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Original poster
Watchmen: Rorschach's Journal. . .
. . .October fourteenth, nineteen-eighty-four. The night began with a murder. It always did. Another tally mark added to the growing list of victims of the city's corrupted streets. Good men and women had fallen to the evil that had rotted the foundations, yet they thought that closing their eyes would make it go away. Just because you couldn't see the monsters in the dark, didn't mean they weren't there.
Floyd Newman. Forty-eight. A taxi driver working seven nights a week to pay the rent for his tiny apartment, and the money he owed his ex-wife living a life away from the hardships of the real world. He was victim number three of the man I'd been chasing for a number of weeks. I knew it was him by his calling card—the butchered stump where a pair of middle fingers should be. They were probably kept as trophies, the killer's own twisted version of a photo album of cherished memories—what would be nightmares for some, would be pleasant dreams for him.
The distant sirens sang for another crime, the freshly-made corpse would have to wait his turn before the police got round to wrapping the scene up with some tape and a nice little bow. The victim sat in the driver's seat of his own cab, slumped over the worn leather of the wheel. The sparkle of keys came from the shadows around his feet, drizzled with the deep red that dripped from the bullet holes in his gut. The trail of blood extended away from the car and across the desolate parking lot where the empty casings were scattered—the victim had tried to flee but the chase didn't last for long.
Rorschach couldn't make a connection between the trio of victims, so far the canvas was a bunch of dots and none of them were joined. Maybe there was something he was missing, maybe there was a giant clue staring him in his black-and-white face and he was too tired to put it altogether. Or maybe there was no connection at all. When was the last time he had slept? A few hours here, a few hours there—the longer his head was on a pillow, the longer his prey had to kill.
. . .another dead end. No clues, no evidence, no careless mistakes from the killer. . . but there was something much worse—I wasn't even sure if this was only victim number three. . .
Floyd Newman. Forty-eight. A taxi driver working seven nights a week to pay the rent for his tiny apartment, and the money he owed his ex-wife living a life away from the hardships of the real world. He was victim number three of the man I'd been chasing for a number of weeks. I knew it was him by his calling card—the butchered stump where a pair of middle fingers should be. They were probably kept as trophies, the killer's own twisted version of a photo album of cherished memories—what would be nightmares for some, would be pleasant dreams for him.
The distant sirens sang for another crime, the freshly-made corpse would have to wait his turn before the police got round to wrapping the scene up with some tape and a nice little bow. The victim sat in the driver's seat of his own cab, slumped over the worn leather of the wheel. The sparkle of keys came from the shadows around his feet, drizzled with the deep red that dripped from the bullet holes in his gut. The trail of blood extended away from the car and across the desolate parking lot where the empty casings were scattered—the victim had tried to flee but the chase didn't last for long.
Rorschach couldn't make a connection between the trio of victims, so far the canvas was a bunch of dots and none of them were joined. Maybe there was something he was missing, maybe there was a giant clue staring him in his black-and-white face and he was too tired to put it altogether. Or maybe there was no connection at all. When was the last time he had slept? A few hours here, a few hours there—the longer his head was on a pillow, the longer his prey had to kill.
. . .another dead end. No clues, no evidence, no careless mistakes from the killer. . . but there was something much worse—I wasn't even sure if this was only victim number three. . .