The Hanging Tannery

7:45 a.m.

The curtain is drawn, and death lurks behind, a merciless shadow hungry for his victim. I wonder if the shadow knows of the helpless souls attached to this one body. Not only will death be rewarded with one today, but fifty. I twist uncomfortably on the wooden bench. Five pews, each empty except for a woman sniffling in the front row. I recognize her amber hair from the last pew, and sympathy almost courses through me.

Tick… Tock… Tick… Tock…

I yank at my tie, the tightness around my neck unbearable.

“One cup of coffee, black, two sugars.”

I immediately grab the cup while my latest partner, Ethan, takes a seat next to me. I watch as his eyes narrow on the woman in front of us before he shakes his head in disbelief.

“The nerve of some people,” he mutters before stretching out his hand. “Muffin?”

“How can you eat right now?” I whisper, shaking my head at him.

“Same way she can sit in the front pew and cry over his death.”

“Stockholm syndrome.” It wouldn’t be the first time anyone in our line of work had witnessed it.

Tick… Tock… Tick… Tock…

I glance at the clock. 7:49 a.m. Any minute now.

“I thought you couldn’t see him?” I ask, taking a sip of the coffee.

“And let you witness it all by yourself, Almani? God knows what the bastard has taken from you and so many others,” Ethan responds, his eyes clouded with disdain.

Before I can respond—almost like a theatre production—the curtains are drawn slowly, and the door opens, revealing him.

Richard Crumb.

Anger covers me like a blanket. Ethan is right; he only became my partner during the end of the case, but he knows what this man has caused me, both emotionally and physically.

Days of no sleep, the divorce from my last wife, joint custody of our child, and the sight of a new body every month. So many bodies, all the same.

We lock eyes, and his mouth lifts in a slow, eerie grin. His hands and legs are cuffed, with two prison guards behind him on high alert.

Tick… Tock… Tick… Tock…

At 7:52 a.m., they begin strapping his large body into the chair. The woman, Pam Riggs, a past victim who managed to escape but couldn’t move on, begins sobbing. Richard’s smile grows wider at the sight, his missing teeth now in full display. My eyes rake over him, almost as if he will disappear at any given moment and the show will end. His hair has thinned, patches missing from his scalp, grayer from the last time I saw him. A scar on his right cheek sits prominently, never fading.

Pride fills me, knowing it is a mark given by me. When my first partner, Felix, and I found him in a small, half-burnt-down abandoned building years ago, I lost it. There he was, Richard Crumb, also known as The Hanging Tannery, clipping his latest prize onto a wired line.

I remember it all. The yellow, bloody skin of Allison Wright’s face. Her lipstick smeared over the dead flesh, some strands of her hair hanging from where they’d been clipped, while blood trickled down. Below the hanging flesh was Allison’s body, beaten, with her usual bite marks on her neck — each part perfectly dismembered and completely naked. The victim’s face, without its skin, was always the hardest to forget. Even in my dreams, their bulging eyes and blood everywhere continue to haunt me. Felix immediately left the FBI when we locked Richard behind bars. In a span of ten years, fifty victims were accounted for — he couldn’t do it anymore and retired early. Sometimes I regret not doing the same.

Tick… Tock… Tick… Tock…

It was 7:58. I watched the doctor get handed a long needle, a sedative to relax his body before the final step: electrocution.

“Do you, Richard Crumb, have any last words?”

Ethan reached over and gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze before looking away.

With his head strapped to the chair — body unmoving — he locked eyes with Pam before sending her a kiss from his lips, saliva spitting out. Then his cold eyes landed on me with a cynical smirk.

Tick… Tock… Tick… Tock…

“You mirror me, Morris Alamni.” He paused, his smile almost manic. “Instead of flesh hung from a line, I’m strapped to a chair. Your reward is the fruit of my labour.”

At 8:07, the switch flipped for the final time. Smoke curled from him like a sinister halo, the room thick with the iron scent of burnt flesh. Absolutely delicious. Is this what he felt? His body stilled, limbs slack, eyes equally as wide as his victims and unseeing — yet in my chest, a storm raged. Ethan looked away but I couldn’t. I needed to see. A thrill ran through my body as I leaned forward at the sight. The doctor stands in-front of the lifeless body waiting for the burnt flesh to cool down. I was hungry for his words.

“Time of death, 8:07.”

A breath I didn’t know I was holding escaped me. The thrill, the relief, the sick satisfaction — they twisted together, indistinguishable. Ethan’s hand rested on my shoulder, grounding me, but I couldn’t pull my eyes away. Not yet. Not ever, I thought.

Pam Riggs remained frozen, amber hair glinting under the harsh lights, tears still streaming but empty now. His final act, that last smirk, seemed to cling to the air — mocking, triumphant. My stomach clenched. My body shivered. Was it justice… or something darker? I couldn’t ask myself why it almost felt like pleasure.

I felt his words echo in my mind: “You mirror me, Morris Alamni. Your reward is the fruit of my labor.”

And in that echo, a chill settled deep inside. The shadow of him wouldn’t leave me. It never would. Even as the curtain closed, even as the footsteps faded down the hall, the weight of fifty souls, the thrill, the rage — it lingered, a pulse in the quiet room.

Tick… Tock… Tick… Tock…

I stepped into the hallway, the smell of death heavy on my clothes, and realized: the hunt had ended, yes. But the echo of him, of me, of what we had done — that would tick forever.