To Her Tam o’Shanter

His name, Lester “Less” Hope. The coffee was black as crude oil, and just as bitter. He drank it without flinching, eyes fixed on the crow out the window. Its lips parched from the asphalt, so hot that you could fry an egg—but the subtitles in his mind told him that they had found a body down by the dock of the bay. Another girl. Another nobody…not an hour more.

Less didn’t blink when the crow took off, wings slicing through the thick air like a switchblade through old silk. The phone rang—three sharp bursts—before he picked it up without looking. “Yeah.” A pause. The voice on the other end was cigarette-rough, familiar in the way a bad habit is. “They want you down there.” Less exhaled through his nose, the scent of burnt coffee and something metallic clinging to the back of his throat.

The dock smelled like salt and diesel, but beneath that, something sweet. Rotten. The kind of smell that sticks to your clothes no matter how many times you wash them. The uniforms had already cordoned off the area with yellow tape, flapping listlessly in the damp wind. One of them—kid couldn’t have been older than twenty-five—vomited into the harbor. Less stepped over the puddle without breaking stride.

She was naked and cut open from her cunt to her Tam o’ Shanter, ribs spread wide like wings—the kind of work that takes time and patience and a kind of love no sane man should ever know. Less crouched beside her, the damp concrete biting into his knees through his slacks. Her fingertips were blue, nails chipped red like she’d fought hard before the end. He didn’t touch. Didn’t need to. The way her intestines spilled in neat coils told him everything: this wasn’t the first time the butcher had done this. Maybe not even the tenth.

The coroner’s flashlight beam jittered across the girl’s face. “Jesus H. Christ,” he muttered, “he peeled her like a goddamn orange.” Less said nothing. The girl’s eyes were gone—not gouged, not sliced, but carefully plucked, the sockets smooth as eggshells. Someone had taken their time. Someone had enjoyed it.

Less ran a thumb along the edge of his jawline where stubble bit back. The girl’s skin had been removed in one piece—flayed with the precision of a taxidermist, not a hack job, not rage. Professional. The coroner’s flashlight trembled again, catching on something metallic wedged between her teeth. Less leaned in. A key. Small, tarnished, the kind that might fit a diary lock or a jewelry box.

The detective who’d called him—Malloy, fifty pounds overweight and twice as bitter—huffed behind him. “Another one for your collection, huh?” Less ignored him, slipping the key into his pocket without gloves. It was warm against his thigh, like it had been sitting in the sun. Or in someone’s mouth. The coroner made a sound like he might vomit next, but Less had already turned away, heading back toward the streetlights buzzing against the gathering dark.

The key burned in Less’s pocket all the way back to his apartment, a slow sear against his thigh like a branding iron. He didn’t hurry. Hurrying meant fear, and fear was for men who still believed in things like justice. The stairwell of his building smelled of mildew and old Chinese takeout, the steps groaning under his weight like a tired dog. He paused at his door—third floor, no peephole—and listened.

Inside, the air was thick with the ghost of last night’s whiskey. Less tossed his coat over the armchair, its leather cracked like an old man’s knuckles. The key gleamed dully in his palm under the flickering fluorescent light. Not a diary lock. Too small for that. A safe deposit box, maybe. Or a music box. He pressed the cold metal to his bottom lip, tasting salt and something coppery. Her blood. Or someone else’s.

The key wasn’t the first thing he’d taken from a crime scene, and it wouldn’t be the last. Less rolled it between his fingers, feeling the teeth catch on his callouses. The apartment hummed—refrigerator, dripping faucet, the distant groan of the elevator down the hall. He walked to the bookshelf, fingers trailing over spines until they found the one without a title. Inside, pressed between pages 213 and 214, was a Polaroid. Another girl, another key. Different lock, same butcher. Less held them side by side. The teeth didn’t match. But the tarnish did.

The phone rang again. This time, he let it. On the fifth ring, his answering machine clicked on. “Pick up, you bastard.” Malloy’s voice, frayed at the edges. “We got another one. Same MO. Different neighborhood.” Less didn’t move. The machine beeped, silence swallowing Malloy’s curses. He slid the new key into the book, shut it gently. Then he poured three fingers of whiskey into a dirty glass and drank it looking out the window. The crow was back. Or maybe it was a different one.

The whiskey left a trail of fire down Less’s throat, but his fingers stayed steady as they traced the outline of the Polaroid through the book’s pages. The crow outside tapped its beak against the glass—once, twice—before launching into the night. Less didn’t turn around. He already knew what was coming.

The knock at his door was polite. Three measured raps. Not Malloy. Malloy kicked doors open like he owned them, even when he didn’t. Less set the glass down without a sound and palmed the switchblade from his coat pocket. The blade clicked open just as the lock turned—not picked, but opened with a key. His key.

The door swung inward on hinges that hadn’t squeaked in years—someone had oiled them. The light from the hallway cut a sharp rectangle across the stained carpet, framing the silhouette of a woman. She was tall, hips cocked to one side, one hand still on the doorknob. The other held a revolver, casually, like a purse. Less didn’t lower the switchblade.

“You’re early,” he said.

The woman stepped inside, shutting the door behind her with a soft click. The revolver didn’t waver, but her lips curled—not quite a smile, more like she’d tasted something sour and was deciding whether to spit or swallow. “Early?” she echoed, voice husky like she’d been screaming all night. “You’ve been collecting them for months, Less. You knew I’d come.”

Less kept the switchblade level, though his wrist ached with the effort. The woman’s perfume hit him first—jasmine and gun oil, an expensive mismatch. Her dress was black, tight enough to count her ribs, slit high enough to show the edge of a thigh holster. The kind of outfit that said she could kill him six ways before he hit the floor. “You’re not police,” he said.

“No,” she said, revolver still trained on his chest. “But I’m not the one who’s been stealing evidence, either.” Her gaze flicked to the bookshelf, lingering on the unmarked spine where Less had just tucked the key. “You’ve got a real talent for making things disappear, detective. Shame you couldn’t make yourself vanish too.”

Less didn’t blink. The switchblade’s edge caught the flickering light, throwing a thin silver line across the woman’s collarbone. “You got a name, or do I just call you ‘the woman with the gun’?”

Her laugh was low, throaty—a sound that would’ve been inviting if not for the revolver’s barrel staring unblinking at his sternum. “Call me Vee,” she said, shifting her weight just enough to make the dress’s slit whisper against her thigh. The holster strap creaked. “Or don’t. Won’t matter in ten minutes.”

Less tilted his head, catching the glint of metal beneath her sleeve. A watch? No—too thick. Handcuffs. The kind with teeth. “Ten minutes,” he repeated, shifting his grip on the switchblade. “That your idea of foreplay?”

Vee’s smile widened, slow and dangerous, like a razor being drawn across skin. “Foreplay implies we’re gonna fuck,” she said, thumb cocking the revolver’s hammer with a click that echoed in the stale air. “But you’re not my type, Less.”

The switchblade trembled—not from fear, but from the tension in his forearm, muscles locked like a sprung trap. Less exhaled through his nose, catching another wave of her perfume—jasmine, yes, but beneath it, the sharp tang of antiseptic. Hospital-grade. “You’re not here to kill me,” he said.

Vee’s finger tightened imperceptibly on the trigger, her knuckles whitening for a fraction of a second before relaxing again. “Smart boy,” she murmured, taking another step forward. The carpet muffled her heels, but Less could feel the vibration through the floorboards. “But wrong, I want your sperm on my embryos.”