The Superimposed Killer
by Jared Branch
He turned the photo over and looked at the back and saw nothing and turned it over again.
“It’s not real, is it? I mean the hawk. It’s not really there,” McGuffin said.
“Nah, it’s superimposed,” he replied. “Not sure what that’s supposed to mean. Boys downtown are calling him the superimposed killer. Boys downtown ain’t too original," he said and smiled. His left canine jutted ferociously and in the light he looked like a vampire. McGuffin shuddered and turned away.
“All the bodies like this?” McGuffin asked.
“Yep. Strangled so hard they’re nearly decapitated and always have their pinky finger cut off. And, of course," he pointed at the picture of the bird in McGuffin's hand, "they all got the card.”
McGuffin looked at the picture of the hawk flying through the trees. “And you’re sure nothing’s missing?” he asked.
“Detective, you can check again if you don't trust our work. It wasn’t a robbery. Bastard’s just been picking people off. Far as we can tell it’s random.”
McGuffin stood and stretched and put his hands in the pockets of his trench coat and it flapped languidly in the breeze. He felt his pockets for cigarettes but found none and he frowned slightly as he looked at the body.
“What have you got so far?” McGuffin asked.
“That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it, detective?”
McGuffin grunted noncommittally and walked out of the terrace and to the lobby and called the elevator.