22 October 1894
Another set of murders tonight. Two men, lavishly adorned, throats cut. They died gasping for air through blood-filled lungs, staring up at their killer to a symphony of their own wet asphyxiation. Their bodies were left respectively in the front foyer and the palm court beside the indoor fountain. On the columns by the back door were hung two more poems that regaled the viewer with the introspection of one's identity through green-tinted lenses - Envy - the 4th installment in the series.
Thusfar the pattern has followed an established order. Any departure from it now would indicate disruption in the killer's plans, which are clearly well-thought out. Tonight, however, I think marked the second time he had to improvise. The first was the woman in the pond. The second was tonight in the slaying of the other man. I believe there was only 1 victim intended tonight, but perhaps attributed to the location being a domicile converted into a public governmental office, he was happened upon by a witness, who was killed as a consequence. Now which one was the planned killing and which was not? There is a good argument for either, and the answer to this riddle, I think, holds part of the key to unlocking his motives.
Ah, but brilliant though I may be, I do not have the same knack for solving mysteries as you, old friend. I admit, I am taken by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's writings not only for his captivating felicity of expression, but in fact for how they make me feel as though I were right beside you when you worked. If only I could have been there to witness you at your finest, to be bathed in the light of your bright mind and hope that perhaps some of it may shine upon me. I am a sorry substitute. If you were here, you would already be on an invisible vigil of the killer's next scene, ready to catch him in the act and save a life.
Hank, I'm sorry. I let you down. I lied to you and you knew it. And still you had the grace to pretend to be my friend in spite of it. At the time I resented you for what I knew to be your efforts to build a case against me, but now I would relish the opportunity to be the subject of your intent fascination again. You never caught me, and I am left to wonder why -- not because you couldn't, but because you could and chose not to. That alone will haunt me for as long as I live.
As I have said before, I am not an evil man. My bitter portfolio and scarlet-penned record is but a narrow view of a greater whole. The scalpel and the serum are no more than tools of the trade -- I am to medicine as you are to the law -- the hand, the weapon, the mechanism through which a greater will is manifest. But then, I do not write to you to convince you of my innocence. I write to you to convince myself, perhaps in some vain effort to keep me honest.
I admit, all this death has stirred in me something I had thought I'd lost. I stood over the body alone for a while in silent repose while Salena and Danny were out by the water. I saw the blood spray on the columns -- the tell-tale jet of blood propelled at pressure from a nicked carotid. I think he faced him when he did it. I think their eyes met, and in the victim's eyes I see myself reflected. What power, what sorrow, what utter emptiness he must have felt when he cut him. What ecstasy and regret. The poems are so mournful, so troubled. I do not know why he writes to me in the hour of his sinful sacrament. That I am a doctor and quick to respond, probably, but is there some part of me that feels he writes to me because I see him?
I do not mean to suggest he and I are the same, no, the most important discrepancy is that I seek to save lives, not destroy them. But perhaps... perhaps, in your absence, I seek to become you. I am you as you stalked Rousseau. I am you when you stalked me. I see myself through your eyes, and in that way we are together again, understanding each other.
Ah, but you probably think I am on the opium pipe again, don't you? Not tonight. Tonight I will keep my mind sharpened. I have moved to make myself known to the killer. If I am right, he will see me. If I am wrong, then there are two more chances yet to come.
Yours,
Galen
Kane folded up the letter and placed it in an envelope. The envelope was then slid into a pocket in a briefcase already stuffed to capacity with countless others, all scrawled with the same name: Hank Wilson -- but notably absent of any physical address. The letters would remain unsent, not just because he didn't know where Hank was, but because the letters were never meant to be read by anyone.
The memory of Hank had been a constant companion in the time since he left the Commonwealth, and Galen's ire had cooled back into odd affection. He ached for his friend, and he felt the absence in his heart like an ulcer. He resolved to dedicate himself to his work. There were still 3 bodies in the office that needed tending to, patents needing testing, reports needing written. Perhaps tomorrow.
He leaned over and blew out the candle and closed his eyes. In the dark he saw wild scrawling on the walls. Not just poems of introspection and self rebuke, but cryptic messages about perfect stars, ashen maidens, and immortality. Blood-soaked walls in crimson lust. The dying light in darkened eyes. Dominica. Romanian. Romani. Diana...