Calaruga Shark Media, Hello and welcome to Murder Weekly. This episode is titled
Heartless, New York, February fourteenth, two thousand and two. The day
had started like any other for Detective Jack Sip malloy, a bitter cup of
coffee, a stack of paperwork, and the dull throb of a hangover pounding
in his temples. But when the call came in, a panicked voice on
the other end of the line, screaming about a double homicide in the heart
of the city, Sip knew that this was no ordinary Valentine's Day. The
crime scene was a nightmare made flesh, a twisted tableau of love and death
that made even the most hardened cops turn away in disgust. The victims,
a young couple named Sarah and Michael lay entwined on their blood soaked bed,
their bodies a tangle of pale limbs and lifeless eyes. But it was the
gaping wounds in their chests that drew Sip's gaze. The ragged holes where their
hearts had once beaten now nothing more than empty cavities filled with congealing blood.
The room was a riot of red and pink. The walls adorned with paper
hearts and silk roses, a garish display of affection turned obscene by the horror
that had unfolded within. The sickly sweet scent of the flowers mingled with the
coppery tang of blood, a cloying perfume that made Sip's stomach churn and his
head's spin. As he picked his way through the carnage, his eyes searching
for any clue or shred of evidence that might lead him to the killer,
Sip couldn't shake the feeling that this was no random act of violence. The
precision of the cuts, the careful arrangement of the bodies, it all spoke
to a level of planning and forethought that chilled him to the bone. As
Sip stared at the gaping wounds in Sarah and Michael's chests, he felt a
wave of nausea wash over him. The sight of the ragged, blood soaked
cavities where their hearts had once beaten was enough to make even the most seasoned
cop flinch. What do we got, doc Sip asked, his voice thick
with a mix of revulsion and determination. Doctor Emily Chen, the medical examiner,
looked up from the bodies. Her face grim. It's unlike anything I've
ever seen, detective, the precision of the cuts, the lack of hesitation
marks whoever did this had extensive medical knowledge and experience. Sip nodded, his
jaw clenched tight. Well, can you tell me about the wounds themselves?
Doctor Chen took a deep breath, dealing herself for the gruesome details she was
about to divulge. The killer used a scalpel to make a deep vertical incision
along the sternum, then used a rib spreader to crack open the chest cavity.
From there, they carefully dissected the pericardium, the sack that surrounds the
heart, and severed the major blood vessels and arteries. Sip felt his stomach
churn at the clinical description of the brutal act and the hearts themselves removed with
surgical precision. Doctor Chen replied, her voice trembling slightly. The killer would
have had to work quickly to avoid excessive blood loss, but there's no sign
of any hesitation or miscuts. It's as if they've done this before. This
guy is seriously messed up, But I gotta tell you he's an artist.
Sip's mind raced with the implications of the doctor's words. A killer with medical
training, a steady hand, and a twisted desire to steal the hearts of
their victims was a profile that chilled him to the bone. As he studied
the gaping wounds in Sarah and Michael's chests, Sip couldn't help but feel a
sense of awe at the sheer brutality of the act to cut into the chest
of a living, breathing person, to crack open their rib cage and tear
out their still beating heart. It was an act of savagery that defied comprehension,
and yet as he looked closer, Sip realized that there was a strange
sort of artistry to the wounds, a macabre beauty in the precision and skill
with which they had been inflicted. The killer, whoever they were, had
elevated murder to an art form, a twisted masterpiece of blood and bone.
He turned to doctor Chen, his eyes blazing with a fierce intensity. I
want every scrap of evidence bagged and tagged, every blood splatter analyzed and cross
referenced. We're going to catch this son of a bitch. The first lead
came from the couple's friends and family, a tangled web of jealousies and resentments
that seemed to point to a jilted ex lover with a history of violence.
But as Sip dug deeper, he found that the man had an airtight alibi,
his whereabouts confirmed by a dozen witnesses and a time stamped security camera.
The next suspect was a coworker of Sarah's, a quiet, unassuming man named
David who had always seemed a little too interested in her personal life. When
questioned, David broke down in tears, confessing to a secret obsession with Sarah
that had consumed his every waking moment. But as much as Sip wanted to
believe he had found his killer, the evidence just didn't add up. David
had no medical training, no access to the couple's apartment, and no way
to overpower too healthy adults in the prime of their lives. As the days
turned into weeks and the trail grew colder, Sip found himself haunted by the
memory of Sarah and Michael's lifeless eyes, the gaping wounds in their chests that
seemed to mock him with their emptiness. He poured over the crime scene photos
until his vision blurred, studied the autopsy reports until the words swam before his
eyes. But still the killer remained elusive, a phantom that danced just beyond
his grasp. A month later, a couple was found murdered in the same
grisly fashion in Miami, their hearts cut from their chests with surgical precision.
A witness had seen a man leaving the scene. A tall figure in a
dark coat called down to Miami. The voice on the other end was gruff,
tinged with the weariness of a man who had seen too much. Detective
Mick Ray is Miami PD, Sip molloy, NYPD, I need your help
on a case. There was a pause, followed by a heavy sigh.
What have you got? Sip leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes.
Double homicide couple found on Valentine's Day. Killer removed their hearts with surgical
precision, left a note the heart wants what it wants? Sound familiar.
Mixed voice dropped a hint of resignation creeping in. Yeah, it does.
Sounds like the work of a sick bastard. We call the artist. Been
chasing this jack hole for nearly twenty years now, Sip sat up straighter.
His interest pequed twenty years. What can you tell me about him? Not
much, Mick admitted the frustration evident in his tone. Guy's a ghost,
moves in high society circles, has a thing for the art world, leaves
a trail of bodies in his way, always with the same mo precise cuts,
organs removed, and some twisted artsy message left behind. Sip jotted down
notes his mind racing, and he leads patterns, Mick laughed, a harsh,
humorless sound. Leads. Yeah, we've had leads. Problem is they
all go nowhere. This guy, he's smart, meticulous, knows how to
cover his tracks. It's like chasing a damn shadow. What about the art
connection, any specific galleries events? He's been linked to a few underground shows,
black market deals, but every time we get close, he vanishes.
It's like he knows we're coming. Look, I'll send you what I can,
but I got to warn you. This guy, he gets under your
skin. He'll make it personal and when he does, that's when he's got
you. And if you catch the bastard, give him a few extra hits
from me. The line went dead, leaving Sip alone with his thoughts.
He stared at the crime scene photos across his desk, the blood soaked hearts,
and the mocking note. Somewhere out there, the artist was waiting,
plotting his next move, and Sip knew that he would stop at nothing to
bring him down, to make him pay for every life he had stolen,
every heart he had broken. But as he looked at the photos, at
the savagery and the precision, Sip couldn't shake the feeling that he was in
over his head, that this case, this killer, would test him in
ways he had never been tested before, and that in the end, the
price of justice might be higher than he was willing to pay. A year
later, on the eve of Valentine's Day, Sip received a package at the
precinct, a heart, still warm and beating, nestled in a bed of
red rose petals. The note attached read to Detective Malloy, with love,
the game is just beginning. Murder Weekly is a Calaroga Shark Media production written
and hosted by Aidan I Flanagan, produced by Mark Francis. Executive producers Mark
Francis and John McDermott. Portions of this podcast may have been created with the
assistance of Ai Calaroga Shark Media.