A medium in a semi-official way was consulted on the murderer's psychological profile in the series that the police were looking for. Carlos del Puente Stories

 A medium in a semi-official way was consulted on the murderer's psychological profile in the series that the police were looking for.

The rain hit the corrugated iron roof from the office of the inspector Moreau, a relentless rhythm that reflects the blows in his head. Three weeks. Three weeks from the first body, each posterior discovered with the same Macabra firm: a single and perfect crimson pink placed in the victim's chest. Paris was containing his breath, and he, Inspector Moreau, was drowning in a sea of ​​increasing response and pressure.

He rubbed his tired eyes, the hard fluorescent light that exacerbates the throbbing pain. The archive in his desk was thick, full of photos of the crime scene, statements of witnesses and forensic reports, each piece offered a tempting vision, but finally it does not paint a complete image. The murderer was meticulous, without leaving a trace of evidence, without digital footprints, or a discernible reason that connects the victims.

Desperate, which borders the defeat, Moreau had reluctantly accepted a suggestion of a superior officer, a suggestion whispered in the silent tones: consult the media. Officially, the police force considered them charlatans, taking advantage of the vulnerable. Not officially, well, there were stories. Stories of resolved cases, details obtained that could never have been obtained through conventional means. Moreau, a man of logic and reason, felt a deep concern, a commitment of his principles. But the bodies accumulated, and the public's confidence was eroded with each news cycle.

He sighed and lifted the phone, marking the number his superior had provided. The voice at the other end was low and hoarse, identifying only as Madame Evangeline. She agreed to gather, but only under the mantle of anonymity, in a small coffee in the district of Marais, a maze of narrow streets and hidden courtyards.

The coffee was weakly illuminated, full of strong coffee scent and rancid cakes. Moreau, with simple clothes, sat at a corner table, feeling conspicuous and silly. He observed how Madame Evangeline entered, a woman wrapped in an aura of mystery. She was greater than she expected, her face aligned with what he could only interpret as the weight of invisible knowledge. His eyes, however, were sharp and penetrating, holding him captive in his gaze.

He presented himself, omitting his official title. "I need help," he said, his rough voice. "I am trying to understand someone, someone who is ... dangerous."

Madame Evangeline said nothing, his eyes still noticed him. She extended her hand through the table and took her hand, her surprisingly firm touch. A chill crossed, a feeling that could not explain.

"He is here," he whispered, his voice barely audible about the murmur of coffee. "He is ... close. He's looking at you."

Moreau harden, instinctively scanning coffee. He saw nothing, nobody suspicious. "Who is it?" He asked, his strong voice.

"The darkness you are looking for," she replied, her cloudy eyes, as if they turned in. "It is a broken mirror, reflecting only fragments of itself. It seeks to create beauty, but only knows destruction."

During the following hours, Madame Evangeline spoke in cryptic pronouncements, painting a portrait of the murderer who was disturbing and strangely convincing. She described a man driven by a desperate need for control, a man tormented by a past trauma, a wound that feast and poisoned his soul. She spoke of a deeply rooted resentment, a burning anger aimed at a world that had harmed him.

"He sees himself as an artist," he said, his voice was a simple breath. "The roses are their signature, a symbol of contaminated beauty. Take what is pure and innocent and corrupt it, turning in their own distorted vision."

She revealed details that surprised Moreau. Details that had not been released to the public. Details only the murderer could have known. She spoke of the specific types of roses used: 'Black Baccara', a hybrid tea rose known for its almost black blood red petals. She described the precise positioning of the rose in the chest of each victim, the stem always pointing towards the heart.

Moreau, the hardened detective, felt that a chill crawled through its spine. I couldn't explain it, I couldn't rationalize it, but I knew she was seeing something, something beyond the realm of logic.

He pressed it for more, desperate for a name, a location, anything specific. But Madame Evangeline could only offer glimpses, fragments of a shattered psyche.

"He is connected to the water," he said, his frown in concentration. "I see ... a bridge. A river. A place where the water is with stone."

The meeting ended abruptly, with Madame Evangeline claiming that he could not deepen without risking his own well -being. She rejected the payment, leaving Moreau with a head full of fragmented images and a sense of restlessness.

Back in his office, the rain still played against the roof, Moreau felt more lost than ever. He had trusted logic, evidenced, in the tangible. Now, I was armed with whispers and visions, a psychic puzzle that seemed impossible to solve.

He looked at the Paris map, his gaze drawn towards the Seine. 'Water ... a bridge ... a place where the water meets stone'. The bridges abounded in Paris, each was a lead potential, a possible dead end. He passed a hand for his hair, building frustration.

So, something click. He recalled a comment made by a forensic technician, a disposable comment on the unusually high sediment levels found in the victims' clothes. Sediment consisting of the ground that is located along the banks of the Seine, but not only anywhere. Specifically, the area around île de la Cité, the heart of Paris, where the Seine flowed around the old Notre Dame Cathedral, where the waters met with the most emblematic milestone stone of the city.

He grabbed his coat and ran out of the office, the rain whipping against his face. He led to île de la Cité, parking near the Pont Neuf, the oldest bridge in Paris. The area was deserted, the only sound of the river roar and the moan distant from a siren.

He started walking, with his eyes scanning the embankments with little light. He realized a small and harvest road that leads to the edge of the water. He doubted, then followed, his hand instinctively reached his gun.

The road led to an isolated niche, hidden from the street above. The air was heavy with the smell of wet ground and river water. And then he saw it.

A small and meticulously fixed garden, hidden between weeds and debris. In the center of the garden, a single and perfect Rose 'Baccara' flourished, his crimson petals shone in the faint light.

Moreau's heart was beating in his chest. He surveyed the area, his senses in maximum alert. He realized a small ruins integrated in the embankment, his slightly landscape door.

He approached cautiously, his drawn weapon. He pushed the door, the hinges groaning in protest. The hut was dark and humid, the thick air with the stench of the decomposition. He lost to his flashlight, his ray cut the gloom.

The hut was scarcely furnished: a rickety crib, a small table, a collection of gardening tools. And then he saw the photographs.

They were nailed to the wall, a disturbing collage of images: newspaper clippings on the murders, close -up shots of the victims and sketches of disturbing roses, their twisted and deformed petals.

In the center of the collage, a single photograph stood out. A black and white image faded with a child, standing next to a woman, both smiling. The woman held a bouquet of red roses.

Moreau recognized the child. It was him. Major, hardened, but without a doubt. It was the Notre Dame Gardener. A quiet and unpretentious man who kept himself. No one suspected anything.

While Moreau looked at the photograph, a board creak behind him. He turned, his weapon got up.

Standing at the door was the gardener, his eyes full of a chilling vacuum. In his hand, he held a couple of gardening scissors, his blades shone in the flashlight beam.

"You shouldn't be here," said the gardener, his flat voice and without emotion. "This is my garden. My sanctuary."

"We know what you have done," said Moreau, his stable voice despite the adrenaline that his veins are going through. "Las Rosas ... women ..."

The gardener's face twisted in a grotesque parody of a smile. "They were imperfect," he said, his voice rose. "They needed to be pruned. To be beautiful."

He threw Moreau, the gardening scissors rose. Moreau shot, the shot echoed in the cabin. The gardener crawled to the ground, the scissors complained by his side.

Moreau stopped on him, his chest widered, the rain still hit the hut's roof. I had stopped it. He had saved the city from his dark impulses.

While waiting for the backup to arrive, he looked back in the photograph of the young man and the woman with the roses. He understood now. The woman was her mother, killed in an act of non -meaning violence when she was just a child. The roses were the last gift he had given him. The murderer had tried to recreate that lost beauty, but his trauma had twisted him to something monstrous.

Moreau knew that he had resolved the case, but there was no feeling of triumph, or feeling of closing. Only a deep sadness for a life shattered by violence and a chilling reminder of the darkness that stalked under the surface of even the most common people.

He looked at the rain, washing the blood from the ground. He had sought logical, but the answer was found in a vision of a medium. He closed his eyes. The rain was still falling. The city was safe, for now. But the darkness, knew, never really disappeared. He simply waited, latent, for his opportunity to bloom again. And he would be there, waiting in the rain.

By Carlos del Puente relatos