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Calaruga Shark Media, Hello and welcome
to Murder Weekly. This episode is titled

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Heartless, New York, February fourteenth, two thousand and two. The day

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had started like any other for Detective
Jack Sip malloy, a bitter cup of

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coffee, a stack of paperwork,
and the dull throb of a hangover pounding

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in his temples. But when the
call came in, a panicked voice on

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the other end of the line,
screaming about a double homicide in the heart

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of the city, Sip knew that
this was no ordinary Valentine's Day. The

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crime scene was a nightmare made flesh, a twisted tableau of love and death

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that made even the most hardened cops
turn away in disgust. The victims,

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a young couple named Sarah and Michael
lay entwined on their blood soaked bed,

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their bodies a tangle of pale limbs
and lifeless eyes. But it was the

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gaping wounds in their chests that drew
Sip's gaze. The ragged holes where their

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hearts had once beaten now nothing more
than empty cavities filled with congealing blood.

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The room was a riot of red
and pink. The walls adorned with paper

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hearts and silk roses, a garish
display of affection turned obscene by the horror

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that had unfolded within. The sickly
sweet scent of the flowers mingled with the

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coppery tang of blood, a cloying
perfume that made Sip's stomach churn and his

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head's spin. As he picked his
way through the carnage, his eyes searching

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for any clue or shred of evidence
that might lead him to the killer,

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Sip couldn't shake the feeling that this
was no random act of violence. The

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precision of the cuts, the careful
arrangement of the bodies, it all spoke

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to a level of planning and forethought
that chilled him to the bone. As

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Sip stared at the gaping wounds in
Sarah and Michael's chests, he felt a

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wave of nausea wash over him.
The sight of the ragged, blood soaked

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cavities where their hearts had once beaten
was enough to make even the most seasoned

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cop flinch. What do we got, doc Sip asked, his voice thick

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with a mix of revulsion and determination. Doctor Emily Chen, the medical examiner,

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looked up from the bodies. Her
face grim. It's unlike anything I've

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ever seen, detective, the precision
of the cuts, the lack of hesitation

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marks whoever did this had extensive medical
knowledge and experience. Sip nodded, his

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jaw clenched tight. Well, can
you tell me about the wounds themselves?

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Doctor Chen took a deep breath,
dealing herself for the gruesome details she was

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about to divulge. The killer used
a scalpel to make a deep vertical incision

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along the sternum, then used a
rib spreader to crack open the chest cavity.

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From there, they carefully dissected the
pericardium, the sack that surrounds the

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heart, and severed the major blood
vessels and arteries. Sip felt his stomach

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churn at the clinical description of the
brutal act and the hearts themselves removed with

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surgical precision. Doctor Chen replied,
her voice trembling slightly. The killer would

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have had to work quickly to avoid
excessive blood loss, but there's no sign

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of any hesitation or miscuts. It's
as if they've done this before. This

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guy is seriously messed up, But
I gotta tell you he's an artist.

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Sip's mind raced with the implications of
the doctor's words. A killer with medical

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training, a steady hand, and
a twisted desire to steal the hearts of

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their victims was a profile that chilled
him to the bone. As he studied

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the gaping wounds in Sarah and Michael's
chests, Sip couldn't help but feel a

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sense of awe at the sheer brutality
of the act to cut into the chest

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of a living, breathing person,
to crack open their rib cage and tear

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out their still beating heart. It
was an act of savagery that defied comprehension,

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and yet as he looked closer,
Sip realized that there was a strange

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sort of artistry to the wounds,
a macabre beauty in the precision and skill

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with which they had been inflicted.
The killer, whoever they were, had

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elevated murder to an art form,
a twisted masterpiece of blood and bone.

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He turned to doctor Chen, his
eyes blazing with a fierce intensity. I

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want every scrap of evidence bagged and
tagged, every blood splatter analyzed and cross

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referenced. We're going to catch this
son of a bitch. The first lead

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came from the couple's friends and family, a tangled web of jealousies and resentments

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that seemed to point to a jilted
ex lover with a history of violence.

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But as Sip dug deeper, he
found that the man had an airtight alibi,

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his whereabouts confirmed by a dozen witnesses
and a time stamped security camera.

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The next suspect was a coworker of
Sarah's, a quiet, unassuming man named

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David who had always seemed a little
too interested in her personal life. When

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questioned, David broke down in tears, confessing to a secret obsession with Sarah

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that had consumed his every waking moment. But as much as Sip wanted to

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believe he had found his killer,
the evidence just didn't add up. David

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had no medical training, no access
to the couple's apartment, and no way

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to overpower too healthy adults in the
prime of their lives. As the days

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turned into weeks and the trail grew
colder, Sip found himself haunted by the

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memory of Sarah and Michael's lifeless eyes, the gaping wounds in their chests that

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seemed to mock him with their emptiness. He poured over the crime scene photos

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until his vision blurred, studied the
autopsy reports until the words swam before his

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eyes. But still the killer remained
elusive, a phantom that danced just beyond

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his grasp. A month later,
a couple was found murdered in the same

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grisly fashion in Miami, their hearts
cut from their chests with surgical precision.

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A witness had seen a man leaving
the scene. A tall figure in a

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dark coat called down to Miami.
The voice on the other end was gruff,

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tinged with the weariness of a man
who had seen too much. Detective

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Mick Ray is Miami PD, Sip
molloy, NYPD, I need your help

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on a case. There was a
pause, followed by a heavy sigh.

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What have you got? Sip leaned
back in his chair, rubbing his eyes.

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Double homicide couple found on Valentine's Day. Killer removed their hearts with surgical

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precision, left a note the heart
wants what it wants? Sound familiar.

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Mixed voice dropped a hint of resignation
creeping in. Yeah, it does.

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Sounds like the work of a sick
bastard. We call the artist. Been

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chasing this jack hole for nearly twenty
years now, Sip sat up straighter.

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His interest pequed twenty years. What
can you tell me about him? Not

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much, Mick admitted the frustration evident
in his tone. Guy's a ghost,

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moves in high society circles, has
a thing for the art world, leaves

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a trail of bodies in his way, always with the same mo precise cuts,

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organs removed, and some twisted artsy
message left behind. Sip jotted down

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notes his mind racing, and he
leads patterns, Mick laughed, a harsh,

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humorless sound. Leads. Yeah,
we've had leads. Problem is they

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all go nowhere. This guy,
he's smart, meticulous, knows how to

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cover his tracks. It's like chasing
a damn shadow. What about the art

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connection, any specific galleries events?
He's been linked to a few underground shows,

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black market deals, but every time
we get close, he vanishes.

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It's like he knows we're coming.
Look, I'll send you what I can,

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but I got to warn you.
This guy, he gets under your

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skin. He'll make it personal and
when he does, that's when he's got

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you. And if you catch the
bastard, give him a few extra hits

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from me. The line went dead, leaving Sip alone with his thoughts.

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He stared at the crime scene photos
across his desk, the blood soaked hearts,

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and the mocking note. Somewhere out
there, the artist was waiting,

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plotting his next move, and Sip
knew that he would stop at nothing to

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bring him down, to make him
pay for every life he had stolen,

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every heart he had broken. But
as he looked at the photos, at

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the savagery and the precision, Sip
couldn't shake the feeling that he was in

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over his head, that this case, this killer, would test him in

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ways he had never been tested before, and that in the end, the

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price of justice might be higher than
he was willing to pay. A year

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later, on the eve of Valentine's
Day, Sip received a package at the

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precinct, a heart, still warm
and beating, nestled in a bed of

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red rose petals. The note attached
read to Detective Malloy, with love,

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the game is just beginning. Murder
Weekly is a Calaroga Shark Media production written

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and hosted by Aidan I Flanagan,
produced by Mark Francis. Executive producers Mark

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Francis and John McDermott. Portions of
this podcast may have been created with the

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assistance of Ai Calaroga Shark Media.