Bedroom of a Madman

Rosy-cheeked little girls adorn the ceiling of his bedroom. I recognize some of the girls’ photographs from files at the office. Others I don’t. How many are still locked in the labyrinth of passageways and cells beneath this building, whimpering their mother’s names? The little girls can’t cry out when vermin creep out of the recesses of their cells because he loves to hear them scream. Like a shark is drawn to blood, the madman is drawn to the little girls’ screams. Weeks of therapy, and the only escapee from this house from hell is just beginning to speak. She has whispered only a few coherent words, but they were enough to bring us here.

A metallic clock on the wall ticks steadily and loud. The bomb-like ticking serves as a reminder that every second that goes by one on his child victims might be dying. Hopefully we’ll uncover a layout and security codes of the network beneath us. If not it could be days before we find everyone. The sick bastard spared no cost in the design of his torture maze.

The only piece of furniture, a bed, looks out of place in the center of the room. This one is a real bed. Unlike the wooden one we found downstairs, this one is parallel to the floor, has a mattress, pillow, and sheets, is without handcuffs, whips, and a wide array of torturous sex toys. The only abnormality is the splattering of blood across the coverlet. Bile rises in my throat as I envision the sick maniac beneath the sheets at night, inhaling the pungent odor of his twisted crimes.

Besides the bed, everything is immaculate. The room resembles a lab more so than a bedroom. The fluorescent light glares harshly off the glossy floors. Shining full-length mirrors like those in a brothel cover the walls. I shudder at the thought of the images those mirrors must have reflected. Twenty years on the job, and I still get emotional when we get cases like this that involve children.

An exclamation from the adjoining closet pulls me in that direction. One of the squad members found a journal. The book appears to contain detailed plans of his abductions. Street numbers, bus routes, schedules, this guy was meticulous. Every base was covered. While this might serve as incriminating evidence in court, it doesn’t do much to help the present situation.

I wander back into the bedroom and look around. Unless there were secret panels, the bed would be the only place to hide anything. Not that the psychopath thought that he would have any need to hide material. Acting on impulse, I uneasily climbed atop the spotted bed. I reached up and tore down one of the photographs. I smiled with relief. Bingo.