Anton Krisanov. The press called him The Grinder.
We were finally able to track him down when he got sloppy. His last victim managed to cut him with a kitchen knife before she met her grisly end. The weapon didn’t fit his usual MO. We ran the DNA of the blood on the knife and bing-bang-boom – there he was – two counts of sexual assault in 1997. Then it was simply a matter of knocking on that Russian bastard’s door and paying him a visit.
Graves and I headed right to his place in the East End as soon as we found out.
Knock, knock, Anton.
“Anton Krisanov? This is the police! Open up!”
Bang bang, two shots through the door. One right into Graves’ neck. One a leaving a burning trail of exploding pain left of center in my chest, and me flat on my back.
I fought to remain conscious. The ceiling tiles blurred and melded into each other above me.
Then I heard the door creak open, and his footsteps, and a terrifying sound, the sound of an engine, of a machine with a spinning blade.
The sound grew louder and I heard Anton’s voice singing in a Russian accent:
I smell the blood of an Englishman
Be he alive, or be he dead,
I’ll grind his bones to make my bread