suited our grim task. We were here because Matthews had noticed a pattern in the killer's victims - most of them had ties to this part of the city. Either they were raised here, they worked here, or maybe they just visited the diner on the corner every week or two. It was our hope that by stationing plain-clothes law enforcement officials discretely throughout the area, we would be able to catch the Mutilator stalking a would-be victim. This was our best lead in a long time. Many of the victims' connections to this place were so tangential that it was a miracle anyone saw the pattern. Even with the FBI's help, we had next to nothing on this sick psychopath. In three dark years of brutal killings, all we knew was that he targeted government employees and law enforcement, always men, always with good careers and impressive accomplishments. This wasn't your average serial killer - there was no indication that he used his victims to assuage some depraved sexual urge. No calling card, no common element to the crime scenes beyond the horrible mutilations that earned him his moniker. The FBI's psych guys thought we were dealing with an anarchist or someone who was wronged by the government, either in perception or reality, in some terrible way. Someone who had dedicated his entire existence to destroying what people like me and my partner were trying to preserve. Our shift was over for the day, and we had 6 hours to get what rest we could before resuming the hunt. Uninterested in sleep, I turned on the television to watch the news. My heart skipped a beat when the reporter announced that another victim of the Mutilator had been discovered. The body's condition was more grotesque than I had ever seen previously. The man's head was smashed into a pulp, his lower jaw entirely absent, burns and deep lacerations covering the majority of his body. Hearing the reporter announce that the victim, identified by the contents of his wallet, was Detective John Patterson was the most surreal moment of my life. If I had any thought that I'd misheard, my doubts were dispelled when a picture of me, proudly smiling in my uniform showed on the screen and my career accomplishments were enumerated. Matthews still sat across from me, silent, where I left him after I caught him by surprise and slit his throat not half an hour earlier. I heard frantic knocking and shouting at the door. My colleagues, doubtless come to check on my partner and ensure his safety, would be breaking their way in at any moment. No matter, I had already ensured that I could slip through the door connecting this room to the next and make my exit unnoticed. Matthews was too close to figuring out who I was, closer than anyone in three years. I cannot respect a servant of the government, but as an adversary he had proved worthy. No one will come that close again. Note: this was originally a response to a writing prompt that I wrote yesterday, but I posted it too late for it to receive any attention.