Saturday: 11.37pm

The first thing I notice approaching the unconscious body lying ripped and bloody in the pit is how the prey is left in public openness. Utter Humiliation.

I’ve lived in Bristol now for 10 years and I’ve never known it to be violent. This looks the work of a vicious animal but surely that isn’t possible. Although I have to accept that this killer is no human in nature. Not only with its anatomical knowledge to dissect its victims but in how its tracks seem to be well hidden. This is no random killing spree; this is a planned act from a prepared assassin, determined to leave his trademarked work on display.

As I enter through the tunnel of the empty Bear Pit, I kneel down by what I can now confirm is the corpse of a young male. There’s every sign that the body has been abused with three long scars engraved into the teenagers flesh. Even more disgusting is the sight of the words, “THE BEAR IS AWAKE” engraved into the stomach. I almost heave but I keep my insides inside. That’s what they always want, to shock you.

Running my fingertips across his wounds, I suspect from the way that his jeans are ripped at roughly knee height that these are the marks of a real animal. I take out a measuring device from my tweed jacket and place it across one of the wounds; the damage is roughly 1.5cm in width. Using a sharp instrument such as a knife leaves a much cleaner and straight cut and this suggests some form of claw contact.

'bear' cuts in skin, flickr darker

As the body lies under the watchful demeanour of the grizzly bear statue, it appears that the killer is determined to undertake this persona. Perhaps this is to mark his territory or to make some kind of political statement? The answer is surely in learning more about the victim and piecing together the puzzle as to why he was targeted.

Searching through his pockets the only belongings on his person is his student I.D, which belongs to a ‘Steven Yates’, and a couple of cigarettes. No wallet or money though, nothing like that. No phone either,  what kind of student doesn’t have their phone on them?

All that is evident of his persona is that he attended Bristol University and presumably smoked which wasn’t much to go by on the surface. Surely a student can’t have that much dirt on a potential serial killer, unless he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Just as my brain starts to click into gear the noise of sirens fills the night. By the sounds of it, the police have finally arrived and, sure enough, I spy the red and blue ambiance from outside the pit.

Perhaps it’s time to let the amateurs have their turn. I’ve got enough information to be going on with, it’s just a matter of contacting the university and finding out where Steven lives. Should be simple enough to get to the bottom of this by the end of the week.

Like hordes of curious moths to the light of the police alarms, people rush over forming a crowd of shocked exasperation. All I know is that it makes analysing the body difficult with all the outside disturbance. Honestly, can a man not publically inspect the dead body of an innocent student in peace?

As I try to stop the panic and back people away from the scene, what appears to be the chief police officer appears from the crowd and sections off the crime scene with black and yellow tape. He proceeds to pull me over to one side and I guessed from his aggressive pushing that this wasn’t for a polite catch-up.

“Always first to the scene aren’t you Drake… It’s like the trouble finds you”.

I’m not looking at him but I don’t need to in sensing the pathetic satisfaction of bad humour upon this assholes face. You’re like five minutes after me, what a hypocrite.

“When you’re following bread crumbs, it’s simple. Maybe you and your unit need to put away the doughnuts. Chief”.

That felt good. Perhaps to nobody’s surprise though, the conversation ended on poor terms. I get the feeling he doesn’t particularly like people doing his job better than him.

As I leave the scene to allow the poor locals to grieve, I wander past two figures in the tunnel. One is female, having a breakdown in the arms of a man, presumably her boyfriend? Looking up, my eyes lock with his and the staring lasts momentarily. I can tell in his gaze that somethings not right. He doesn’t break and neither do I, before cowering out of it and escorting her from the bear pit, as if saving a wounded animal from the trap.

Hopefully soon the bear will fall into the trap of me, the pursuer.

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