The Santa Slayer

THE SANTA SLAYER



Detective George Marshall stared down at the body sprawled across the pavement, genuine confusion crumpling his matinee idol good looks. He seemed oblivious to the activity around him, the snapping of cameras, voices shouting at one another and the cat-hiss of several radios.

“Any ideas?” George looked up, finding his partner, Louella, standing beside him, paper cups of coffee steaming in each gloved hand. “Here. Double latte with six sugars. Just the way you like it.”

George took the cup gratefully, cupping his hands around it and letting the heat soak into his chilled skin. “I’m stumped on this one,” he admitted finally. “It’s the fifth this month. And there’s no pattern to it. Except the obvious.” He gestured to the body, clad in an ill-fitting red Santa suit, the three pillows the wearer had used to increase his girth spilling out onto the icy street.



******



Seven-year-old Matthew Stewart held his breath, his eyes squeezed so tightly shut that he could see fireworks exploding on the inside of his eyelids. Even though he was too old for it, he clutched at his mother’s hand as they hurried along the darkening street.

“What is it, darling?” his mother asked, giving his sticky hand a squeeze.

“N..n…nothing,” the little boy stammered, daring to sneak a peek under his eyelids. They were past it. He could open his eyes now. Quickly checking around to make sure none of his friends had been around to see, Matthew yanked his hand from his mother’s and dashed ahead, making long skidding marks through the freshly fallen snow on the sidewalk.



******



“Okay,” the Chief hitched his pants up over his not-inconsiderable belly. “What do we have, George?”

“Not a lot, I’m afraid,” George replied, standing up to address his superior. “We have five bodies, all Santa. But that seems to be the only link. The geographical locations of the bodies appear random, and the cause of death has been different for each…”

“What are the causes of death?” the chief interrupted.

“The first, in Newlands, was stabbed eight times in the back and chest with a kitchen knife. The second, in Highland Park, was apparently pushed from the roof of a six-story building. The third, in Dorchester, was asphyxiated but by what we’re unsure; possibly a plastic bag or something of that nature. The fourth was burned. And this last one, apparently shoved in front of a moving vehicle.”

The Chief rubbed at his chin thoughtfully, studying the map George had been pointing at. “You’re right. There’s no real pattern. I’m going to assign four more men to your team. With three weeks until Christmas, there’s gonna be a Santa on every street corner, and with this fruitcake on the loose, they’re all under threat.”

“Thank you, Sir.” George nodded and headed back to his office.



******



Louella Stewart’s feet hurt as she let herself into the house. She’d been pounding the pavement all over town, questioning anyone who may have seen something that would help them catch the newly monikered Santa Slayer. But frustratingly, nobody could recall seeing anything unusual.

“Matt?” Louella called as she slipped her low-heeled pumps off and stretched her feet luxuriously. “Are you home, honey?”

“Upstairs!” The boy’s voice wafted down the stairwell as Louella crossed the hallway to the living room. She was looking forward to sitting down on the couch for a little while, putting her feet up and maybe sipping a small whiskey before she had to get dinner ready.



The living room looked as if a bomb had hit it. Louella gasped in horror as she saw the ruin of the Christmas tree she’d so carefully decorated the night before to surprise Matt when he came down in the morning. She walked around, picking up the shattered debris of many treasured decorations. There was the stained glass St. Nicholas her grandfather had made. And the wooden Santa from the store on Helden. The list went on; all damaged beyond repair.

“Matt?” she called again. “Come here, Matt. Now!”



******



“Marshall!” Geroge barked into his cell-phone after the first ring.

“Geroge?” Louella’s voice was shaking, something George had never heard it do before. “George, I think you need to come over here. It’s about the Santa case.”



******



Matt Stewart had never seemed so small, George thought as he followed his partner into the decimated living room. The boy was huddled on the couch, his face a mask of misery as he looked up at George.

“I’m sorry!” he whispered, voice cracking. “I was scared.”

“What were you scared of, son?” George asked, sitting next to the trembling child.

“Santa!” Matt burst out. “He’s a bad guy!”

“Santa?” Louella sounded bewildered. “How is Santa a bad guy?”

Matt’s lips were pressed into a white line as he tried not to cry. “He’s a crook!”

“Now, son,” George lost the gentle tone he’d been using and fell back into his cop-voice. “I need you to explain this to me. How is Santa a crook?”

“He’s a home invader. He comes into the house without being invited. Then he steals stuff. He’s a bad man!”

“What does he steal?” Louella asked in exasperation.

“Cookies.” Matt stated firmly. “And the stuff in there.” He pointed towards the liquor cabinet.

“Hmmm…” George studied the child. “So you thought you’d stop him, huh?”



Matt stiffened for a moment then nodded. “But he’s magic,” he whispered, leaning in to talk privately to George. “I killed him, but he kept coming back to life. So I had to keep killing him.”



Over the boy’s head, George’s eyes met Louella’s and she moved towards the telephone in the corner, tears springing to her eyes as she made the call.



954 words.