Three unsolved murders mere weeks before Christmas, and they weren’t the last.
The police had no suspects. Local news was on the scene. The town of Summerville, FL was on edge.
The murders were a direct assault on the serene image of a small, picturesque South Florida town, where community was everything. Desperate speculation swirled about the murderer or murderers responsible.
It could be anyone, a friend or neighbor, a demented drifter, or a professional assassin. The real answers were far more troubling than anyone could imagine.
Mayor Theodore Levine, the boisterous, silver-haired, Hawaiian shirt-wearing former land developer, well into his third term, chalked up the murders as possible animal attacks.
“We’ve had a problem with coyote attacks in this town for some time,” he announced at a local press conference. “The mutilation of the victims suggests something of an animalistic nature.”
Coyote attacks had increased against house pets, cats mainly, but they were little threat to people. The mayor suggested that the coyotes might have been genetically modified with human characteristics. “I’ve seen crazier things,” he said, smiling to the cameras. “You can count on that!”
***
The holidays were supposed to be cheery and bright. There was no better time for giving. There was also no better time for purchasing.
Amazon electric delivery vans were everywhere, winding through neighborhoods to meet the holiday rush of constant online orders. Except for the murders, it was business as usual in Summerville.
The first victim, Rory Caldwell, was a forty-five-year-old welder found bludgeoned to death with a candy cane lodged into his left ear. He lived roughly five miles from the scene of the crime. Authorities concluded that he had been out for a walk.
The second victim, Sally Perkins, a thirty-three-year-old schoolteacher, was discovered by a couple walking their dog. Her body lay in a wooded area not far from a construction site, strangled to death by Christmas lights.
The third and most heinous murder involved fifty-six-year-old local tailor Hector Rivera. He was found lying against a tree with his insides torn out and tree ornaments decorating his body.
Sheriff Barrett hadn’t seen anything like it. “We’ve got a real sicko on the loose,” he told homicide investigators.
A single boot print not far from Hector’s body had been discovered amid faint tire tracks below a nearby overpass.
The sheriff shone his flashlight onto the tracks and made the call. “Looks like they come from one of those Amazon vans running all over town.” They took pictures, roped off the area, and returned to the station for coffee and donuts.
Celebrations soon commenced for the annual tree lighting ceremony and public vigil. “I vow that there will be no more murders,” the mayor boldly declared. “We’re closing in on the culprit as we speak, whether it be a human, coyote, or hybrid of both.”
Sensing confusion from the crowd, the mayor grabbed an acoustic guitar and initiated a sing-along to “Jingle Bell Rock.” He steadily won them back as Sheriff Barrett approached and whispered into his ear.
“Sir, they just found another body, about two miles up the road near Brewster Park.”
***
Nick Peterson was an Amazon driver who lived in a cozy cottage with his wife, Mary. Summerville, Florida, was a stark change from up North, where they had braved the harshest winters.
They sought a warmer place to retire in peace, though they still had to find ways to make ends meet. What started out as a part-time job soon became a more committed vocation.
“I delivered some great toys today,” he boasted to his wife. “Reminded me of the good ol’ days.”
He delighted in bringing people joy—even when it arrived in the form of an Amazon box. With his heavyset frame and bushy, white beard, people often thought he looked like Santa Claus. They were righter than they knew
Before settling in Summerville, Nick went by several names—Saint Nicholas, Kris Kringle, and yes, Santa Claus. He had resided in the North Pole for ages with his wife and a dedicated staff of toy-making elves. His factory crafted thousands of toys, all personally delivered aboard his reindeer-drawn sleigh.
He had weathered countless toy crazes over the decades, from the arrival of Barbie and Cabbage Patch Kids to Furbies, Beanie Babies, and other iconic fads.
Unable to compete with major toy manufacturers, Santa adapted his business model to keep up with the times, even though profits were scarce.
The rise of Amazon ultimately brought an end to his enterprise. After moving to Florida, he hung up his Santa suit for good and joined the competition, changing his name to Nick Peterson.
With the holiday season in full effect, Nick worked long hours, delivering packages all over town. The monotony slowly wore him down. He attempted to brighten his mood with some Christmas music.
He turned on the radio and was met with a deluge of AI-generated songs. All music was AI-generated. There was no escaping it.
The artificial variations of holiday classics grated on his nerves. It was the first time he felt anger toward the world, his lost profession, and the abundance of automation around them. Something had to give.
The notifications on his phone acted as triggers. Several of his deliveries throughout the week had been reported as stolen. Customer complaints had reached an all-time high.
Nick couldn’t fathom the idea of stealing. One evening, he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling as his wife pressed him on.
You haven’t been yourself lately,” she said. “What’s wrong? It’s your favorite time of year.”
“They call them porch pirates,” Nick replied, “stealing packages right off people’s doorsteps.” He turned to her in disbelief. “Have you ever heard of such a thing?”
“Goodness, that’s terrible,” she said, removing her Christmas-themed Scrunchie. Her long, gray hair dropped to her shoulders. She kissed him on the cheek and turned off a nearby lamp.
Nick continued to stare at the ceiling well into the night.
***
The first “incident” was purely by chance. Nick had skipped several deliveries to patrol neighborhoods and prevent the injustice he believed had befallen the town.
Then he saw it: in the distance, a man absconding with a fresh delivery. The thief bolted from the porch and ran up the sidewalk, slowing only when he thought the coast was clear.
Nick trailed with his headlights off. He slammed the gas just as the thief darted across the road. The vehicle struck the man without warning, sending him flying. Blood spattered across the front bumper.
The stolen package sailed across the road as the man landed on the pavement with a thud.
Nick pulled to the side, got out, and dragged the unconscious man off the road. For a moment, he contemplated calling the police. Then he saw the crumpled package across the way and was filled with rage.
He pulled a candy cane from his pocket, placed a boot on the man’s head, and jammed the candy cane into his ear. Blood sprayed from the wound onto Nick’s face. He rushed to the van and opened a box of wet wipes.
The second “incident” involved a woman who couldn’t resist the lure of an Amazon package out in the open. He had tracked her through a park and strangled her with Christmas lights.
The third “incident” was a rash decision on Nick’s part. He saw a man carelessly kick over a Santa display. Or maybe he had tripped over it. Either way, the man had to go.
The fourth and final victim of Nick’s reign of terror saw their end at the blade of an ax. Nick furiously chopped the man to pieces under an overcast evening sky.
The man was a jogger Nick had mistakenly believed to be a loathsome porch pirate. By the time he finished, he realized there wasn’t a stolen package in sight.
“What have I done?” he asked, heavily out of breath.
He stepped back and nearly slipped on the organs and blood. His Amazon uniform was drenched. The righteous satisfaction he normally got from dispatching thieves was nowhere to be found. Instead, he felt sick.
Nick fled from the scene shortly after, leaving the butchered body of the jogger in the middle of the road. He drove around the block in a daze with his van full of undelivered packages.
He glanced at the wallet-sized photo of his wife, “Mrs. Claus,” affixed to his windshield visor, and felt immense sadness. He could never go back from this.
Police lights suddenly flashed from behind his van. Startled, Nick looked at his rear camera monitor. A brief siren emitted, signaling him to pull over.
Nick’s black-gloved hands gripped the steering wheel. The bloody ax lay at his feet. He gunned it forward, leaving a trail of dust.
A line of police cars steadily formed behind him, their lights flashing wildly.
Up ahead, he saw a ravine. He increased his speed and drove the van off-road in a fury of weeds, rocks, and dust. Sirens blared into the night.
He called out, “On Dasher, on Dancer, on Prancer, Vixen, and Comet!”
He continued to beckon his beloved reindeer just as the van crashed through a guard rail and launched into the darkness of a cold ravine below.
Shawn McKee 
Leave a comment