by Barbie Wilde
It was fascinating.
Little fun details stand out, like the alarming fact that many serial killers used Volkswagen Beetles as their stalking cars (either that or vans). You wouldn’t catch me dead in a Beetle, let me tell you. If I can’t go out and stalk girls in my late, lamented wife’s BMW, then I’m not going. Ha, Ha, Ha.
However, I’ve decided to obtain a car that is more unobtrusive. Maybe even a couple of cars. That would confuse the police. Price is no object in pursuit of my dream.
I made a list of all the large, popular nightclubs and bars in town.
More people equal more camouflage. I figured that I should target so-called “medium risk” females. Party girls who aren’t prostitutes, but who are willing to take a risk with the occasional mysterious stranger. (Aren’t most women?) I rejected prostitutes as prey because I didn’t want to be seen in red light districts. I assumed that places like that would have a fairly regular police presence. Also, killing prostitutes is so easy. It’s like shooting fish in a barrel. I felt in need of a challenge. Pretty ladies, in their late twenties/early thirties, professionals who like to work hard and play hard. Girls like my late wife for instance. Medium height, good-looking brunettes/dark blondes with fair skin. Serial killers normally pick victims for a “goodness of fit.” That is the extraordinary phrase the FBI use: the “fit” being women who remind the killer of his ex-wife, or his mother, or his sister. In other words, a woman with whom the serial killer came into conflict often. And why should I be any different? Of course, the difference is that serial killers rarely kill the actual object of their ire (or even desire), while I did, but that’s a minor detail.
I read with interest all the breakthroughs with DNA testing and thanked my lucky stars that I cleaned up so thoroughly at my first crime scene. Even so, according to Locard’s Principle, I probably took something of the scene away with me (as well as the sweet memories), and I presumably left something behind, but there is no point in crying over spilled milk now. It is just very important to be aware of all the dangers and pitfalls.
While I was in New York, I also bought a box of heavy-duty surgical gloves (thin ones can leave behind finger prints), a lot of Trojan condoms (America’s most popular brand), and some magic markers in assorted colors.
I also purchased a brand new Oreck vacuum cleaner. I chose it because (according to the commercials) it was widely used in hotels across the globe because of its power, maneuverability, compact shape and lightness. It would easily fit in the trunk of my car.
THIS IS THE PLAN
I will visit various nightclubs and bars in Syracuse and target ten victims. After stalking them and checking out their lifestyles, I will choose five women who will be my ultimate targets. Then, the fun will begin.
I will pick up and murder a girl every other Friday night. After I kill her, I will paint her body with unusual designs (still to be decided upon). I got that idea from The Tamiami Strangler. He painted a message on the body of his third victim and his calligraphy was so artistic that I was quite struck by it. Decorating the bodies of my victims would make my crimes a little out of the ordinary, with a touch of the outré. I don’t want to go as far as Richard Ramirez (AKA The Nightstalker) and pop my victims’ eyeballs onto a dinner plate. Torture is out and mutilation is disgusting. I want to enjoy this, so strangulation and decoration are the only methods of operation that I can contemplate.
I am hoping that by painting intriguing and mysterious designs on my victims, I may be asked to assist the investigation. After all, who knows more about arcane art in this town than I do? In all probability, Elene will be asked to consult on the cases, so I am hoping that this will be my entrance into a world of fun, murder and romance.
I can’t explain how alive I feel, how exhilarated. My self-confidence has grown. Not as far as approaching Elene in a normal manner is concerned, of course, but it seems that in every other aspect of my life I feel more in control. It is wonderful. A miracle.
I look back at my earlier entries and read the thoughts of a dead man. Well, I am dead no longer. The flowers of evil are blossoming into full bloom.
There are many things I have to sort out yet, but I feel that events are progressing in the right direction. What I will have to do before I start is to find a safe place to hide my diary. If someone found it and read it, it would be incriminating, to say the least. But I can’t burn it. I can’t get rid of it. I need to write everything down. It has a calming effect on my mind.
If Elene only knew what I was going through for her. Boy, is she going to get a surprise.
ENTRY 40:
I went out and bought a new, wide-screen, LCD television today. I realized that my incipient burst of enthusiasm about my so-called media diet had waned and if I was smart, I’d keep tuned to the local news to find out what was happening in the world. Not that the radio, the newspapers and the Internet didn’t give me enough information, but suddenly I felt disconnected without a TV.
It was also a great vehicle for venting my stress. I even invested in several “TV Bricks” to throw at offending programs. Nothing like a cheerful evening in front of the idiot box to reaffirm my conviction that the world is ruled by imbeciles.
ENTRY 41:
I was glancing through one of my particularly grisly and humorless research books and was fascinated to read about the psychology of evil and malignant narcissism. Mentally healthy “good” people just naturally submit themselves to some kind of higher authority, like God, or their conscience (which many religious people believe is some kind of inner light from God), while the “evil” ones just merrily follow their own will, their own impulses and desires, without feeling guilty at all. How delicious is that?
Why should I submit my will to anyone, be they God, or the police, or the government? What if I don’t believe in a religion, or truth, or whatever? Did any of the illustrious men of history that we all venerate with such fervor submit their wills to a higher authority? Did Alexander the Great worry about who he was going to offend when he conquered half the known world? Did Julius Caesar? Did Napoleon, or Wellington, or Churchill, or Eisenhower, or any of the so-called great generals and leaders who are the subjects of innumerable TV shows and whose lives are written about ad nauseam in countless books?
We admire those who can make a ruthless decision; those who can lead us; those who can make the tough call without hesitation. People have always equated strength with ruthlessness, because most of us are inhibited by our conscience.
Well, not me. Not anymore. I may not have the military genius of a Caesar or a Napoleon. I may not have whatever it takes to send thousands to their deaths in battle, or order countless civilians firebombed into ashes, or condemn millions of people to eke out a miserable existence in Gulags or concentration camps. But I do know that I have the will to do something. Something artistic. Something creative. Something about death. I have proved it. I have the will and the power and the intelligence to succeed in my Project.
I have an ideal and I will continue to work towards that ideal. My ideal’s name is Elene, but it won’t be I who will be the one doing the submitting. My ideal will submit to me.
ENTRY 42:
I have picked the lucky contestants in my game of death. Five beautiful women will soon be the fortunate ones to have the privilege of dying at my hands. Not one of the girls had a clue that someone was watching over their lives. I was peering down a microscope at my pretty little specimens and they were as unaware of me as a strain of bacteria would be of an observing scientist. (I read somewhere that we all carry around five pounds of bacteria in our bodies. It doesn’t bear thinking about.)
AND THE WINNERS ARE:
Tamsin Kearney: Age 27, 5’ 6”, slim build, single, Caucasian, dark blonde hair. Works as a legal secretary at Bourke, Cox, and Lucas, Attorneys at Law. Lives at 430 Onondaga Avenue. Tamsin likes aerobic classes, going to the movies, fast cars and faster guys. I saw her in action at Trexx, the gay disco in downtown Syracuse that ca
ters to all walks of life. She is a real party animal, but only on weekends. Monday mornings, she is up with the lark and working hard. Her other favorite haunts are The Liquid Lounge and Club Mirage.
Katrin Franklin: Age 29, 5’ 7”, shapely, divorced, Caucasian, brunette. Works as dental hygienist at the Edelstein Clinic near the U. Lives at 503 Ackerman Avenue. (Close to Elene!) Katrin likes going to the gym and doing a bit of amateur dramatics at the Salt City Playhouse. Doesn’t go out that much, but when she does, whoa mamma! She likes Awful Al’s Cigar Bar and Charades.
Susie Morton: Age 30, 5’ 5”, slim build with a superb butt, single, Caucasian, brunette. Works as a personal assistant at Collins, Randell and Wynn Stockbrokers in downtown Syracuse. Lives at 44302 Salina Street. Susie likes going to dinner with her girlfriends at the weekend, then heading off to the nearest singles bar to pick up a guy for the night. Aren’t these girls worried about AIDS and other STDs? I’m concerned about the chances they take, honestly. She goes to Sh-Boom’s in Liverpool and Viva Debris Comedy Club.
Nancy Staniak: Age 31, 5’ 6”, athletic build, single, Caucasian, brunette. Works as a beautician at the Base Cutz Hair Salon. Lives at 56777 Genesee Street. Nancy cheerfully fulfills every cliché one has ever heard about hairdressers. Likes eating, drinking to excess (yet again, only at the weekends—each one of my girls has a highly developed sense of responsibility), and exercising—aerobic and the other kind. She frequents Nibsy’s Pub and Styleen’s Rhythm Palace.
Kim Marie Eyler: Age 29, 5’ 8”, slim build, divorced, Caucasian, dark blonde, assistant accountant at Simon, Lang and Aronson, Chartered Accountants. Lives at 3543 Sanger Street. Kim Marie is a bit of a dark horse, but she is a beauty. Goes out a lot with her friends, but seems lonely. I am sure that she will be suitably grateful when I pick her up on the night of her Date With Destiny. She goes to the bar at the Sheraton or the Turning Stone Casino Bar in Verona.
I didn’t choose anyone who worked at the University. You don’t shit in your own nest. Too risky.
None of my ladies have any connection with each other. This is an important factor, as my acts must appear random. They all live in their own places that are set back from the road to give them (and me) privacy. None of them live close to me, which is also a crucial factor. The typical serial killer’s first victim is frequently located in the so-called “Comfort Zone,” an area where he feels at home. The police often target the first victim’s neighborhood and workplace, because it is possible that the killer might have observed her there before he struck. I won’t be making that mistake.
There is a special indefinable quality about my girls. All have an obvious spark, but there is also an air of vulnerability about them that singles them out. There was a certain something about each one of my targets that attracted me to them. It hung around them like a cloud of perfume. What it was, I don’t know. I’m not sure that I ascribe to the theory of the “born victim”, but I am sure that it was a combination of certain genetic factors, plus a basic unawareness of potential dangers plus, perhaps, a whiff of desperation. Since my ladies were all close to or past thirty, single or divorced, it might explain an over-eagerness to please.
As a lion sniffs out a weak member of the herd and marks it for its prey, so I single out my victims for my Project. My sweet, little troupe of goddesses will soon be joining all the other beauties in The Victim of a Serial Killer Hall of Fame.
ENTRY 43:
I have been working out, keeping to my diet and discreetly following my ladies. A couple of times a week, I indulge myself and follow Elene.
She sees the police guy every Thursday. I don’t understand why they keep going out, because they always end up squabbling.
I visited the Chamber of Commerce and picked up a schedule of events for the year. One of the traits of a serial killer is that he is fluid in his tactics. At first, I had wanted to keep to a rigid timetable—killing a girl precisely every two weeks—but taking all the various elements into consideration it is wiser to be more adaptable.
I plan to make my move whenever there is a convention or a conference in town, or when there is a “Big Game” or some other event at the University. An influx of strangers into town gives me more protection, more camouflage. I checked out some of my victims’ hangouts during the week and they were virtually deserted, so doing the deed at the weekend is still the best option. I have to be careful not to draw too much attention to myself. I already feel overexposed. Also, I have decided to go back to teaching. It will be a strain, but I think the cover will be helpful.
A couple of weeks ago, one of my neighbors said, “Oh, Michael, you must be feeling better. I never see your car in the driveway!” That worried me. My absence from the house had been noticed. I am not working, so my neighbors are wondering what I am up to, the nosy bastards. That is the hazard of living in such an isolated place. Perhaps I should move to an apartment in town.
Last week, I went to that haven of anonymity, New York City, to buy a second-hand car with cash. It is a medium-sized, silver gray, 2005 Dodge Neon sedan with no distinguishing features. I drove the car back upstate and parked it in a space that I have rented for cash in advance under an assumed name at a parking garage near Hancock Airport. Lots of traffic around there, so hopefully my comings and goings won’t be noticed.
I have gone over everything in my mind a hundred times. My fear is that my confidence will desert me at a critical moment. Then, I had a bit of a revelation. Serial killers often do practice runs, so why shouldn’t I do the same? I’ll go out one night at random and see if I can just pick up a girl and buy her drinks. Then the next time, I will choose a different girl, buy her drinks, drive her home and give her a peck on the cheek. Then the next time … hold on, I don’t want to get a reputation as the town Lothario. One trial run is all that I will allow myself.
This is a game. A game of wits with my prey and I cannot be thrown by any untoward circumstances such as rejection, for example. I must not take any rebuff personally. I also must not display any anger, anything that might frighten off the pretty gazelles. A cool, calm attitude, keen observation, unobtrusive stalking, passionate seduction, and then the final coup de grâce. That’s all it takes … I can’t wait to begin.
ENTRY 44:
Tonight is the night for my practice run. I have selected the girl. She was one of the initial ten that I whittled down to five, so I was already aware of her lifestyle patterns. Her name is Carol Kurland. She is 28, 5’5”, slim, dark brown hair, single. She works for a small desktop publishing firm that is located downtown. She likes going to the ballet and the Syracuse Symphony. Carol is a bit dull, which is why I rejected her, but she is quite faithful about going out every Friday night with her friends.
MY PREPARATIONS
1. I took a long luxurious bath. I normally take showers, but I needed to relax. I thought things out and imagined different scenarios, even ones where I just came home and did nothing. I tried to prepare my mind for every eventuality.
2. I picked out what I was going to wear very carefully. It was important to look well-dressed, but not flashy or conspicuous. I chose gray and black as my color combination. I combed my hair in a different way, so it covered the small scar on the left side of my forehead. (The one physical reminder of my Accident.) I was wearing a pair of tinted glasses that hid the color of my eyes. After a lot of hard work, my body was in good shape and my limp had finally disappeared. The doctors had done a fairly competent job at patching me up after all.
I looked at myself in the mirror and was shocked. I looked OK. I had barely given the mirror a glance in the past few months because my self-loathing was at such a crisis point, but now there was something different about the intriguingly nondescript guy looking back at me. I remembered what that something was: purpose! Yes, I had a purpose and, boy, does that add a spring to the step of any man.
I put my raincoat on. Nestled in the copious inside pockets was a pair of surgical gloves, several condoms and some indeli
ble magic markers in red, black and blue. I placed the vacuum cleaner in the trunk of my car, with a few large strong garbage bags.
I will continue my entry on my return …
LATER
The evening went well.
I drove to the airport and picked up my stalking car and transferred all my equipment. Then I went to Regina’s near Armory Square, where I was confident that I would find Carol. I left my raincoat in the car. I parked down the block and around the corner from the actual premises.
Regina’s was dimly lit, which comforted me. There was a huge aquarium behind the bar and the place was heaving with young, well-dressed professionals. Large chandeliers hung from the ceiling and the walls were painted blood red. Vermilion couches with pink throw cushions were dotted about the place. It was like being in a noisy Baroque womb.
Carol was there at the bar surrounded by a gaggle of friends. She was with them, yet slightly outside the group, like a vulnerable deer at the edge of a herd. The background music was quite loud, so approaching her was problematic. It isn’t easy to execute a subtle pick up if you are shouting, so I just hung back and observed her for a while. I leaned casually on the bar and asked the bartender for a vodka martini with just a whisper of vermouth, shaken not stirred, two olives. As the ice-cold vodka slipped down my throat, I had an immediate hit of warmth and well-being. I just had to take things slow and easy.
I watched Carol. She was a little livelier than the last time I had seen her, but I could tell that she was bored. She kept looking around, trying to make eye contact with various guys, but they ignored her for some reason. She was attractive, but she lacked some spark, some elusive sensual quality.
I smiled and thought, “Don’t do anything. If it is meant to be, Carol will come to you.” At that very moment, she spotted me. She caught me smiling at her. She smiled back. I turned away and feigned embarrassment. I took a drink, looked at the fish in the tank, counted to ten and then looked up again, over my glasses in a sneaky kind of way. She was still looking at me and still smiling.