And now there was the killer’s grotesque signature: cool, deliberate dismemberment. Savelly understood they were not dealing with a common robber or street thug. Law enforcement was facing a highly organized and deeply violent serial killer.
This was a monster who was methodically targeting one specific kind of woman. The detective wrote the word “BRICK” in black marker across the cover of a new combined file. The ghost now had an official name in the case record.
But while police were only beginning to grasp the scale of the threat, the killer had already chosen his next target. He sat casually at an outdoor café near the wholesale market, sipping cheap coffee. His cold eyes were fixed on the owner of a large flower shop.
She was sharply dressing down a young employee in front of everyone. Her voice carried authority, impatience, and steel. It was exactly the tone the killer hated most.
Her name was Susan Orloff, and she was forty-six. Tough, energetic, and genuinely successful, she had once worked as a simple horticulturist before realizing there was money to be made in flowers.
When the economy shifted, Susan quickly figured out that imported flowers could build a real business. She started by selling bunches of asters from her own yard. By the mid-1990s, she owned two large floral shops and held a profitable contract for Dutch roses.
Her new silver business sedan was a source of pride—and neighborhood envy. Ten years earlier she had thrown out her alcoholic husband and taken full control of her life. Now her grown daughter was attending a respected university in the city, tuition paid.
Susan was used to giving orders and had no patience for pushback. Her employees were afraid of her temper, and suppliers respected her. To the killer, she was the perfect addition to his collection.
He watched her routine for a full week. He noticed that she regularly drove to a supply yard for potting soil and fertilizer. The bags were heavy, and there were never enough sober workers around to help.
It was the perfect opening, so he waited for her at the warehouse. Rumpled clothes, shoulders hunched on purpose, and a subdued, apologetic look. He had mastered the disguise of the harmless, slightly dim laborer.
“Ma’am, can I give you a hand? A lady shouldn’t be hauling something this heavy,” he said quietly. Susan looked him over with the quick, practical eye of a business owner.
Six foot six, broad as a barn door, and built like he could move a refrigerator by himself. Exactly what she needed. “How much do you charge?” she asked briskly.
“Whatever you think is fair,” he muttered.
In fifteen minutes he had loaded twenty heavy bags of soil into her trunk. He worked silently, quickly, and without stopping once.
Susan was pleased. She happened to be looking for a strong handyman to do unloading and small repairs. She paid him well and gave him her work number.
“Call me tomorrow morning. I can probably use you regularly,” she said. Kravitz nodded gratefully and disappeared into the noise of the yard. The next day he called, and soon he became her quiet, dependable shadow.
He fixed shelves, unloaded trucks, and swept up after closing. He was the ideal employee—strong, tireless, and obedient. He didn’t drink, didn’t talk much, and worked twice as hard as anyone else.
Susan even began trusting him enough to leave him alone in the flower shop from time to time. She never noticed the cold, measuring emptiness in his stare. To her, he was simply useful, cheap labor.
Meanwhile, in Detective Savelly’s office, the mood was grim. Three brutal murders and not one solid lead. No fingerprints. No reliable witness beyond vague descriptions of a tall, powerfully built man.
The only consistent thread was the killer’s method. Same type of victim, same abandoned cleaned-out cars, same labor-intensive disposal of the bodies. The detective knew the killer was careful—and that he would strike again…
