Family. The job. The thrill of discovery. No one gets out alive.
George Covington loved three things: his family, his job, and the dames he killed every night. Detective Smith hated three things: his family, his job, and the scumbags who killed dames. The only thing they had in common was the witch who pulled the puppet strings from the shadows.
11:18 p.m. Subject is checking into the Desert Palms Motel, accompanied by an unknown female. Snapshot in the parking lot. Man and woman embrace. Betrayal...I see it every day, like my own reflection. Another case, another bottle of booze, and another client who won't be satisfied until I uncover every speck of dirt they think is there. I'm a private eye, hot on the trail; the top gun for hire. I lurk in the shadows, searching for the clues you think you erased. I'm the bulletproof detective, and I have you in my sights.
What's a little sin between the sheets, and a little blood between lovers? What's a little death to be discovered, waiting for you under that white sheet? I'm digging a desert grave just for you, underneath the burning sun. You won't be found...not even by the vultures circling in the sky. You, my dear, are the reason why I was always easily influenced.