Creative Writing: Serial Killers

Valentina Kureyev wanted to spit.
The police detective was furious and far beyond what might be termed disgusted. Pensively, she rubbed her hand along her jaw and frowned. She knew she would soon be sick to her stomach, the day’s events running rampant through her thoughts. Hell, why not? She questioned aloud, admitting the whole day had been shitty.
The last twelve hours had pissed Val off, causing her to grumble at her coworkers and colleague. Under her breath, she even bitched at herself over the damn case she was investigating. Her head ached, and she was angry, which made her wonder whether it would be wiser to pop off a couple rounds on the firing range or punch a wall.
It didn't matter. It was just going to be one of those damned

As any cop could attest, nothing was more frightful than a fucking damn serial killer.
She snorted. The title serial killer was an understatement to the horrific crimes plaguing Bentham. Val couldn't grasp how one person could inflict so much pain. She couldn’t understand how anyone could indiscriminately slaughter defenseless individuals.
Although, she recognized there was something extremely odd about her maniac. There was no other way she could rationalize the meticulous way he arranged his victims, and she suspected he took immense pleasure in displaying each to the public.
The butcher’s behavior defied every plausible explanation. The last century’s Casebooks didn't apply reason, means, or method to this character. Val knew this criminal was a violent malcontent, intent on striking fear. Her felon committed the deed without motive, totally against what was the typical Modus Operandi.
Val parked her unmarked car in the side alley of her mother's house, shutting off the engine. She rested her aching brow on the steering wheel, relishing the coolness, wearily listening to the remote sounds of children playing. In the distance, the familiar chattering of her mother’s neighbors invaded, and a sense of comfort began to creep through

Oddly enough, the victims weren’t scattered haphazardly about the city boasting a population of nearly half a million. Every victim, which began to measure in numbers over twenty, was discovered in her part of town.
The nude, lifeless forms had been skillfully….
No, she corrected with a shake of her aching head. Theatrically and intentionally draped over random entranceways, each had been so adeptly placed they hadn't toppled over when the home’s occupants left for work. To add to the mystery, they'd been deposited on the richest and the poorest doorsteps of the area she knew best.
The six-block area called Little Europe.
Inhabited by families of predominately Russian, Yugoslavian, German, and Polish descent, the area had been in existence since Bentham's founding. The neighborhood pride was so intense that other parts of the city identified the area on the lower West Side by the same title.
The reason the bodies kept appearing in Little Europe was beyond her. There had to be a reason, an unspoken message meant for the public. She hadn't pinpointed the macabre meaning the offender intended for the