My Pet Serial Killer

by Michael J Seidlinger

  I’m kind of slacking, and they should know that. I’ve graduated, yet I’ve found myself in another attention-seeking situation.

  After graduate studies there are doctorate studies; after doctorate studies there’s a reason to be something more. I’m here because they don’t yet understand that I’ve already found that “something more.”

  When you’ve seen the limits of what a person can do, there’s nothing better than turning the camera on what they couldn’t manage to achieve.

  Focus in on the lack of performance, the failure.

  That’s what I can’t help but focus on. Lately I see people for what they are; I see people for all of their fallen actions, everything they’ve done that never stuck. Sitting in this room, I don’t see a single person alive. They’re all as drowsy inside as they are out.

  Me, I’m red hot. I’m always searching.

  I’m always looking, seeing the fight and finding nothing but more failure.

  Failure walks faster than most would think; failure is a whole lot like fear: It gets people places but it doesn’t give them the chance to see what’s around them.

  It gets you into meetings like these where you think it might end as something better. I know how this’ll end.

  Focus in on what’s really going on here.

  The meeting is between the department’s trusted, meaning four of them, sitting with their coffees with their cellphones set down in front of them, and they are here to dispense with opportunities.

  I have the opportunity but that’s not why I’m here.

  I’m here because of him. He’s sitting in the far corner. He’s sitting there stealing split-second glances in my direction. He knows me.

  I know him. He was my teacher’s assistant for a semester. Deviant Behavior 3051. He is here because he’s about to fail out of grad school. I’m here as support.

  You didn’t think I was here because they got the better of me, did you? I spoke with one of the tenured professors the other day. I’m all about the opportunity she pitched to me. Independent study. And I get to choose who’s on my team. And I get to choose what I’m studying. I am a young professor on the verge of becoming an assistant professor.

  They like what I’ve done.

  They like what I’m doing.

  They don’t really know what I’m doing but they like that they don’t know what I’m doing. I have something to show them, something to show you, but that’ll have to wait. Wait until the show starts, and the mystery unfolds.

  I’m all about mystery, really. Way I’m sitting here, I’m a mystery to those that sit on the edge of their seats, worried about this meeting.

  I’m sitting the way anyone might want to sit, but most importantly, I’m sitting as myself. I can only be who I am; the difference between me and anyone else has everything to do with taste. I’ve chosen Criminology while many of them have chosen LGBT studies; one of them is into Poverty and Homelessness. The point being that we all have our interests and those interests help identify our true tastes.

  We’ve only got one thing in common, all of us including the tenured folk, we have been taught and we will have to be teachers too.

  Quite a few have trouble grasping the concept; they spend their entire career barely able to overcome the anxiety of teaching and lecturing, much else actually making a connection with their students.

  But not me.

  I’m on that site, where students rate their professors, and I’m considered hot.

  I’ve got a 4.5 rating. I lose half a point because I make them work. They might think Miss Wilkinson is nice, but they know. They know that they’re only seeing what I want them to see. Something about how I teach, I always leave them wanting more.

  The mystery is that any of them manage to pass my classes. I really make them work for it. I’ve taught enough to see that it isn’t the grade that matters; it’s how much they can get away with before losing touch with their own interests. I’m seeing that in tenured professors—they aren’t interested in anything, not anymore. It’s probably why they have so many meetings. Perhaps they believe in order.

  I’m noticing that the room is like all other rooms in the department: Windowless.

  You wouldn’t know if it’s storming outside or a beautiful day.

  They get the meeting going and it’s quickly a matter of “agenda.”

  Grant funding, PHD defenses, undergrad graduation, and special circumstances.

  I factor in the last category. He factors into the third.

  They don’t bother with the third until the very end. Most of the time they talk openly about grant funding and how important it is for the department. The strength of the department. So they bore everyone else because they are all here for almost no reason at all. They ended up here because they ended up here. I’ve talked about this already.

  Seems they fail to grasp the fact that this will only end in another scheduled meeting.

  So I’m wrapping my mind around what I already know and what I need to still figure out. They need grant funding. I’ve been told that I need a few more credentials, which means nothing; it means the same as I need to prove to them that I can generate funding.

  I’m in need of supporting the support structure that supports me.

  Sure, it’s like any other social circle; the needs outweigh the ideal. In the end, the circle needs strength and strength in academia is funding. Funding is given only when those involved are good enough to spark the interest that ironically would generate funding on its own. Money. That’s what it is. They need money and the people that have money want to make sure their money is spent on what will generate interest in others.

  Whenever I yawn, they look. They don’t mention it, but they look.

  He’s been looking the entire time.

  When I leave the room, he follows.

  Every time I have something in mind, I leave it to the mystery. It isn’t my problem if they are left in the dark. They’ll figure it out. No crime is without its consequence.

  Every body is found.

  The meeting ends before it really ever begins; very little determined and the extent of it is mostly empty promises and more filler for the discussion, the one that persists. Not sure what the discussion is, but that’s what keeps everyone attending every meeting.

  But I have that understanding.

  He waits around the corner while I talk to one of the tenured professors. She is accommodating; I know what I am to them. I am an anomaly. I am someone that is unpredictable. I am also one of their best students. There hasn’t been a mark on my record and there won’t ever be anything but the letter “A” on any transcript.

  So when I tell her, she is intrigued.

  So when I tell her more, she gives me the go-ahead. No meeting needed.

  So when I tell her I need two assistants, a budget, and a few weeks, she pauses, tells me to wait in her office, and quickly looks for the head of the department.

  The guy that’s always smoking outside.

  The guy that always ties pornography into deviance.

  Because she tells me to wait in her office, I tell him to wait in the hall where no one can see. I wait and he waits. This part is understood completely.

  We haven’t said anything to each other and I can already see it. He isn’t like the others. There is fight in him. He can understand without needing things spelled out. Sitting in the office, waiting, I can’t stop thinking about what he might look like on camera. What would he do if filmed? What might he think in the moments after his first victim?

  She returns, sits down at her desk and exhales.

  I already know everything she tells me.

  She leans forward, hands crossed, “It’s like out of the movies. . .”

  I already know what she’ll say next.

  “How much do you need?”

  The mystery wraps itself around the problem and the fact that it might generate interest is enough to let it slide.

  We exchange informat
ion. We talk about what it might be called. She writes it in as an independent study, but we both know that it’s nothing at all like that.

  What did I propose?

  I told her I wanted to study incarcerated serial killers.

  I told her I wanted to drive across the East coast, visiting well-documented serial killers, filming interviews, generating data in hopes of corroborating a theory I have been developing since undergrad. I told her that I would need two assistants. I told her that it could take a month. I told her it might be controversial and that some of the interrogations might border on dangerous.

  I tell her, “I’m willing to subject myself to the dangers.”

  She likes that I said that.

  I add, “We study alarming material. We should be willing to inspect fearlessly in order to better understand the culture of fear and fascination surrounding violent crime and deviance at large.”

  It’s exactly what someone like her wants to hear.

  It’s ambition. It sounds earnest and it fits in perfectly with the department’s never-ending funding problem.

  What I don’t tell her is the true nature of the mystery:

  I know every single one of them. Many of them still think about me.

  They had fight, but they met failure after long. Some of them wanted to never stop fighting, but their fear got the best of them. I supported them and helped build them into what they could have been. Most of them were killers with no concept before I met them.

  Before I kissed them. Before I showed them how to kill.

  But I come up with the idea of visiting them a second time only because I want to show them, want so very much to show them all, how well I’ve been doing.

  I’ve done well for myself.

  I’ve found someone and he is willing. Not even a single flicker of doubt.

  I’m doing well. Want so very much to get to know him more.

  There’s a budget, there’s a need for time. There’s an interest, and I already know that there’s love. I can see it in the way he abides.

  He wants to be educated.

  He wants to be around me.

  After I showed him the possibilities, he was the first to say it.

  I was the first to point the camera lens. I was the first to capture what he might be capable of. I can see the fight, bubbling to the surface, turning his cheeks red, his eyes wide, his chest clenched. He wants to dominate me, but only after I’ve dominated him.

  He creates fantasies where he’s the victim and I curate the fight as master. And he lets me; he doesn’t resist. And he wants it now, not later. And he wants me. And he can see it in people too. And he wants what’s best for us. And that means we will travel well, on the department’s dime.

  And we will film every part of it.

  3.

  Would-be threat or would-be love?

  Before any of it can begin again, before the vehicles take to the interstate and drive the entirety of the coast, north to south, the audience needs to know what this is about. Though the mystery will keep them watching every week, the mystery needs an objective. The mystery needs your support.

  The mystery mustn’t be esoteric; it isn’t an image being played out on its own, without commentary. The audience needs a lens of their own.

  Watcher watches all. Cameras set to all angles of the stage.

  The audience needs a voice of their own. The voice of the audience is the voice of the show.

  Everything you do is in reaction to the audience’s response.

  There’s a need to generate interest.

  Send the footage to the editor. Send the edited footage to the focus groups.

  The show’s got to be just right to keep them from switching channels or worse, turning to an entirely different form of media. Panning shots across the possibilities of this show, and a running list of needs and wants, the audience’s interest growing. Our interests, our needs to be entertained, must be satisfied.

  Audience participation. Audience involvement.

  A successful story is the same as a successful show.

  Dynamically involved and diverse: Season after season the camera captures more of a world, a story that stretches as far beyond what is managed to be caught on camera.

  Much more than a mere APPLAUSE prompt.

  The audience involvement is everything and it creates all kinds of questions. The audience gets to choose! Yours to sculpt. Help master and pet. Become an active participant of the audience.

  The mystery needs an audience. There’s a need to ask, and there’s a need to tell.

  Watch them watch you. Ask them questions and they ask you.

  Fill in the blanks. Watch as the mystery continues to unfold:

  Are they a perfect couple?

  Who do they kill next?

  Is it true that every body is found? No crime left incomplete?

  What do you want to see?

  Do you think the mystery will keep you interested for more than a few episodes, a few seasons?

  How much of this is scripted versus unscripted? Reality or fiction?

  How long will her assistants last before realizing the implication of each interrogation?

  How long before her assistants understand that they have become accessories?

  Do you think their cover stories are good enough to thwart the authorities?

  What kind of vehicle will she drive? What about him?

  What will she wear? What will he wear?

  What is your definition of true love?

  Are you male or female?

  How old are you?

  Have you ever met a killer?

  Do you seek reality or does reality seek you? Have you ever auditioned to be a part of a story? Does your story have a happy ending or a sad ending? Ever forget the days of the week? Are you alarmed by violence proliferating through popular culture?

  Does sex as a subject alarm you?

  Might you be the first to reconsider censorship?

  Do you find yourself seeking out fetishes, different forms of entertainment that are contrary to the norm? What is your definition of “norm?” How about “niche?”

  How about “sex?” How about “violence?”

  Where do you think sex crosses the line? What about violence?

  Have you ever found yourself unsettled by graphic depictions of sex? Violence?

  What is your definition of the perfect mate? Is she/he anything like her? Like him?

  Do you find yourself uncomfortable if pieces of the story aren’t fully explained?

  If given the opportunity, would you be interested in involving yourself in the feature?

  Might you like to be an extra?

  Would you like to meet her? Or him?

  These are the kinds of questions generated from a truly interested audience.

  It’s their show and you, as audience members, are watching. You get to watch as their lives unfold. You get to peer into the most intimate of areas. If you like, everything will be exposed; if you like, more will be explored. For the mystery to work, the audience must be attentive.

  We want you to be involved. We need you to be every bit a part of the story as our starring cast. As the show begins, know that your vote really does count.

  No one is passive. No one is a viewer.

  They want to explore; you want to solve. We need your help, and just like you, we want to be entertained. Your continued interest keeps the cameras rolling.

  Their interest in each other is equal to your interest in the mystery.

  For the mystery to maintain our interest, we must become participants.

  Every road leads somewhere.

  Every exit leads elsewhere.

  It’s often a reason enough to take the first exit that comes along. Can’t always worry about what can go wrong. Never know where it’ll take you.

  So let’s drive.

  Danger drives 95mph.

  1.

  I drove through the night.

  We drive
in separate cars. We wear disguises.

  We leave behind unmarked videotapes that tell of not the basics, but what we’ve been doing. We don’t want to miss a moment. He needs to keep going, keep following me. Following us.

  He’s in training and I’m his trainer. Master and pet, we are loves firmly met.

  The assistants look like me and I look like them. But I’m the only one that can really be Claire. Anyone else couldn’t tell, so what if I changed my hair color? I’m a redhead for the sake of keeping this clandestine. The one that’s blonde is naturally blonde and the brunette, I had her dye her hair from what was a dirty blonde to nearly jet-black. Because it’s part of the study.

  We drive the coast, the study in full effect.

  No searching, we’ve found each destination, marked on a map.

  I know where we’re going, and he lets me figure out where that is. I imagine, and he does exactly as I’ve imagined. My pet, master misses you.

  The camera keeps us from ever being lonely.

  2.

  Close shot on what looks like a mirror but is soon understood to be the chrome rear bumper of a red convertible speeding down the left lane of an unknown interstate, midday, roof pulled back. The mirror image could be the fact that you see three of the same: same jean shorts, same black tank top, same pair of sunglasses. Mirrored, x3. Same motions, same giggles, same mannerisms.

  We’ve practiced this. They’re both graduate students assigned to my study.

  Any passing vehicle will take notice at the fact that we are dressed for ulterior motives; they look a whole lot like me at first glance. This is appropriate. I’ve wanted it to be like this because, well, you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. But he could.

  He would spot me in a second.

  The rest, they’ll see seduction wear thin as we do exactly what’s needed to keep them looking without really looking. See us speeding down the interstate, we’re instantly typecast as attractive. I do this because I don’t want anyone thinking anything but the lesser of possibilities.