Jericho's Razor by Casey Doran

masses of people in costume lined up Main Street, awaiting entrance to the Dungeon. I looked out the window and saw the spires of the club rising behind the courthouse. Hell Kat had a gig tonight. It would be loud and hectic and swarmed with headbanging heathens in costume. Perfect for a killer to blend in.
    Torrez had not bothered to give me a business card after our interview. No surprise. To him, I was the killer. He wasn’t interested in making sure I could contact him. He would be getting back to me the second he found enough proof to arrest me. My call to the station was transferred to his desk.
    â€œCalling to confess?” he asked.
    â€œI just received another video message.” I told him about the video stream and the title. He listened so quietly that I almost thought he hung up.
    â€œHe’s going after Katrina,” I said.
    â€œHow do you know this?”
    â€œIsn’t it obvious?”
    â€œWhat is obvious to me is your rather blatant attempt to misdirect my investigation.”
    â€œTorrez, pull your head out of your ass for ten seconds and consider the possibility that I am telling the truth!” I felt my grip tighten on the phone and forced myself to calm down. Screaming at Torrez wasn’t going to get me anywhere. “What if this video is legit? What if there is a killer who is right now stalking his next victim, who just happens to be a member of the most powerful family in the state, and you failed to act?”
    â€œThere are over two dozen officers patrolling that area. If somebody really were stupid enough to try something, they would certainly fail. But feel free to come by in the morning and show me this message.”
    â€œYou’re not going to go check this out?”
    â€œSands, check what out? You claim to have a video of a street. So the fuck what? Is there any real threat being made? Is there any mention of an intended victim, or better yet, a possible perpetrator? Since you are remaining silent, I am going to conclude that the answer to these questions is no. So I ask again, what exactly do you want me to check out?”
    â€œâ€˜Murder is in the air,’ Torrez. I haven’t seen that on the news, which means it wasn’t released. How did the person who sent this know about it?”
    â€œYou should watch the news more. Oh, wait. You were in lockup. If you weren’t too busy attacking priests, you would know that ‘Murder is in the air!’ went out over an hour ago.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œIt was leaked. I don’t know by who, but I was working on finding out when you called and interrupted me. Anyone could have it, which makes your alleged video as useful as a writer who thinks he can tell cops their job.”
    He hung up. Doomsday looked at me, as though asking what I was going to do. The decision did not take long.

Chapter Seven
    Torrez was right about one thing: There was enough of a police presence downtown to invade a small country. The mile-and-a-half stretch that covered the club district was barricaded with heavy orange road-construction barrels. Officers stood alongside their patrol cars, watching intently as though waiting for some unseen danger to leap from the shadows. They eyed the crowds like gunfighters. Uniformed powder kegs just waiting for a match.
    The gun tucked under my leather jacket suddenly felt heavy and obvious. Heading into an area filled with fidgety cops while carrying a loaded firearm did not seem like the best decision. Gus Tanner would surely chew me out for it. But I wasn’t about to go unarmed in search of a maniac who cut a ’person’s head off with a chainsaw.
    Taking a spot in line for the Dungeon would be too time-consuming, not to mention pointless. Bouncers at the door had a list of people who were not allowed inside, and I was right at the top. I turned the corner and entered the alley. I knew that many of the staff used the service entrance. I was betting