On the west side of Fort Worth, Texas, the grandfather clock in Bruce Richards’ living room solemnly announced the arrival of two a.m. March the seventeenth as the Raven put his finishing touches on the scene. As was his custom, he left his hobby kill token on the TV tray next to the recliner. Thank God for chloroform, he thought as he arranged Bruce’s unconscious body in the recliner. Big bull of a man like this I’d have had trouble going one on one with. But chemicals had evened up the size and weight imbalance.
He stepped back for just a moment while he loaded one round in Bruce’s own handgun, a Beretta .380. Gotta admit, this is not my favorite part, he mused grimly. Blood spatter was never fun to deal with. But he’d learned very early on in his career that black clothing made that pa
