The Black Chronicle by Oldrich Stibor

Matherport, otherwise know as the Mister copy-cat. Matherport had already been apprehended at the time. He was caught in his dwelling; a basement apartment in south central, with the corpse of a young Asian boy stuffed into his freezer like an artistic homage to Jeffrey Dahmer. It wasn't until his arrest that it became clear there were two Mister killers employing the same modus operandi. The victims were all killed in their homes, and had their eyes removed and placed on the floor beneath their feet. However the killer taunting the police with videos was not Victor Matherport. They didn't know what murders to attribute to who, there were at least eight bodies undiscovered and Matherport proved to not be the chatty type. As a profiler with the special behavioural unit Jeremy had a reputation for being able to form a special report with the truly deranged. When they couldn't get Matherport to talk, they asked Jeremy to work his psycho magic.
                  It was slow going at first. Matherport had nothing to prove, he didn't strike Jeremy as someone who was trying to make a point, but after months of weekly meetings, which Matherport seemed to relish as he was in solitary confinement his entire stay and never had visitors, he finally divulged the location of his victims bodies, but not before making Jeremy swear he would continue to visit him every Sunday. Which seemed like a small price to pay to bring the family's of the deceased at least a small measure of solace. Truth be told he could simply have stopped going once the bodies were found, but he tried to keep his word when he could and the visits were often times the most interesting part of his week. How often does one get to study the mind of a true monster?
                  Jeremy spent the drive to Pelican Bay listening to talk radio because it kept his mind engaged and off of his brother. The discussion was a light little chat about late term abortions. There was no shortage of vitriol and of course no conclusion or consensus in sight. Which seemed to be about par for the course regarding every subject of American society lately. America was a country divided, civilization was crumbling, perhaps Chris had checked out just in time. He could picture him down there, in that box in the ground, decomposing like compost in the garden. 
                  He changed the channel and listened to top forty for the remainder of the drive.
     
     
                  Pelican Bay is a grim intimidating facility which consists of staunch grey concrete structures, surrounded by a high voltage razor wire topped fence. By the time one passes through the thirty foot guarded gate and spot the steely eyed guards in the towers, their high powered carbine rifles in hand, one gets the point: Do not feed the animals.
                  The man at the visitor in-take desk was a generic looking C.O. who gave the impression that he had done his time deeper in the bowels of the beast and was now very thankful to be working such a menial and safe post.
                  As Jeremy approached, the corrections officer regarded him with recognition and reached for the clipboard to sign him in.
                  “Dr. Foster,” the guard burped and nodded a hello.
                  “Good to see you again,” Jeremy responded trying to remember the man's name and failing.
                  “Enter the Sally port to the right and wait for the door to lock.” The guard instructed as though Jeremy hadn’t done this dozens of times.
                  The ‘sally port’ is a foyer of sorts between two sets of magnetically locked iron doors. He entered and the door rolled shut behind him, locking with a loud klank. That klanking sound always interested him for some reason. How cruel that sound must seem to those imprisoned there. The doors rolled closed so silently and smoothly, that it made the