FMA Post for Victor

[Demonic Neko]

Time: Anytime
Place: Dublith
Previous Thread Name: None
Thread Type: One Shot
Spoilers Y/N: Nope
Notes: A series of grisly murders has been plaguing Dublith, with no rhyme or reason to the killings except for one thing: The victims are all missing different body parts. It looks to some like the work of Barry the Chopper, now living at the Devil's Nest. But who is really responsible for the killings, and will anyone be able to stop it?

[Demonic Neko]

Skinning a human wasn't hard as one would think. Yes it did take practice to get the larger pieces without shredding it to a point where it would be useless, but after a few times one would get the knack of it. All you needed was a good, sharp blade. But then most of life's little problems could usually be solved with a good sharp blade.

A good knife could easily cut through cartilage to free limbs from their bodies. It could slice through sinew, muscle and bone to reveal shiny, red organs. It could be used with exact precision to slice away eyelids and gently pry glossy orbs from their sockets.

Victor stared down at his blade, crimson from the night's harvest. He carefully wiped the blade clean on a rag before tucking it away in a pocket. The rag he tossed carelessly into the alleyway. Tonight's kill had given him a nice skin, a elegant right hand and a lovely pair of amber eyes.

Unfortunately the organs on this body were unfit for Harvest, but that was just the way things were. One could never tell what people's insides looked like by their outward appearance. Sometimes you just had to cut away and hope for the best. Gathering his prizes into a rubber lined dufflebag, Victor silently slipped into the night, softly humming under his breath.

[Lolua]

((Don't mind me, just adding some military backup to the case... this guy is one of probably many NPCs I'll be popping into this thread as.))

First Lieutenant Jack Murdoch liked working late into the night. A pot of strong coffee was his only companion in his office at South Headquarters as he flipped the pages of the case files for the unsolved murders. By all rights he should have the files memorized by now, and perhaps he did; but it always helped his deductive skills to have the printed words right in front of him, so that he didn't have to waste any brain power on recalling the facts of the case.

It was bizarre, really, how little these documents told him. They spoke of splattered blood, cleanly severed bones, and gingerly peeled back skin. The coroners had been very thorough, as if by their detailed reports they could compensate for the dearth of evidence available from other sources. The reports described the victims' backgrounds, gleaned from interviews with their family and friends after the fact, but Murdoch couldn't help but feel that the killer hadn't cared about any of it. He could find no common denominator among the victims: male or female, rich or poor, fat or thin, it didn't seem to matter.

Usually with a killing spree this long, the perp would slip up and leave a nice partial fingerprint somewhere along the line. but not a single print had been found on or near any of the victims. They had found a few hairs, to be sure, but without a fingerprint to lead them in the right direction, having a long dark hair wasn't much good except to cause pointless arguments over whether the killer was a woman or not.

And try as he might, Lieutenant Murdoch hadn't been able to deduce a pattern in the body parts that had been taken from each victim. Without a motive., it had been impossible to say what kind of person they were looking for or where that person might strike next.

The matter should have fallen to the local police. Murdoch's superior officer, Captain Reynolds, had offered to put the resources of the military behind the investigation, taking the heat off his favorite golfing buddy, the civilian Police Commissioner for Dublith. Reynolds' utter confidence in his department to be able to solve the crime had not flagged, but after two months of the spree, twenty unsolved murders clogged the Open Case Files shelf in the Investigations bullpen at South Headquarters. Humiliation and frustration ruled the days and nights of the investigating team, and Murdoch's night was no exception.

The general in charge of South HQ and even the powers-that-be at Central Command were breathing down their necks about catching the killer. The city of Dublith had complicated matters when they fronted the cash for a tip line and a handsome reward for information leading to an arrest; pretty much every warm body in Murdoch's department was engaged in taking calls and trying to weed out real tips from pranks and honest mistakes.

Murdoch looked at the small window in his office, now dark and mirror-like, reflecting the interior of the brightly lit office rather than showing him the world outside of the building. He thought idly that maybe it was the nighttime that was keeping him from the truth; night was when the killer preferred to strike, and as a working man on the day shift, Murdoch was out of his element in the darkness. Perhaps that was why he always turned on all the electric lights in his office when he burned the midnight oil like this, though he'd always told himself that the brightness helped keep him awake. But it also seemed to be blocking his way to the answers he sought.

The brightly lit office didn't seem so cheerful anymore. Murdoch picked up his fedora hat from its customary perch, an oversized paperweight in the shape of a bronze falcon. He placed it on his head, holstered his gun, and, taking a last fortifying sip of his coffee, left his office to wander out into the night in search of a peek into the mind of a killer.

So I'm thinking with these new developments that I should start thinking about how Murdoch will react to Marcoh's report.

---

For a moment Jack Murdoch, First Lieutenant and ace detective in the Investigations department at South Headquarters, was more excited than he'd been in months. He'd come in to work at the usual time, expecting to be confronted with the usual disappointed faces when he walked into the big communal office where all the junior staff sat. This morning, however, the usually morose Master Sergeant Petrillo had practically hugged him, she was so brimming with mirth.

"Patrolman named Marcoh found another victim last night," she said hurriedly, her ordinarily husky voice seeming to leap a couple octaves upward in her joy. "They tried for ages to call you, but nobody answered your phone. You must sleep like the dead."

Murdoch sighed heavily. For reasons best not considered this morning, Murdoch hadn't spent the night at home and never got the phone call. "What's so exciting about that?" he asked her.

"The Marcoh kid saw the murderer," she said with a self-satisfied smirk, the first Murdoch had seen on her face in... well, in what seemed like forever. "Score one for the military, eh?"

[Demonic Neko]

Oooooh I like this!

[Lolua]

Okay, Raven, I think it might be ready for posting... read it over when you get a chance and let me know if you approve or if you need anything changed! ^_^

[Demonic Neko]

Looks great Lolua Post away

[Demonic Neko]

***********************
"Why is it I always get stuck on night patrol..." Timothy grumbled, his flashlight shining ahead of him and illuminating the empty street before him. He could hear distant rumbles of thunder coming from the distance and cursed under his breath, as though that could honestly stop the rain from coming. He was wishing now he'd dragged along his umbrella, and felt the nervousness that always came with rain since his alchemy was rendered useless by it.

"Guess that's what I've got my handgun for..." he muttered, feeling the pressure of it against his hip where it was strapped to his belt. He felt entirely worn out from completing paperwork and meaningless tasks all day, but at least there were only a few more roads until he reached home, as in the barracks, and could retire for the night.

It was then he stepped onto a street and noticed something incredibly wrong. Ahead of him, slithering from the darkness of an alleyway, was a dark stream of what appeared to be crimson blood. He felt his stomach drop and immediately images of Scar's and other murderers' victims flashed across his head, and he remained frozen there for a moment before the weight of what he saw finally struck him.

"Oh God..." he uttered, taking a step back and not knowing quite what to do in his panick. "I have to get back to Headquarters...before..."
********************************

Victor heard a voice behind him and quickly spun around, backing up against the wall to hide in the shadows. He wasn't far off from the house he used to clean up, but he wasn't sure he could move now without being noticed.

His hand moved up to make sure his mask was in place. He had to make sure his identity wasn't compromised. Holding his bag close to him he slowly backed away from the figure by his latest harvest site.

Suddenly his foot landed wrong on a discarded can, his arms freewheeling to keep balance, as he stumbled over into a pile of boxes. He froze for an instant before turning and running, making his way through maze-like alleys at a frightening speed, hoping that he had left the intruder behind.

((I'm sure Timmothy would get a brief glance at him and this is what he would see: i4.photobucket.com/albums/y101/demonicneko/stich1.jpg ))

[Lolua]

So now this post takes place after the current murder, and will be posted appropriately in context when the time comes. I've made some minor changes to reflect the post's new place in the order. Wheeeeee!

---

First Lieutenant Murdoch had come back from the crime scene that morning and immured himself in his office to reread case files. By all rights he should have them memorized by now, and perhaps he did; but it always helped his deductive skills to have the printed words right in front of him, so that he didn't have to waste any brain power on recalling the facts of the case.

It was bizarre, really, how little these case files told him. They spoke of splattered blood, cleanly severed bones, and gingerly peeled back skin. The coroners had been very thorough, as if by their detailed reports they could compensate for the dearth of evidence available from other sources. The reports described the victims' backgrounds, gleaned from interviews with their family and friends after the fact, but Murdoch couldn't help but feel that the killer hadn't cared about any of it. He could find no common denominator among the victims: male or female, rich or poor, fat or thin, it didn't seem to matter.

Usually with a killing spree this long, the perp would slip up and leave a nice partial fingerprint somewhere along the line. but not a single print had been found on or near any of the victims. They had found a few hairs, to be sure, but without a fingerprint to lead them in the right direction, having a long dark hair wasn't much good except to cause pointless arguments over whether the killer was a woman or not.

And try as he might, Lieutenant Murdoch hadn't been able to deduce a pattern in the body parts that had been taken from each victim. Without a motive., it had been impossible to say what kind of person they were looking for or where that person might strike next.

The matter should have fallen to the local police. Murdoch's superior officer, Captain Reynolds, had offered to put the resources of the military behind the investigation, taking the heat off his favorite golfing buddy, the civilian Police Commissioner for Dublith. Reynolds' utter confidence in his department to be able to solve the crime had not flagged, but after two months of the spree, twenty -- now twenty-one -- unsolved murders clogged the Open Case Files shelf in the Investigations bullpen at South Headquarters. Humiliation and frustration had ruled the days and nights of the investigating team.

The general in charge of South HQ and even the powers-that-be at Central Command were breathing down their necks about catching the killer. The city of Dublith had complicated matters when they fronted the cash for a tip line and a handsome reward for information leading to an arrest; pretty much every warm body in Murdoch's department was now engaged in taking calls and trying to weed out real tips from pranks and honest mistakes.

The only good tip they'd had so far was that Marcoh kid's description of the suspect with the gruesome patchwork mask; at least now they could guess what the killer was using the skin for, even if Murdoch was still stumped on why the other body parts had gone missing. Was it merely to throw the police off the track? It didn't make any sense, and Murdoch turned a page roughly in frustration, leaving the corner of the paper marred by a long jagged rip.

A little past noon there was a knock on the door, and a beefy head appeared in the crack between Murdoch's door and the jamb behind it.

"Hey, Murdoch, you wanna sandwich?" asked the man. "I'm goin' to the deli across the street if you want anything."

It was Second Lieutenant Keppler from Logistics, who often popped into Murdoch's office for a courtesy visit during the lunch hour. Murdoch wouldn't call him a friend, exactly, but they got along well enough.

"No, thank you, Lieutenant," Murdoch replied. "I don't think I could eat anything just now."

"You workin' on that case again, with the missing parts?" Because he was uninvolved with the murder investigation, Lieutenant Keppler might have been restful company if the man had not been so morbidly intrigued by Murdoch's work. He moved a little further into the room, his face paler than it had been when it first appeared around the doorframe.

"They're startin' to call that guy The Reaper in all the papers," Keppler continued, shuddering dramatically. "Gives me the willies."

Murdoch laced his fingers together behind his neck and leaned back in his chair, grimacing in the general direction of the window as if its surface reflected a horrible scene of bloodshed and butchery.

"Me too, Lieutenant... me too."

[Demonic Neko]

Crimson splattered on on dingy white porcelain as Victor washed himself off. His mas was laid, momentarily forgotten, on the edge of a cramped bathtub filled with the murky brown solution he used to cure the skins he harvested. His latest acquisition was floating lazily in the liquid, he would have to weigh it down after he finished cleaning up a bit. Past experience had taught him that the longer the skin stayed in the curing solution, the more supple it became when it turned to leather. He was lucky that he had out distanced his pursuers. HE had actually doubled back several times and ended up making his way out of town to wait for several hours, making absolutely sure that he had lost anyone who tried to chase him. He was a fast runner and one of the advantages of this body was he never ran out of breath. He could just keep running and running, taking his time to be thorough about ditching his pursuers.

Victor glanced up at the cracked mirror above the sink to make sure he hadn't missed any stray drops of blood. His imaged was briefly distorted by the warped glass, and he grinned. His attention focused on a single shard of glass that held his reflection in all it's glory. He stood gazing at his face, his gloved fingers tracing along his perfect cheekbones, leaving trails of water along his skin. Pity he couldn't feel the contact or even the wetness against his flesh.

Victor's lips twisted into a frown as he turned away from the mirror and stalked to the tub. He gently placed several stones on the skin so that it was fully submerged, then reached over to pick up his mask, which he deposited in the sink, to let any bloodstains soak out..

Ignoring the mirror he pulled of his wet gloves, exposing perfectly sculpted hands.. Well perfect saved for the fact that the skin of each finger had worn away to reveal metallic bones. He tossed the gloves into a metal pail that contained the clothing he had worn that night. He planned to dump the contents into the fire place to destroy any evidence.

One hand moved up to his chest feeling along for a nearly invisible seam. He pulled the "skin" away to reveal a hollow cavity in his chest. Cradled inside in a nest of metal ribs was a large glass jar with faintly amberish liquid. Suspended in the liquid was a human heart. Victor pulled out the jar and inspected it's contents intently. The preserving fluid was leaching away the color of the heart. Soon it would be time to harvest a new one...

Victor placed the jar back into his chest, then closed the flap by running a thumb over the seam. He pulled out the partially cured skin, placing it into the rubber lined bag with his other prizes, and emptied the tub, letting water wash away any evidence of what was in there. He also carefully dried off his mask and placed that into the bag as well. After making sure everything in the safe house was in proper order, he carefully dressed himself and donned on new gloves before combing out his long back hair. He picked up his cane, checked his appearance one last time, and left the safe house to go home..

[Demonic Neko]

Victor sat in a darkened corner of his studio, staring morosely at an unopened bottle of whiskey. He tipped the bottle from side to side, watching the amber liquid slosh back and forth, over and over again.
God he would sell his soul for just one drink...

Two weeks.. Had had been two weeks since his last harvest, since he had actually been seen. How could he had been so careless? His eyes darted to the newspaper article from the day after the killing, and scanned through it for what seemed like the hundredth time.

Serial Killer Revealed!
Carver Sighted After Latest Murder
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The murder spree of a killer heretofore identified only by his gruesome handiwork continues, last night adding another death and dismemberment to the list of this butcher's victims.

The as-yet unidentified middle-aged man was found missing a hand, both eyes, and the great majority of his skin. While the military police under the direction of Lieutenant Murdoch continue the investigation and hope to identify the victim, a much more important development unfolded last night in the quest to catch the grisly killer who carves the bodies of his prey like fine cuts of meat.

Major Timothy Marcoh, 19, caught sight of the Carver during a thrilling multi-block chase through the eerie streets of the Westtown neighborhood. "He was wearing a mask, so I don't know what his face looks like," Marcoh told the Daily Observer when questioned, then forbid our reporters from taking pictures of the crime scene.

The details of this limited and patchy report can be filled in by this Daily Observer reporter, who spoke to a civilian eyewitness, one who chooses to remain nameless for reasons of anonymity. "No, but I did see the killer," she stated, when asked if she knew the location of the body. "He didn't even look human -- like a living doll, like a hodgepodge of human parts stitched together."

While some believe that the Carver is building himself a prototype human with all the parts found missing from his victims, others wonder in the aftermath of this most recent murder if the Carver could himself be a military experiment in human engineering gone terribly, terribly wrong.

After all, as one soldier remarked at the scene, "when you've been in the military as long as I've been, you see a lot of weird and disturbing things."

-- Ida Swanson, Staff Writer --

Victor gave a dark chuckle. The press had it all wrong, but there still was the fact that he had been seen.. By two people no less.. Until he could figure out a way to go out and not get caught again he had to sit here and wait.. With an angry snarl he tossed the bottle he had been holding across the room grinning mirthlessly as it shattered into a spray of glass and liquid. These times were always the worst, when his depression enveloped him is a foul black miasma. Before... All he had to do was indulge in one of his many vices: sex, liquor or any mood altering substances he could get his hands on, and usually it would go away.

Now... Well none of that affected his new body. He was an addict who was barred from his addictions. He felt the constant pull of withdrawal and had no way to stop it. He was trapped.

Before he went through life in a hazy cloud of pleasure, his whole existence revolving upon sensation. Now he felt nothing, not the feel of another's skin against his, or even the feel of clay in his hands when he sculpted. He was completely and totally numb.

His gaze fell on the door of his "private" studio, his gallery of beauty. This was where his collection resided, safe from prying eyes. The person he once was, would of been appalled at the things he had done to acquire most of the items in his gallery. But he had become the Reaper, and the monster he was now reveled in the rush he got from the hunt, the kill and the harvest. This was his new addiction.

He didn't start off like this when his soul had been placed in his new body. It seemed like the longer he was trapped in the cold metal prison that was now his body, the less human he became. His temper became more erratic and he would quickly gravitate between dark depression to manic fits of violence at the drop of a hat. He was slowly losing control.

Late one night as he wandered through the streets in a depressive funk, he came upon an old man, hunched over a trash can with a cozy fire lit inside. It was freezing out but Victor couldn't feel it. Drawn to the light of the fire, he wandered over to the old man, looking like a lost soul.

The man, who had been relishing the heat, looked over at him and Victor recoiled back in horror, taking a step back. The man was the ugliest creature he had ever seen in his life.

"You're looking a tad pale, sonny. Do you need any help?"

Victor continued to stare at the old man, who was rubbing his hands over the fire. How could a creature like this be allowed to live a life that Victor could no longer experience. Did this old man know how lucky he was? Did he know that Victor would kill for the chance to feel something as insignificant as a change in temperature?

Anger welled up inside him. This wasn't FAIR! What good was cheating death when he couldn't experience life properly?

The old man reached out and prodded Victor in the arm. "Hey, you alright?"

Something inside Victor snapped. How DARE this ugly creature TOUCH HIM!?! His arm shot out, catching the old man in the face. He could hear the gratifying sound of bone crunching beneath his fist.

Victor was lost in the moment and everything became a red haze in his head. When he finally came to himself, he was kneeling over the old man, covered in blood. The old man's head was no longer recognizable as human. Victor scrambled off the body, his eyes wide in horror.

"Oh God... What have I done...?" He staggered away from the corpse, his body jerking as it tried to vomit despite the fact he no longer had the organs to attempt such a feet. It was like the dry heaves but a hundred times worse.

He fled from the body back to his family estates, almost expecting for the authorities to show up and drag him away. But no one came. He spent two hours sitting under cold water, trying to wash the blood off his hands, only managing to shred off the delicate skin on his fingers.

The old man had been the first person he killed, but his death wasn't connected to the Reaper murder spree. It was chalked up to a random act of violence to some poor unnamed soul.

[Demonic Neko]

The first official kill of the Reaper took place 2 months afterwards. At this point Victor was half mad (but hid it well) and was utterly convinced that he was no longer human. He needed a way to regain what he had lost, but how? He had a soul and a perfectly good body ... What else did he need?

A random comment made at a party gave him the idea of just what he needed. Although he derived no pleasure from social outings anymore, he still went out with his friends, carousing the town. He did it out of habit more than anything else, although he obviously didn't enjoy himself at all.

"Dear God, Victor,"said one of his friends, "You've been as cold as stone all night. You've turned down at least five perfectly good women who practically threw themselves at your feet! Stop being such a heartless bastard and have some fun!"

A heart... Victor's eyes widened in revelation. That was exactly what he needed! The rest of the night he was in high spirits, for the first time enjoying himself since his illness had struck him down and forced him into this body. He now had a spark of hope.

Victor spent the next week hatching a plan to acquire a heart. He wanted it to be special, absolutely perfect... He had an idea of just where he should get it.

Her name was Hannah, a girl he had known in childhood, someone he had been in love with growing up. She was a beautiful, sweet girl who had a smile and kind word for everyone, even a notorious rake like him.

He secretly followed her, committing her daily schedule to memory. He bided his time until she was left unguarded for a moment, and took the opportunity to snatch her away. They ended up in a hovel somewhere on the outskirts of town. A small voice in his head told him that this was wrong, he shouldn't do this. But the irrational part of him far outweighed the rational, and was convinced that this would work. It had to...

He crouched over her, holding the knife he had nicked from the kitchen in a trembling hand. Hannah looked up at him with pleading eyes as tears streamed down her face.

"Victor, please... Don't do this.." she sobbed.

He reached out a gloved hand to wipe the tears from her cheeks.
"I'm so sorry Hannah..." he said in a small. helpless voice. "I have to do this.." He placed his hand on her chest, directly above her heart. "I need this more than you do.."

In his ignorance he though that if he quickly slit her throat, it would be over very quickly with as little pain to Hannah as possible. He was wrong.

He placed his hand over her mouth to muffle her cries and moved the knife against her throat. After a few false starts he closed his eyes and quickly drew the blade across her neck.

The first stroke resulted in a thin angry cut across Hannah's skin. Her feet drummed against the floor as her eyes rolled in their sockets from the pain. Victor panicked, not knowing what else to do he repeatedly stabbed her neck, trying to get her to stop moving. Blood sprayed all over him and the room as Hannah's struggles became more desperate. Finally, terrified out of his mind he scrambled away from her, curling up in a corner of the room. He curled his knees up to his chest, watching her with wide eyes as she gasped and flailed, as she slowly bled out.

Victor shook his head to clear his thoughts. His first kill was a huge mess. He had spent hours afterwards mopping up the blood, taking the utmost care to show Hannah's body respect as he cleaned her off and wrapped her up, hiding her in a place she would be quickly found and laid to rest. All in all a horrible experience. But at the time it had been worth it. When he took the heart out of Hannah's chest and placed it in his own, he was for a moment, ecstatically happy. But that didn't last too long. A heart in a jar did not make one a human.. He needed more.. He needed to incorporate more parts into his empty shell of a body to make himself truly human. And so the career of the Reaper began.

When the color of her heart began to fade away, he didn't throw it out, like he would the other hearts he would acquire over time. It had a special place in his Gallery of Beauty, in tribute to Hannah, his first love and his first kill..

[Lolua]

((Ida Swanson))

Down the block from where the two officers stood, journalist Ida Swanson got out of a cab and handed the driver a bill, telling him to keep the change for having gotten here so fast.

Tucked in Ida's oversized naugahyde purse was the hand-held radio she'd liberated from the dumpster behind South Headquarters; with a few minor repairs she'd managed to get it working well enough to pick up transmissions from the military police as they made their rounds through the city. Waste not, want not, her mother had always said, and Ida thought the country would be in much better shape if her strong-willed, straight-talking mother had been in charge. But Ida had to admit that her job would have been much harder without the radio.

As the cab drove off, Ida fished her reading glasses out from inside her coat by the fine chain on which they hung, perching them on the tip of her nose. From her purse he took out a small notebook and a stub of pencil. Her heels clicking on the sidewalk with a sound like cracking gum, Ida strode purposefully down the street, her wide hips swinging behind her. She had to get close enough to the soldiers to be able to hear what they said and to follow them so they could lead her back to the body.

While they were deep in conversation, Ida walked past them and ducked into a phone booth next to the garbage can where one of the soliders had just thrown his paper bag. Years of chain-smoking had ruined Ida's sense of smell, so she didn't even realize what was in the bag. She left the door open a bit, picked up the phone receiver, and turned her back on the soldiers to hide her open notebook and poised pencil.

In her years as a tabloid journalist for the Dublith Daily Observer, Ida Swanson had done far sneakier things than this.


((Jack Murdoch))

Murdoch had been running for several blocks now, and he was fighting for breath with every step. Being stuck behind a desk all day or walking to and from crime scenes was a far cry from the rigors of boot camp and basic training.

Finally he slowed down and stopped in front of the two officers. One looked worried and clutched his pistol like a lifeline while the other looked sick to his stomach. Murdoch had seen much the same variance of emotion at every other crime scene he'd visited in the last two months; this had to be it. He struggled to catch his breath and salute at the same time.

"What did you see, Major?" he gasped, needing to get the witness's account while it was still fresh in his mind and unclouded by imagined nightmares. "Tell me everything!"

[Lolua]

((Jack Murdoch))

Murdoch listened as Major Marcoh, who looked young enough to be just out of boot camp, explained what he had seen.

As he spoke, Murdoch noticed with a start that the other officer standing with them was Warrant officer Falman. He hadn't recognized him at first in the darkness, even though they'd served together at Central several years ago, and Murdoch himself had requested Falman's temporary transfer to South HQ to help with the serial killer investigation. Falman had worked on many such cases before at both Central and East, and Murdoch thought of him was an exemplary soldier with a mind for detail that rivaled Murdoch's own.

By the time the younger man was finished talking, Murdoch was breathing normally again.

"You did just fine, Major Marcoh," Murdoch said with a reassuring nod. He would have preferred if Marcoh had caught the killer, of course, but under the circumstances he hadn't done too badly.

"If you can pull yourself together, sir, I suggest you find a phone and call for more backup. Tell them to canvass the area, it's worth a look even if the killer's long gone. Who knows, they actually might find something helpful."

It felt weird to be giving orders to a superior officer, but someone needed to take charge of the situation, and Murdoch was the lead investigator on the case.

"Falman, come with me," Murdoch said, unholstering his gun from his belt. "We're going to have a look around."


((Ida Swanson))

Standing with the phone receiver tucked behind her ear for appearance's sake, the reporter had transcribed in shorthand every word the Marcoh kid had said outside her phone booth. It would make a great story; Ida thought she might even be able to persuade her editor to knock something else off the front page for it, if only she could get back to the newsroom before he put the paper to bed.

She wanted to see the body, but she'd forgotten to bring a camera with her, so there was no hope of getting a nice piece of art for the front page. Ida sighed to herself; there was probably no time to wait for it to be developed, anyway. Oh, well, they could recycle an old photograph easily enough, and few would know the difference.

Her pencil took down Murdoch's speech as well; he was well-known to her from her previous dealings with the serial killer investigation. It was only after she'd written about Marcoh finding a phone that she realized she was currently holding the nearest phone between her shoulder and the side of her head....

Self-preservation warring with journalistic instinct, Ida finished her last few scribbles and struggled to shove the notebook and pencil back in her overstuffed purse.

[Demonic Neko]

Victor briskly made his way out of the back alley into the main road. He flagged down a cab and ordered the cabbie to take him home. He knew he was far enough from the scene of the crime that no one would connect him to the murder. Plus people would assume he had been visiting one of the many brothels in this area. Sometimes having a bad reputation was a good thing.

The ride was uneventful, and he reached the family manor rather quickly. He tipped the cabbie generously and strolled into the house, the bag strap slung over his shoulder. As he made his way to his studio he noticed that light was coming from his father's study. So the old man was awake. Well he was in no mood to deal with him. After tonight's scare he would have to lay low for a while, which was very inconvenient. He needed a new heart but it would have to wait until things calmed down a bit.

[Mlle Bienvenu]

Hohenheim yawned. Between the warm and comfortable atmosphere of the tavern and the effects of the half-finished beer overlooking his notes, Hohenheim's head began to droop. He adjusted the pieces of hair that never would stay in his ponytail away from his face, and tried to clear his head. He was feeling as though perhaps it was time to call it a night.

From a darkened corner of the bar, a tall, slim figure watched Hohenheim with intrest. Crimson lips curled into a smile as inky black eyes inspected him from head to toe. This one had prospects...

Hohenheim blinked a few times and continued trying to read his notes. So if the angles of the vertices of the triangular figure added up to 180 degrees in a flat transmutation circle, how many degrees would it be on a spherical surface? How would this affect the transmutation? He had a hunch that working with spheres was a lot more accurate to reality than working with flat circles, and thus would allow for more complex and powerful transmutations. But the work was slow-going because no one had ever attempted anything like it before, and the geometry was astoundingly different than what he was used to.

Hohenheim pushed his glasses up his nose and sighed. His mind wasn't functioning anymore. He must've read the same figures at least five times before absorbing the fact that he was doing so. Yes, it was definitely time to call it a night.

Standing up, Hohenheim collected his notes in his bag neatly and finished his beer in a few gulps. He checked the area to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything, and the headed for the door.


Waiting for a few moments for the prey to get out of sight, the Reaper followed. With another grin he moved quickly taking side alleys so that he was ahead of his prey. He got himself ready and waited. The trap was set, it was time to see if this new bait would work...

Hohenheim whistled lightly as he walked automatically down the darkened alleys that would take him swiftly home. In his head, he tried juggling the equations he couldn't work out in the bar, hoping the cool night air would clear his head a bit.

A sobbing cry came from an alley directly ahead of Hohenheim.
"Please... Help me.." came a soft feminine cry.

Hohenheim stopped whistling abruptly. It sounded like someone needed help. Instinctively, he followed the sound of the voice deeper into the dark allies of Dublith.

Huddled against the wall of a nearby alley, was a willowly young woman dressed in what had once been a lovely black brodaded dress, that had been recently torn. Tears were running down her cheeks and blood covered the lower half of her face. She was hugging herself as she looked up at Hohenheim with large glossy eyes.

Hohenheim stopped when he saw her, clapped, and drew any light he could into the area, darkening the alley overall, but creating a small ball of light with which to see her more clearly. He bent down to examine her closely, "Good god, what happened? Are you alright?"

She practically threw herself against him, hiding her face against his chest as her body shook with sobs. "they tried to.. to.." She broke off and cried harder.

Hohenheim held her gently with one arm while the other clutched the ball of light, "Shhhh, you're safe now. . . I'm a doctor, here, let's get you into the light so we can get you all cleaned up."

She stood up on shakey knees, slidding a clenched hand around the back of his neck for support. "Thank you.." she whispered.

"Now don't you worry," Hohenheim said soothingly as he helped her walk down the alley, "We'll get you cleaned up, and then we can report what happened to the police and they will find the brutes who did this." Hohenheim looked at her as he walked, despite the blood, he couldn't clearly see where the blood was coming from, it was just too dark.

The woman smiled slightly before she stumbled, almost taking Hohoenheim with her. She leaned against him for a moment as her arm snaked even further around his neck. It a moment as quick as a snake the hand opend to press a cloth acoss his mouth and nose.

Hohenheim gagged, "Oh. . . cloroform?" He thought briefly before his head swam. He dropped the ball of light on the ground and the light dissipated. His bag slid down his arm and landed on the black pavement. Hohenheim leaned against the woman for support even though vaguely he knew this was some kind of attack and he reached for the stone in his breast pocket, but the world went dark before he got the chance.

Victor waied for the cloroform to finish taking effect, holding him up to keep him from falling. His eyes darted back and forth to make sure that no one was around and then pulled the body into alleyway.

His new disguise worked perfectly, he knew most men wouldn't expect a woman to attack them. And for the moment, anyone passing might think they were a couple sharing an intimite moment. He pushed Hohenheim against the wall, holding the rag against his mouth just a bit longer to make sure that the cloroform had done it's work.

[Lolua]

((Ida Swanson))

Ida ducked out of the way of the young major's rudeness; thirty-nine years as a tabloid journalist had honed her reflexes, though she had to admit she wasn't as fast as she once was.

"Nice way to treat your elders, sonny," she muttered bitterly at him, but either he didn't hear her through the glass or was too engrossed in his own phone conversation to worry about her condition or safety anymore.

For the first time, Ida saw the girl with the goggles poking her nose around the corner of the nearest building. "Say, kid, how'd you like to make some spending money?" she asked in her gravelly voice.

[Lolua]

Ida's article in the Dublith Daily Observer:

Serial Killer Revealed!
Carver Sighted After Latest Murder

---

The murder spree of a killer heretofore identified only by his gruesome handiwork continues, last night adding another death and dismemberment to the list of this butcher's victims.

The as-yet unidentified middle-aged man was found missing a hand, both eyes, and the great majority of his skin. While the military police under the direction of Lieutenant Murdoch continue the investigation and hope to indentify the victim, a much more important development unfolded last night in the quest to catch the grisly killer who carves the bodies of his prey like fine cuts of meat.

Major Timothy Marcoh, 19, caught sight of the Carver during a thrilling multi-block chase through the eerie streets of the Westtown neighborhood. "He was wearing a mask, so I don't know what his face looks like," Marcoh told the Daily Observer when questioned, then forbid our reporters from taking pictures of the crime scene.

The details of this limited and patchy report can be filled in by this Daily Observer reporter, who spoke to a civilian eyewitness, one who chooses to remain nameless for reasons of anonymity. "No, but I did see the killer," she stated, when asked if she knew the location of the body. "He didn't even look human -- like a living doll, like a hodgepodge of human parts stitched together."

While some believe that the Carver is building himself a prototype human with all the parts found missing from his victims, others wonder in the aftermath of this most recent murder if the Carver could himself be a military experiment in human engineering gone terribly, terribly wrong.

After all, as one soldier remarked at the scene, "when you've been in the military as long as I've been, you see a lot of weird and disturbing things."

-- Ida Swanson, Staff Writer --

[Demonic Neko]

"DAMMIT"

With a snarl Victor tossed the canvas he had been sketching on, across the room. He had spent the last 3 days trying to paint, but everything came out looking like rubbish.

His gaze was drawn to the door of his private studio, his "Gallery of Beauty." This was where his real works of art resided, safe from prying eyes. He fet the pull to go into the room, but that would just drive him out for another harvest. But it wasn't safe yet.. He still hadn't figured out a way to hunt without being caught. He walked towards the door and stopped in front of it. His hand rested on the handle, almost tempted to pull it open, but he stopped and stalked back to his discarded canvas. The temptation was too great.

The person he once was, would of been appalled at the things he had done to acquire most of the items in his gallery. But he had become the Reaper, and the monster he was now reveled in the rush he got from the hunt, the kill and the harvest. This was his new addiction.

He didn't start off like this when his soul had been placed in his new body. It seemed like the longer he was trapped in the cold metal prison that was now his body, the less human he became. His temper became more erratic and he would quickly gravitate between dark depression to manic fits of violence at the drop of a hat. He was slowly losing control.

Late one night as he wandered through the streets in a depressive funk, he came upon an old man, hunched over a trash can with a cozy fire lit inside. It was freezing out but Victor couldn't feel it. Drawn to the light of the fire, he wandered over to the old man, looking like a lost soul.

The man, who had been relishing the heat, looked over at him and Victor recoiled back in horror, taking a step back. The man was the ugliest creature he had ever seen in his life.

"You're looking a tad pale, sonny. Do you need any help?"

Victor continued to stare at the old man, who was rubbing his hands over the fire. How could a creature like this be allowed to live a life that Victor could no longer experience. Did this old man know how lucky he was? Did he know that Victor would kill for the chance to feel something as insignificant as a change in temperature?

Anger welled up inside him. This wasn't FAIR! What good was cheating death when he couldn't experience life properly?

The old man reached out and prodded Victor in the arm. "Hey, you alright?"

Something inside Victor snapped. How DARE this ugly creature TOUCH HIM!?! His arm shot out, catching the old man in the face. He could hear the gratifying sound of bone crunching beneath his fist.

Victor was lost in the moment and everything became a red haze in his head. When he finally came to himself, he was kneeling over the old man, covered in blood. The old man's head was no longer recognizable as human. Victor scrambled off the body, his eyes wide in horror.

"Oh God... What have I done...?" He staggered away from the corpse, his body jerking as it tried to vomit despite the fact he no longer had the organs to attempt such a feat. It was like the dry heaves but a hundred times worse.

He fled from the body back to his family estates, almost expecting for the authorities to show up and drag him away. But no one came. He spent two hours sitting under cold water, trying to wash the blood off his hands, only managing to shred off the delicate skin on his fingers.

The old man had been the first person he killed, but his death wasn't connected to the Reaper murder spree. It was chalked up to a random act of violence to some poor unnamed soul.

[Lolua]

I need to fill in various bits of this as marked.... especially since I wrote this a while ago and parts are a little outdated.

---

((Jack Murdoch))

It had been two weeks since the last grisly murder, and First Lieutenant Murdoch thought that after another fortnight of this waiting, he would probably be as insane as the killer himself.

True, it was nice not to have to leave the office every few days to look at a fresh corpse, smothered in blood and missing several body parts, in some poorly-lit back alley of the city. Murdoch had actually managed to keep down his breakfast every day for the past week, and he could swear he was putting on a little weight, so he didn't look so much like he was wearing someone else's clothes.

But the lack of Carver activity also made him deeply uneasy... what if the Carver was merely being more careful about hiding his victims? What if, instead of leaving the bodies in open alleys, he was gathering them all in some abandoned warehouse, turning it into a grotesque museum of his own accomplisments and a mass grave for those he had killed and maimed?

Murdoch shuddered at the very thought.

These past two weeks had been like listening to a program on the radio and suddenly losing the signal completely, no matter which way one turned the dial or fiddled with the antenna. A silent radio was easily forgotten, but might eventually burst forth with a cacophony of static and voices as the signal was restored.

He couldn't help but feel like he was waiting, just waiting for something horrible to happen... as he had during those long dark desert nights in the camps and trenches during the rebellion in Ishbal... waiting for disaster to strike, waiting for the massacre to begin...

Murdoch blinked and wiped a hand down the center of his face, as if to clear those memories away, and tried to look analytically at the papers and photographs that cluttered his desk.

Over the past few weeks there had been a lot more talk about the infamous case of Barry the Butcher, whose kills in Central had been spread out over several years, since the press started referring to the Dublith serial killer as the Carver. Though Falman's experienced assistance had proven invaluable in the investigation so far, Murdoch wondered if he shouldn't be talking to others who had been involved with cracking the case of the woman-killing Butcher.

It might not hurt to make a few inquiries among his old contacts in Central, anyway, while he had the luxury of time... they had resources he could only dream of, and might lend new insight to the cool facts of a case that was getting colder by the moment.

He wanted to talk to the coroner's office in Central to check their records and requisition some reports, and he had already applied to Lt. Colonel Hughes, whom he had met in Ishbal when they were assigned to the same unit, for help in the matter. Hughes was clever and well-placed in the Central Investigations department, so he would be an ideal resource for Murdoch, now that there was all this time to really think about the case instead of just cleaning up crime scene after crime scene.

A return letter had come, but not from Hughes. Murdoch reflected that it was probably a good thing he rarely took vacations if it meant that everyone else would get license to open his mail and reply to it while he was away. The response came from the office of Colonel Roy Mustang:

Lt Col Hughes is on vacation with his family at this time and in an effort to grant you every possible assistance, we, the undersigned, are endeavoring to assign one Maj Timothy Marcoh, Jr, Certified State Alchemist, to the case. It is hoped that he is found to be even more useful and efficient in your department than he has been in mine.

Please pardon the unusual circumstances of his transfer, and let not his rank nor qualifications stand in the way of making him an asset to your investigation. Your expertise and many years of experience in cracking tough cases put you in an ideal position to lead the investigation, regardless of rank and secondary qualifications. Feel free to treat Maj Marcoh as a subordinate as you swiftly bring this investigation to a close with his assistance.

Regards, etc.

It was co-signed by a Major Armstrong in Investigations at Central HQ and, at the bottom, gave official-looking instructions on when and where to meet Major Marcoh. It made him wonder just how much this Colonel Mustang knew, even all the way across the country in Central...

Murdoch leaned back in his chair, arms folded behind his head, and wondered how Marcoh would react if he, as this letter gave him clear permission to do, treated the younger man as a subordinate despite his State Alchemist qualifications and the disparity in their ranks. If he was of any real use, would this Mustang so easily give Marcoh up or unofficially demote him to Second Lieutenant? There had to be a catch in there somewhere...

Ah, well... it would be something to think about before he met Major Marcoh at the latest crime scene that afternoon for their meeting.

The detective folded the letter neatly and placed it in the inside pocket of his uniform jacket, just in case he decided he needed to show it to the major during their meeting. Picking up a pen and a fresh pad of paper, Murdoch set to work on preparing a brief for Major Marcoh to bring him up to speed on the case.

---

((Jack Murdoch))

Lieutenant Murdoch had thought over the letter a lot since this morning, and he'd come to a couple of possible conclusions about Mustang. The colonel's reputation for promotion-chasing had reached his ears, but he'd never really paid much attention to it before. The thought occurred to him that Mustang might be hoping, after the investigation was concluded and the killer caught, to claim his man Marcoh had been in charge of the whole thing, and therefore make the credit for the capture his own.

It was also possible that Marcoh was just useless and Mustang was taking this as an opportunity to get rid of him... but Major Marcoh had been very helpful, actually, in providing a description of the mask to the sketch artist and alerting Murdoch's own department to the crime so soon after the fact.

Before leaving the office Murdoch had eaten a little lunch and collected the final copy of his summary of the case, which had been neatly typed by the program secretary from his notes.

And now, a quick drive later, he was back in that narrow alley, watching the major walk toward him. Timothy Marcoh looked so young and untried, and part of Murdoch hated the little tour he was about to bring the kid on... but if he was going to contribute to the investigation, he had to know what they were up against.

He stepped away from the shadows at the back of the shoe-repair shop, jerked his head, and beckoned, "Major Marcoh, over here..."

Murdoch hesitated; his instincts told him to show the major due respect and address him as "sir"... but in the long-run, wouldn't it seem less patronizing if he didn't tack "sir" onto every order he gave Marcoh? Torn between wanting to be respectful and needing to follow his own orders from Mustang, Murdoch chose the latter.

Scraping a bit of mud off his military-issue left boot and adjusting his hat unnecessarily, he called down the alleyway toward the major: "There's something you should see."

[Demonic Neko]

Several more days passed and Victor had managed to terrorize the entire household staff to the point that they fled in terror every time he entered a room. The color had completely leached out of the heart that sloshed around in his chest, and he was jonesing for another kill. He spent most of his time in his gallery, starring at his macabre works of art as the tension in him mounted. He needed to preform another Harvest soon, but how?

He closed his eyes and let his memories wash over him, they were really all he had now..

The first official kill of the Reaper took place 2 months after he had beaten the old man to death. At this point Victor was half mad (but hid it well) and was utterly convinced that he was no longer human. He needed a way to regain what he had lost, but how? He had a soul and a perfectly good body ... What else did he need?

A random comment made at a party gave him the idea of just what he needed. Although he derived no pleasure from social outings anymore, he still went out with his friends, carousing the town. He did it out of habit more than anything else, although he obviously didn't enjoy himself at all.

"Dear God, Victor,"said one of his friends, "You've been as cold as stone all night. You've turned down at least five perfectly good women who practically threw themselves at your feet! Stop being such a heartless bastard and have some fun!"

A heart... Victor's eyes widened in revelation. That was exactly what he needed! The rest of the night he was in high spirits, for the first time enjoying himself since his illness had struck him down and forced him into this body. He now had a spark of hope.

Victor spent the next week hatching a plan to acquire a heart. He wanted it to be special, absolutely perfect... He had an idea of just where he should get it.

Her name was Hannah, a girl he had known in childhood, someone he had been in love with growing up. She was a beautiful, sweet girl who had a smile and kind word for everyone, even a notorious rake like him.

He secretly followed her, committing her daily schedule to memory. He bided his time until she was left unguarded for a moment, and took the opportunity to snatch her away. They ended up in a hovel somewhere on the outskirts of town. A small voice in his head told him that this was wrong, he shouldn't do this. But the irrational part of him far outweighed the rational, and was convinced that this would work. It had to...

He crouched over her, holding the knife he had nicked from the kitchen in a trembling hand. Hannah looked up at him with pleading eyes as tears streamed down her face.

"Victor, please... Don't do this.." she sobbed.

He reached out a gloved hand to wipe the tears from her cheeks.
"I'm so sorry Hannah..." he said in a small. helpless voice. "I have to do this.." He placed his hand on her chest, directly above her heart. "I need this more than you do.."

In his ignorance he though that if he quickly slit her throat, it would be over very quickly with as little pain to Hannah as possible. He was wrong.

He placed his hand over her mouth to muffle her cries and moved the knife against her throat. After a few false starts he closed his eyes and quickly drew the blade across her neck.

The first stroke resulted in a thin angry cut across Hannah's skin. Her feet drummed against the floor as her eyes rolled in their sockets from the pain. Victor panicked, not knowing what else to do he repeatedly stabbed her neck, trying to get her to stop moving. Blood sprayed all over him and the room as Hannah's struggles became more desperate. Finally, terrified out of his mind he scrambled away from her, curling up in a corner of the room. He curled his knees up to his chest, watching her with wide eyes as she gasped and flailed, slowly bleeding out.

Victor shook his head to clear his thoughts. His first kill was a huge mess. He had spent hours after wards mopping up the blood, taking the utmost care to show Hannah's body respect as he cleaned her off and wrapped her up, hiding her in a place she would be quickly found and laid to rest. All in all a horrible experience. But at the time it had been worth it. When he took the heart out of Hannah's chest and placed it in his own, he was for a moment, ecstatically happy. But that didn't last too long. A heart in a jar did not make one a human.. He needed more.. He needed to incorporate more parts into his empty shell of a body to make himself truly human. And so the career of the Reaper began.

When the color of her heart began to fade away, he didn't throw it out, like he would the other hearts he would acquire over time. It had a special place in his Gallery of Beauty, in tribute to Hannah, his first love and his first kill.

Suddenly a thought flitted across Victors mind. There was one way he could hide from the polic... but would it work? A slow grin spread across his lips. Well there was one way to find out...
.

[Lolua]

((Jack Murdoch))

If Murdoch had been a smug man, he would have smirked at the sensitivity from which Major Marcoh seemed to be suffering. Life as a soldier had not yet hardened him into an unfeeling cog in the military machine, which spoke well for the major's mental health, but too much sensitivity could be a handicap in murder investigation. You had to actually be able to look at the evidence, even if it meant losing your lunch afterward.

The lieutenant promised himself to keep a close eye on Timothy Marcoh.

"Here," Murdoch began, forgoing pleasantries and instead drawing a sheaf of papers from his inner coat pocket. It was the summary of the murder spree he had written this morning and let the department secretary type up and assemble. She'd even managed to acquire copies of a few crime scene photographs, including one from this most recent murder, and it was to this photo that Murdoch wished to draw Marcoh's attention... but first things first.

"I thought this might help you," he explained, handing the pile of papers and photos to Timothy. "The crime scene reports and those thick case files back at HQ are pretty repetitive, but what we know all boils down to a few lists of missing parts and an incomplete psych profile that's mostly guesswork." Murdoch gave a soft snort; he didn't think much of the profilers who had put together that report, but he had included it anyway, if only for the sake of completeness.

"And your own eyewitness report, of course," he added quickly, not wishing to devalue that crucial bit of information, though it seemed a bit silly to be briefing Marcoh on his own report.


"Here," Murdoch began, forgoing pleasantries and instead pointing at the brick wall that formed the back of the cobbler's shop. The building was old, the bricks and mortar worn away by the elements. A fair number of brick chips and stray bits of mortar lay amongst shards of broken bottles and the tangle of weeds that grew against the wall. He wondered if the owner of the building had considered tuckpointing or even rebuilding the wall, which looked to be in dire need of maintenance.

"See, most of the damage on this wall is from wind and weather and the occasional trash can banging around." With his hands Murdoch sketched the broken off corners of the building, where the line of bricks was uneven from chipping and erosion.

"But I wonder, Major, if you can take a guess," he asked, already knowing the answer but wanting to test Marcoh's deductive skills, "as to what exactly did that." He directed the other man's attention to a brick in the center of the wall, five or six feet off the ground, which was rough, faceless, and raw-looking, rather than dark and weathered like the surrounding wall.

---

For a later post:

"The Medical examiner noted that the skull fracture bled all the way down the man's back. Pre-mortem, sustained during a struggle."

[Lolua]

((Jack Murdoch))

Murdoch sighed, swallowing the biting reply he wanted to make. He wanted to scream at Marcoh that it was impossible to find someone who had always been careful not to leave fingerprints. True, they had recovered a few strands of long black hair, but matching hair samples were only acceptable as secondary evidence to a matching print, and the number of people in Dublith with black hair was too staggering to consider...

However... there was the one distinguishing feature of the killer... and it was related to the thing he'd wanted to bring up with Major Marcoh, anyway.... but they needed to get past this childish little fit first. Not that Murdoch blamed Timothy... not much, at least. If he were Timothy's age and in the same situation, he'd be ticked and confused, too. But it was time for Timothy to be a soldier and a man, and buck up and deal with it.

"Well... I'm not in charge of making such assignments," Murdoch began, twisting his glove in his left coat pocket and leaning back against the building, "but my guess would be that it's because you don't have much training in investigations that you were assigned to this case."

He scuffled his feet on the pavement, then adopted a curious little smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle. "See, as a detective you learn real quick that people in general don't make very good witnesses," he went on. "They think they see things that they never really saw. If you're not careful you can trick them into changing their testimony without realizing what you've done, just by using a word wrong."

"You're the sole eyewitness in this case, and the most reliable one we've got. But you're not perfect." He held up a hand to forestall any protest. "Don't get me wrong, it's through no fault of your own. You haven't been trained in how to take in details. You don't think like an investigator, and so you don't know what details would be most useful to one."

"But you did see the killer. I can't reach into your head and pull out a moving picture of what you saw, and nor can I squeeze every detail out of you, even if I had a two-week interrogation to do it in. But maybe.... just maybe... you saw something then that'll come in useful later. You'll fit together pieces of the puzzle that we haven't been able to, just because you've seen the guy."

It irked him to admit that he couldn't solve this on his own, and he was trying not to be insulted by Timothy's harsh words about the department's lack of progress; he couldn't possibly understand the limitations of the case... but it was hard to swallow the taunt.

"Look," Murdoch said with an edge in his voice, "I don't like this a whole lot more than you do. But I'm willing to believe that you've got a good head on your shoulders. I'm not going to judge you just by what your commanding officer says about you." Murdoch thought about the letter in his pocket... should he show it to Marcoh, or not?

No... he was mad enough at this Mustang; it wasn't necessary to throw more wood on the fire.

"But I need your cooperation," he went on quickly, "and I need it rather badly... so can we agree not to blame each other for this arrangement, and just get to work catching this creep?"