The Slaughtererd Ox

D.C.I Whitehorse examined the reports and photos of the case.
The case had been dubbed the art peice murders by the tabloids and had engaged Whitehorse completely. Unlike t.v or the movies serial killers ar'nt ten a penny.
To Whitehorse he'd struck gold when the murders had started and he was given the case. He'd all ways thought he was mean't for more than the mundane and random brutality of your run of the mill murders he felt he'd been lumped with over the years.
When he'd been a younger man, he'd been consumed with murder mystery novels especially Agatha Christie.
Thinking on it thats what had motivated him to join the force in the first place, but as with all dreams based on the romance of fiction, this dream had been shatterd and lost to reality many, many years ago. This case though was'nt Christie it had more in common with the hollywood gore and horror of some low budget slasher, but the clues, the clockwork chemistry of how it'd all fallen together in Whitehorse's brain, it'd made him think of all those detectives he'd read in his youth and for the duration of the case he'd relived a little of it. Which to him seemed a rather apt end to his carrerr as a policeman after the court case all he really had to look forward to was retirement. Turning his attention back to the files on his desk he scanned through the 27 victims' face's in the small window like images attached to the tops of each document with a paper clip he'd studied each victim so intensly that they'd lost any form of humanity to him they'd become peices in a larger
puzzle that when veiwed as a whole showed whitehorse the bigger picture in clear and radiant tecnicolour.

Gatherin the files together and straightning them together into a cataloge sized lump, whitehorse straightend his tie and cleared his throat and made his way out of his office and through the corridors of the station untill he reached the interview rooms. After they'd caught him, the killer, it'd been a relatively easy if lengthy interviw process, he'd confessd to all but one of the killings, which had confused the entire investigating team all but whitehorse who knew better. That one loose end needed tieing up though and for that whitehorse needed, hopefully one last interview with "the art piece murderer",

The killer considerd himself an artist, once apon a time he had been. He'd done all sorts but had decided to settle into Damion Hurst style stuff, all dead animals and stuff, starting with small creatures and working his way up to larger beasts like pigs,cows,horses.
Whilst everyone was unaware that he'd been killing and butchering the animals himself.
In many ways his descent into serial killing was classic but speedy. The catalyst for this was his art,no past pain or trauma, no issues with "friendly" uncles, just the need to create his art as he saw fit.

Opening the door to interview room 6, he sat down infront of the murderer and nodded at the officer in the corner. Starting the recorder whitehorse's gentle welsh tones spoke the time the date, the names of those present and began.
Spreading the files out in front him so the accused could see them white horse asked soothingly,
"now, you've been very co-operative thats going to go a long way in court, but there is the matter of your 24th victim..." He shuffled through the files untill he found the one he was looking for and placed in down on top of the others.
"Mr Taylor?" a well spoken voice interupted
"No Miss Asquith" Whitehorse corrected, pointing at the file he'd produced.
"we've been here before detective inspector, circles, bore me."
but again he inspected the pictures of Rosie Asquith before and after he killing
Whitehorse sighing shifted his weight in his seat and leaned on the table that seperated them
"denying it isn't helping, we've got your confession for the others, playing games now isn't going to achieve any thing."
"I'm not playing, Asquith was not one of my peices"
"Victims, not peices, victims,"
After a short pause the well spoken voice continued, "they became more than that after there inclusion in my work, they trancended the human, became art and gained immortallity, so no, not victims, but peices"
"Do you beleive you were helping them? helping them live forever?"
"Don't be so absurd Detective,I merely mean't as art they will live forever, I doubt any one will forget them now."
Whitehorse was growing impatiant and steered back to his original question,
"so your telling me that the murder of Richard Taylor, despite the manner he was killed in,which matched your M.O , had nothing to do with you!?"
"none what so ever."
"so you stand by your statement?"
"yes."
The rest of the interveiw was uneventful, no matter how he pushed Whitehorse could'nt get him to confess to the murder of Rosie Asquith.

Mark Slipper "The Artpeice Murderer" sat quietly in his cell and contemplated Rosie Asquith, and "The Slaughterd Ox" a painting by Rembrandt and how some-one, some heathen had plagarised Rembrandt's work in a vain attempt to make there own crude, philistine murder look like one of HIS peices, this would not do, would not do at all.

Hats off to whom ever had done it though, thought Mark,
they have captured the memento mori of my pieces with this ripped off Rembrandt.
there had been a level of research into his work that Mark nearly found flattering, nearly but not quite,
fucking plagiarist, and its been swallowed as a forgery, something needs to be done about this, a lesson must be taught.

During the trial they'd called him a monster, a psychotic. this didn't sit well with Mark he'd researched and studied his muses, they'd had no family no friends, and had confirmed this by attending there funerals from a discreet distance. the entire exercise had meant to highlight this along with giving a sense of mortality, a kick start to all those forgotten people that are not actually alive but just existing in the day to day. Mark never expected to be understood though.
He'd made the forgotten the stars of the show there names would live on and thusly they'd be damn near immortal.