Perfection — Marc Berrenson

He didn't pick just any girl. She had to look just right. The right kind of hair. The right arms and legs. The right curves in the right places. Little pieces of perfection. And there were lot of them in Los Angeles. After he killed her, he'd cut pieces off-carve them up. Like a sculptor. Then he'd wrap his treasures and store them in the deep cold. Where they'd be safe. Where they'd last forever.