It was night, a scant few lights fought against this. Eli wore a long grey cloak, similar to a poncho. His jungle boots clomped on the pavement.

The door to the apartment was broken, the simple wooden frame smashed in where the deadbolts were positioned. The victim’s father had done this to get inside when his daughter didn’t answer. The only thing that kept the crime scene secured was a few strips of police tape, the color the teal of the planet’s most violent native animal, the symbols that adorned it screaming authority and the agony that it can unleash. Eli entered, the tape tearing away with little resistance.

It was a nice enough place. The amount of space was acceptable, and it was clean. The tops of the shelves and dressers were lined with statues and models. She had maintained several house plants.

The walls were covered with posters. Glory and fame silently screamed out of the images into the darkness of what had once been the home of a dreamer. Such colors. Such beauty. Such adoration.

The words of his uncle, “The secret to being a skip tracer is to know your target.”

He knew practically nothing about his target. The only thing that Eli knew about him was his victims. He supposed that his choice of victims told him something about his quarry. The bastard was a coward that murdered innocents, made them suffer first. A sick, broken man.

Eli paced around the room, searching for anything he might have missed. The window offered a wide view of the sprawl below. Endless rows of lights stretched out into the distance, in the voids between them he could just make out brutish works of metal and brick.

He spotted something interesting, the ruins of a half-completed building, seemingly abandoned. From there, the whole apartment complex would be visible.

***

Eli entered the decaying shell. It was pitch black, so he put on a pair of night vision glasses. They looked nothing like the bulky goggles he had worn during his time in the military. These resembled sunglasses and didn’t play havoc with his depth perception.

Shoeprints in the dust, a lot of them, all identical. A squatter? He knelled down and took a picture of one where the tread pattern was well defined. He took note of the little logo located in the center of the heel. Another gift from the Tadvash translator, a burst of fever dream visions, luxury and excess.

Eli moved slowly and silently, following the trail of shoeprints to the nearest flight of stairs. They went up thirty floors.

The prints went out into a hallway near one of the outer walls. They moved back and forth, entered a few rooms. Eli checked three, before he found what he was looking for.

The dust in that room had been stirred by countless footfalls. This was especially true near the rectangular hole where the window would have been had the structure been finished. And the prints were also thick near something else, something on the floor near the window. He couldn’t quite make it out.

He gave the room another look, took a few steps forward. It was someone lying on their back. Pushing away the urge to dart forward and see if they were okay, he checked his surroundings again. No one was hiding in the shadows. No signs of traps either.

It was a manikin, one in a female humanoid form, carved from a light-colored wood. The thing looked to be brand new, and yet, it was badly damaged. Deep slices and gouges had been cut into its surface. Metal wire was sewn through the lips.

Eli went to the window, pulled out his binoculars, swept them across the apartment building. There, a perfect view of her apartment.

The killer had watched her from this room, leered as she went about her day. How long had he watched her? Days? Weeks? He must have gotten to know her well, picked up on her habits. He’d know when she would leave and when she would return; when she would eat, when she would go to bed.

Eli returned to the manikin, brought the case files up on his computer. Just as he had suspected, the marks on the manikin matched the victim’s wounds. The freak had planned it all out in detail, charting out each attack.

Where had the coward gone?

If Chiron was correct, the target was a wanderer. He had no roots in that place or perhaps in anyplace. He wouldn’t stay with friends or family; he might not even have any.

Only one kill per place. He fulfilled his sick need and moved on. He’d likely head to another world. That left a lot of options.

He called Kirjen & Jussco.

It was Jussco that answered, “Eli! Looking for work?”

“Not this time. I need some information. I’m in the Lajuun sector. I need to know who has purchased an item.”

“I’ll check with the legitimate side of our business. Got a part number?”

He checked the manikin and found one on the underside.

Jussco gave him the info. A pallet had been shipped to a dress shop on Phiiung. A whole cargo hold to a convention center on Tarang. A crate full had been sold to an individual, delivered to the local spaceport, to a starship named Impractical Desire. He signed for it as Kolache Laamb.

Eli thanked Jussco and headed to the spaceport.