Blood of Gato

It was drizzling lightly outside, and the city was trying to wash away the dirt of its nightmarish dreams. Two detectives, just stepping out of the warm interior of an old Toyota, walked along the sidewalk illuminated by the purple glow of streetlights. The man was sturdy, with slightly tanned skin, dark blonde hair casually slicked back, and a short beard. Bluish shadows of fatigue were visible on his face, and he held a coffee cup in one hand, with smoke lazily rising from the cigarette in the other. The woman beside him was tall, slightly stooped, with pale skin, expressive green eyes, and short, neatly trimmed hair. They were dressed simply: dark jeans and windbreakers, nothing extraneous.

The man took a drag, looking at his partner, and asked, noticing her slightly mischievous smile, "What's with that smile? Did you finally win the lottery? Or, God forbid, are you happy that we lost so disgracefully yesterday?"

He spoke in a tired, slightly hoarse voice, as if each word was a struggle.

"Oh no," she replied, slamming the car door so hard that a dog somewhere barked in response. "I just have a good mood today. After all, we've been assigned to catch a maniac. Isn't that wonderful?" Her voice was full of sarcasm.

Sam smirked, taking a sip of the bitter coffee. "Still mad at the boss? Listen, you're wrong to be like that. Carl and Tommy may not know the difference between mouse droppings and chocolate, but luck favors fools! What if they actually find the clues leading to our Heart-eater?"

Anna couldn't help but chuckle in response, though she shook her head. "If Carl and Tommy find anything, I'll buy everyone drinks for a week," she promised, stepping closer to where the police were bustling under the tape and reporters were scurrying about.

"And what's happening to our city…" Anna said thoughtfully, examining the wet asphalt beneath her feet. "Just yesterday, there were fewer than a hundred murders a year, and now… I have a feeling the statistics are going to surprise us this year."

Sam snorted, tossing the butt into a trash can. "The city is growing like crazy, and with it, the amount of trash is increasing too. We're no longer a backwater; we're a real jungle. But here, the lions aren't the most dangerous beasts."

"Maybe we should start getting paid like they do in New York, since we're in the jungle now," Anna added with a smile, waving cheerfully at a familiar patrol officer by the barricade. "Otherwise, our salary is like that of an Amish shepherd, but the risks are much higher."

"And maybe our coffee will stop tasting like dissolved sand," Sam chimed in, and they both laughed quietly.

A stout, balding officer in a soaked raincoat approached them—his belly protruding forward, the belt at risk of bursting. He waved his hand. "Anna, Sam! How are you guys? I hope you didn't eat anything this morning? Because I doubt your stomachs will handle what's waiting for you."

He nodded toward the trash bins, where human silhouettes could be discerned under the black plastic.

"Good morning, old friend!" Sam cheerfully replied, extending his coffee cup to the officer. "Coffee? It really tastes about the same, just a bit better than urine."

"Thanks, but I'm sticking to water today," he grimaced and sighed. "What do we have here?" Anna asked, already impatiently looking under the plastic.

The officer lowered his voice, casting a sideways glance at the reporters eager for sensational news. "Two bodies. A man and a woman. More precisely, what's left of them…" There was something like fear in his voice. "It looks like they were minced."

"Damn, is it really that bad?" Sam scratched his chin, hiding the worry in his voice.

Anna cautiously lifted the edge of the bag, then immediately recoiled, covering her mouth with her hand. "Sam, you need to see this…" She forced the words out, trying not to look at what was under the bag.

Sam bent down, pulled apart the plastic—and grimaced sharply, stepping back. "Holy shit! That stench…" He nearly choked, pinching his nose. "What the hell did they do to them?"

"I told you, it's not for the faint of heart," the officer grumbled. "And I assure you—this isn't our Heart-eater. At least, he hasn't left such… gifts before. Looks like we have a new psycho on our hands, or the old one decided to change his style. Either way, we're going to have our hands full."

Sam closed his eyes for a moment, trying to block out the gruesome scene, and then, exhaling, gathered his strength and asked, "Were you able to identify the bodies?"

The officer sighed heavily, looked down at his police boots, then lifted his gaze. "Yes, we did… The man's name was Sean Pierce, the woman's Claire. They were married. I actually arrested them a couple of years ago for theft at a jewelry store; both have criminal records: robberies, credit card fraud, a couple of scams with fake documents… But there were no murders associated with them."

For a moment, the officer fell silent—a shadow crossed his face, as if the memories were not pleasant.

Anna carefully moved the edge of the black bag to get a better look at the bodies. Sam noticed how she clenched her teeth, suppressing her disgust. "So they technically fit the profile of potential Heart-eater victims," Anna said thoughtfully, examining the mutilated faces.

Sam shook his head, not hiding his skepticism. "Hey, don't jump to conclusions. Look at these wounds—our guy works differently. He's meticulous, almost pedantic, and here…" He squatted down, closely inspecting the man's pants. "Someone acted in a frenzy—each blow, each bite shows rage. Even the bite marks are ragged, chaotic. It looks like the killer was in a fury or under some influence."

Anna nodded, frowning. She, in gloves, cautiously ran her hand over the woman's torso, where the wounds gaped like patches, as if they had been inflicted randomly with a sharp object. "Did you search them?" she asked, sliding her hand under the remnants of the blouse.

"No," the officer replied, shifting from foot to foot. "We decided to wait for you; we didn't want to touch anything until the investigators arrived."

Sam, still crouching, glanced at his face. "Then how did you identify them? Their faces… well, you see for yourself," he nodded toward the mutilated heads.

The officer pointed to the man's forearm. "Tattoo. Pierce had one distinctive mark. Take a look for yourself."

Sam carefully lifted the sleeve. On the pale, blood-stained skin, a tattoo was visible: a snake coiling around a dove and sinking its fangs into its neck. The image was unpleasant but recognizable.

"Now that's a tattoo! The coroner will have something to discuss over lunch," Sam smirked wryly and let go of the sleeve.

Meanwhile, Anna felt something under the deceased woman's blouse. Her face brightened for a moment. "Sam, look!" She pulled out a worn wallet, quickly opened it, and took out the contents.

Sam glanced over the cards, then stopped at one document. "Now this is interesting…" he said, displaying the ID. "Student pass. William Farrow, engineering department. Doesn't match either Sean or Claire."

Anna frowned. "Do you think they robbed him? Or could the guy have been with them?"

Sam shrugged, but interest flickered in his eyes. "Maybe he was the last one to see them alive. Or the opposite…" He looked at the officer, "Who found the bodies?"

"A local janitor. He's over there," the officer nodded toward an elderly man in an orange vest, smoking by the police car and aimlessly staring into a puddle.

Anna looked at Sam. "I think we should talk to Mr. Farrow. And interrogate the janitor. Maybe he noticed something before the patrol arrived."

Sam nodded, tucking the pass into the evidence bag. "First the interrogation, then the student."

And, casting one last glance at the mutilated bodies, they headed toward the witness, gripping the evidence tightly in their hands.

******

Lunchtime arrived, filling the kitchen with the appetizing aroma of freshly made tomato sauce, seasoned with oregano and basil. William's mom skillfully plated the steaming spaghetti, generously topping each dish with meatballs. The family gathered around the table, which William and his father had managed to fix after this morning's mishap—it now stood straight, though with a barely noticeable scratch along the edge.

William tried to suppress his inner anxiety, gripping his fork so tightly that his knuckles turned white. After the morning's incident, he felt as though every gaze from his family was scrutinizing him, as if someone might suspect something at any moment. He quietly reminded himself that the beast inside was likely reacting to stress—like animals do. So now, the key was to stay calm and not draw attention to himself.

His mom approached him, concern flickering across her face. She piled a generous mound of spaghetti onto his plate, careful not to spill a drop of sauce. "Honey, you need to eat more," she said, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. Her voice was soft yet insistent. "You've lost so much weight lately."

William cautiously picked up his fork, poked at the heap of food, and without looking at her, mumbled, "Mom, that's too much… I can't eat that much."

Mutt, ignoring his protests, continued to serve the others, occasionally casting disappointed glances at her son. "Don't argue," she said, deliberately stern, tapping her spoon against his plate. "You look like a skeleton! That's why girls are leaving you—who wants a toothpick for a boyfriend?"

In the corner of the table, his younger sister, Samantha, raised her eyebrows enthusiastically and turned to him. "Did Sophie dump you?!" she asked with childlike innocence, resting her elbows on the table and propping her chin on her hands.

William straightened up sharply and threw his hands up. "Mom!" he exclaimed, shooting an irritated glance at his sister. "Sam, it's none of your business! And anyway, get out of my face," he hissed, shielding himself with his hand. "If you heard something, that doesn't mean you should tell everyone! Maybe you'll even share it with your friends?"

Embarrassed, he covered his face with his palm, while Samantha giggled and, undeterred, leaned in closer.

His mom, seemingly ignoring the bickering, suddenly clapped her hands. "Oh, Aunt Morgan has a daughter about your age! Maybe you should ask her; who knows, you might hit it off…"

William grimaced, pushed his chair back, and shook his head. "No, Mom, not that. Can we just eat, please?" he quietly asked, trying to avoid eye contact with anyone.

Samantha twirled her fork between her fingers, then sighed and looked at her brother with envy. "Ugh, why did you get all the skinniness and not me?" she complained, taking a bite of a meatball. Her gaze slid over his sharp cheekbones before returning to her own hands.

Mutt sat down, took a sip of water, and looked at her daughter attentively. "Sweetheart, what's wrong with your figure?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

Samantha let out a loud sigh, set down her fork, and raised her hand. "Mom, look! I've gained three kilograms in just a month!" She pinched her tricep, highlighting a barely noticeable roundness.

Mutt smiled gently and leaned back in her chair. "Sweetie, that's not fat; it's muscle. You've been playing volleyball almost every day—that's why you're getting stronger. I warned you it would happen."

She glanced at her son, who was still sulking over his plate, not having started to eat.

"And anyway," Mutt suddenly raised her voice, "stop with this nonsense about losing weight! You look great, and I don't want to hear that you're unhappy with yourself anymore!"

The truth was on her side: Samantha did look fantastic—an athletic figure, light hair, blue eyes, and a lively, energetic gaze. At fifteen, she already stood out among her peers.

But Samantha wasn't backing down. "But Suzy and Mari said they don't have that problem. They're even losing weight, not gaining! What if I really become as fat as a cow…" she whispered, lowering her gaze.

"My sweet girl," Mutt set down her fork. "Don't listen to every second girl! You're not going to jump off a roof just because everyone else is jumping!" She shook her finger. "Suzy and Mari are just not eating enough, like your skeleton brother. There's nothing to envy! No one in our family needs to lose weight—quite the opposite… except maybe for…"

She shot a meaningful glance at her husband, who at that moment was devouring pasta, barely managing to chew.

"What?" Bob asked with a mouth full of food, raising his eyebrows. Drops of sauce were caught at the corners of his mouth.

Mutt and Samantha couldn't hold back their laughter, and William smiled too. Noticing that her son still hadn't touched his food, Mom gently nudged him with her elbow. "Come on, eat," she said with affectionate insistence. "I hope my efforts weren't in vain."

William smiled sheepishly, as if caught doing something forbidden, and finally picked up his fork. He carefully brought the steaming spaghetti to his lips and inhaled the aroma, which was remarkably rich and vibrant: the tomatoes tasted of sunshine, garlic pleasantly tingled his nose, and the basil reminded him of summer vacations outdoors. When he took his first bite, the flavor exploded on his tongue like fireworks; the sauce was bright, and the meatballs melted in his mouth, revealing hints of parmesan and a touch of herbs.

He ate with an unprecedented appetite: at first carefully, then increasingly faster, winding the spaghetti onto his fork without noticing how quickly his plate emptied. He even wiped the leftover sauce with bread—something he wouldn't have allowed himself before. His family watched him in astonishment.

His father, wiping his mouth with a napkin, remarked with a smile, "Wow, someone's appetite has awakened! Clearly, sports are doing you good."

Mom, beaming with pride, immediately jumped up from her seat. "Want seconds, William? I have more left. I'm so glad you liked it!"

Samantha leaned over the table, shaking her head with exaggerated sarcasm. "Hey, take it easy! No one's going to steal your food!" she scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Is it really that delicious, or are you just trying to catch up on your weight?"

William, tearing himself away from his plate, realized everyone was looking at him. He quickly swallowed the bread, cleared his throat to hide his embarrassment, and took a sip of water before nodding at his mother. "Mom, this is really delicious. I never thought spaghetti could be so… rich. I'd really love seconds, if that's possible."

Mutt smiled appreciatively, patting her son on the shoulder, and hurried to the kitchen for another helping. His father winked playfully at him, while Samantha, pouring salad onto her plate, couldn't resist continuing. "By the way, Wil…" she began, throwing him a sly glance. "What really happened with Sophia? Did she dump you, or did you run away?"

William frowned. Inside, something twisted uncomfortably, sharp and prickly. He didn't want to talk about Sophia; he didn't want to revisit that conversation—it was too painful and hurtful.

"Sam, enough!" he blurted out unexpectedly, his voice low and hoarse. The fork trembled in his hand. He felt his palm clenching into a fist, his nails elongating and digging into his skin.

Samantha seized the opportunity to tease him. "Oh, come on, loser," she said with feigned sympathy, though her eyes sparkled with mischief. "I just asked; you don't have to get all worked up…"

In that moment, William noticed that his hand was literally changing. His heart raced in his throat. He quickly pulled his hand under the table to keep anyone from noticing.

"Mom, I… I think I'll eat later. I still have a ton of homework for university," he mumbled, jumping up from his chair so abruptly that he nearly knocked it over.

"Are you sure, sweetie?" Mom asked, surprised, as she returned with a bowl of spaghetti.

"Later, Mom, really," he replied, already heading out of the kitchen.

"Oh, brother, I was just joking! Why do you have to…" Samantha shouted after him, but William had already disappeared through the door.

He quickly climbed the stairs, almost running into his room, slammed the door shut, and leaned heavily against it, feeling his breath quicken. He looked down at his hand: his fingers were elongated, and the claws were sharp and long.

"Calm down… Calm down…" he whispered to himself, clenching his changed hand. He closed his eyes and tried to steady his breathing: inhale, exhale, another inhale. "Think of something good… This will pass… it's just stress…"

But immediately, the image of Sophia flashed in his mind: her perpetually dissatisfied face, the cold voice she used when announcing their breakup. How could she do this? He had tried so hard for her—making notes, helping with her studies, even putting up with her awful personality… And it was all for nothing!?

Something inside him stirred, demanding to break free, to show that this couldn't be done to him. William gritted his teeth, battling himself.

"Damn it, screw this… Enough! Just calm down!" he growled quietly, squeezing his hand until it hurt.

He slowly sank to the floor, pressing his forehead against the cool surface of the door, trying once more to catch hold of the remnants of his humanity that seemed on the verge of slipping away. "No, I'm clearly not going to make it!" he said through clenched teeth. He heard footsteps: his mother or someone else was coming up the stairs. Sensing that this wouldn't end well, his eyes darted around the room. Then he found an escape—it was like a message from above: his window was open, and a cold breeze was blowing through. Breathing rapidly, he grabbed his jacket and, like a madman, rushed toward the window.