A man lies dead on the ground. I frown for I have put him there. 

It's not the sight of his pale corpse, rotting in his grey trench coat, his eyes staring ahead the ash-grey sky heavy with smog, that makes me cringe.

It isn't the weird angle at which his body rests, like the rag-doll of a street urchin, forgotten on the grimy streets.

It isn't the pallor of his face, the sunken eyes, the mouth twisted into an expression of horror, horror at the strange events that culminated in his violent death.

It isn't the red marks around his neck, where a vile serpent had coiled around, attempting to choke the life out of him, and when that had failed, had used a pistol to finish the job.

It was none of that. 

It was the smell.

The whiff of death that clouded above the man, pungent, acrid, flowing in rough waves with the wind, from the bullet hole in the man's chest, to the frayed bowler hat which had rolled away from the conflict.

It is always the smell. The constant reminder of the barbarity of the crime, that travels through my nostrils and nags at my heart, trying to soften it up.

Not this heart, you don't.

I adjust my leather gloves, fix my newsboy cap and set to work, ignoring the horrid stench.

After all, by tomorrow, I will not be the killer anymore.

I will be the one who hunts the killer.

The problem is, I don't think I'll be able to put a stop to him.

And that makes me smile.

***