by Barbie Wilde
12. They would wonder if anyone has ever escaped the killer. They would interview other nightclub-goers who were present on the evenings in question to see if some failed approaches had been made by the killer. (I doubt if Carol would ever connect that nice guy who bought her a drink in Regina’s with a horrible foul serial killer.)
13. Approximately 75% of organized serial killers hide the bodies. As the killer didn’t make any effort to do so and he made such a blatant staging of the scene, the authorities might draw the inference that the killer is egotistically flaunting the bodies as an open challenge to the police to find him. They would feel that he is a sensation seeker—one who is openly demonstrating his control over the victim, the crime scene, the police and the media. The police probably won’t expect to hear from the killer in any other form than his works of art on the bodies. A high percentage of serial killers keep their mouths shut and there is no indication that this killer will behave any differently. (I am not exactly a blabbermouth. My secret is safe with me.)
14. The police will pay particular attention to the known associates and neighbors of Tamsin, as the first victim often lives in close proximity to the serial killer. Seeing her every day could have triggered whatever motivated him to kill. (All of my girls lived far from my base of operations, so no hope for the police there.)
15. They will probably check the files for any unsolved murders of women in the past two years that may have some similarities to my crimes. The police would have to assume that the first murder was too well-planned and executed for this to be the killer’s first crime. They might think that he may have had a “practice run” previously.
The first port of call would be to check on some of the recent murders of prostitutes, as they know that these women are in risky profession and would make easy targets. They will also check the files for anyone with a previous record for violent sexual assault. (I suppose the murder of my little cat-like girl might be studied, but there are enough differences between the cases to confuse the police: the use of bondage for instance. I noticed that there were some small bruises on my cat-like girl’s wrists before I left her, which won’t escape the notice of the police. Also covering her body with a sheet is considered a definitive act, often symbolizing the perpetrator’s regret at his actions. Needless to say, “Non, je ne regrette rien.”)
Of course, many of the above points could mark me out, but they also finger a few thousand other guys. Profiles are only one tool that the police use and, as romantic and magical as they seem, their usefulness is debatable. Narrowing down the field from millions to thousands isn’t always that helpful when you have a limited amount of police officers working on the case.
Yes, they can profile their butts off, but they will never discover my real motivation: the love of a beautiful woman, Elene. She is the reason I am doing this. Not just some base sexual gratification—although that is fun, there’s no denying—but the attainment of the perfection of Elene, my own personal Venus. I guess it’s a bit extreme—dating by murder, that is—but then I am an extreme kind of guy.
I can’t see how they could catch me. My anonymity is complete. I didn’t attend the funerals of my victims. I haven’t returned to the scenes of the crimes. I haven’t returned to the scenes of the pick-ups. I haven’t tried to inject myself into the investigation. I haven’t written any notes to the press. I haven’t kept any souvenirs (another serial killer trait). I have destroyed all evidence that could link me to the crimes. I have maintained a clean and tidy crime scene. I have used a different car than my own. I have used condoms and—the most important thing—I have stayed aloof and calm.
It is by sheer will power that I do this and will keep on doing it. It just takes concentration to keep the panic and fear at bay.
I feel a lot better already.
ENTRY 67:
Today I did something that I shouldn’t have done, I suppose, but I couldn’t resist.
I audited one of Elene’s classes. I chose one of the big ones, her five o’clock. I just joined in the crowd and headed for the seats in the back.
Elene came in. She looked wonderful. As soon as I saw her, my heart quickened.
She started talking and I tried to follow what she was saying, but I was constantly distracted by her face, her breasts, her legs, her lips. Then one of her students asked about the recent killings, can you believe it? My works of art. She obviously couldn't comment because it was all part of an ongoing investigation. She did say that she felt that the killings were definitely linked.
One student asked, “Dr. Sheppard, why do you think there are more serial killers in the United States than any country?”
Elene: “That’s a good question, Lucy. Why does America seem to have more serial killers than any place else? First of all, is this true? Let’s look at the statistics: twenty years ago, the United States, with only 5% of the world’s population, produced 75% of the world’s serial murderers. So I guess we can safely say that even now America does have more serial killers at large than any other country.
“There are so many factors that make up the profile of a serial killer that it is difficult to narrow down the reasons to any single component.
“Here’s one, for instance, a little theory of my own: the status of women in the USA is more elevated than most other places in the world. They have more equality, more money, more freedom, more mobility and more ability to choose. This means that men have lost their position of total dominance. Sexual frustration plays a huge role in the incipient fantasy life of a serial killer. If a man can’t relieve his sexual tension, then he will resort to fantasy and pornography. Then, if the situation doesn’t improve, he may take the step to violent fantasy, fueled by equally violent pornography. If he possesses elevated testosterone levels or low serotonin levels; if he has sustained front temporal lobe brain damage or abuse during childhood; if he displays the evidence of an anti-social personality disorder; if he has problems with the women in his life, then all these factors can lead a man down the road to serial murder.”
(Wow, Elene, you hit the nail on the head. God, I love that woman! She is so smart; it’s frightening.)
“All men have the capacity for violence. It is in their genes. Some are better than others in masking that capacity, but one only needs to look at the history of Mankind to see that violence is second nature to us all. It would be wonderful if we all could live in harmony, but it doesn’t seem possible.
“I think society is too complex, and serial killers are too mysterious, for me to come up with a simple answer. By the way, don’t let anyone try to tell you that serial killers aren’t a puzzle. We—and by we, I mean law enforcers, psychologists, psychiatrists, doctors and prison officials—may try and fool ourselves that we have some handle on why these people kill, but, to tell the truth, we haven’t got a clue.
“Since we do have so many serial killers at large in this country, why is it so hard to catch them? Well, one reason is the ease with which people can move from state to state, disappearing, making up new identities, always moving along when things get too hot.
“Then there is the ongoing problem of the lack of coordination between crime fighting agencies when it comes to solving interstate crimes. Sure the FBI’s VICAP program helps, but it is still tough to connect the dots when it comes to crimes committed by one individual across several states.
“Back to motivation, another factor may be our great society of plenty that supplies everything you would ever need right there on the shelf, on the Internet, or on TV. This does nothing but engender deep dissatisfaction amongst the general population. ‘If I can have a hamburger in 23 seconds, why can’t I have that cute little blonde over there?’
“Maybe it comes down to the rapid degeneration of stable family life. In the USA, one third of all babies are born to single parent families. Thirty years ago it was 8%. You can’t ignore the ramifications that these kinds of changes in the social fabric can cause.
“It could be that go
od old frontier mentality that we’re so proud of. Perhaps serial killers are just the Wyatt Earps of our time. They are out there riding the range, killing for their own pleasure, doing their thing, man, without a care in the world for anyone else. Shit, ain’t that just the great American tradition: one man and his gun, or knife, or ligature? We all have the right to bear arms. It’s even written into our Constitution.
“Perhaps we should blame the media, that’s always a good one. Nobody killed anyone until Oliver Stone filmed Natural Born Killers, or Quentin Tarantino made Reservoir Dogs. We love violent films and TV, the more vicious the better. We laugh when meteors pulverize the earth and when Godzilla eats Manhattan. We cheer on Clarice Starling when she is on the trail of Buffalo Bill, but when it comes to Hannibal Lecter, deep in our heart of hearts we are rooting for him to get away. Wacky guy, but he’s an independent soul. Let’s face it, we just adore Arnie kicking butt as the Terminator, but everyone secretly preferred it when he was the BAD Terminator, rather than the GOOD one.
“Perhaps we should blame the fashion industry for inventing miniskirts or the advertising industry for putting near-naked females on enormous billboards. Most men admire the female body on display in a healthy way. However, there are a few who would view these girls as candy that they aren’t allowed to eat. They feel that they are being tortured by all beautiful, available-looking women. These men are convinced that if they attempted to approach a gorgeous girl, they would probably be rejected. Rejection leads to frustration, frustration to anger and anger to violence. But violence never really gets you what you want, so it’s back to frustration again. The ultra-vicious circle. All you have to do is watch a movie, or turn on the TV, or read a comic book to realize that America is the only society to extol the beauty of violence.”
My Elene. What a girl!
After that little speech the class went ape-shit. Some of the female students were enraged. I was surprised that she spoke so frankly, but she did look a little tired. I felt responsible. If only she knew that the guy causing her sleepless nights was sitting right there in her class room.
I left as discreetly as I could. No one noticed, because they were having a lively debate on whether women asked for it by wearing skimpy clothing.
The way I look at it, they all took a risk, from my little cat-like girl on down. In these troubled times, any woman who takes a strange man home with her is, if not asking for it, then at the very least taking a big chance. She has to expect that things may not turn out quite like she expected. Sex with a stranger may appear to be the ultimate high, but, like the mating rituals of certain insects, it can sometimes lead to death and destruction.
I went home and changed into my new costume of a blue and green lumberjack shirt, baggy jeans, baseball cap and glasses, preparing for yet another fabulous evening at Kahunaville. I hope that they were going to turn up this time.
ENTRY 68:
Frank was already there. He didn’t give me a second glance.
I took my usual table and waited with him. Ten minutes later, I was surprised to see another woman come in and sit across from Frank. She was tall and willowy, with black hair and Spanish good looks. After careful eavesdropping, I ascertained that her name was Salma and that she worked in the clerical department of the Public Safety Building.
I was disappointed and at the same time intrigued. I was missing out on Elene, but who was this delicious new girl? I thought it was typical that Frank, of all people, should have such a gaggle of tasty females to choose from, but then his kind of bastard always does.
Anyway, I lost interest while they were ordering. I was munching on my starter—Spicy Tuna and Shrimp Quesadillas—when my ears caught something relating to my works of art.
Salma: “So how are those murder cases coming along, Frank?”
Frank: (growling into his Utica Club) “Like shit. This perp is so organized, he should be running for Mayor. It’s giving me a major pain in the butt. So far no obvious suspects have presented themselves. Unless he slips up by leaving some evidence behind, or unless a victim escapes him, I don’t see how I can’t avoid handing this over to the Feebies and that fucks me off.”
Salma: “Well, the Feds do have plenty of experience with serial killings.”
Frank: “And don’t they love telling us about it. Damn it, I want this one myself. Nick Carlopolis over at the FBI thinks he’s God’s gift to law enforcement and he’s already trying to muscle in on our investigation. I know it sounds fucking infantile, but I don’t give a shit.”
Salma: “It’s OK. I understand how you feel.” (… followed by more comforting noises.)
I could see right away that Salma was the opposite of Elene. She was supportive of Frank and was non-confrontational. Salma is more an ideal partner for the mercurial Frank than Elene, who is never afraid to speak her mind.
Elene, on the other hand, is the ultimate partner for me.
ENTRY 69:
Yesterday, I saw an item on the CBS News. The anchor was trailing a Sixty Minutes II episode and he mentioned a puzzling case that caught my attention. The police had found some guy’s DNA at the scene, but the suspect was in prison at the time of the crime. The big question was: how did the DNA get there? I missed the actual program, but the concept started an idea rolling in my head. Up until now, I have been supernaturally careful about not leaving behind any trace evidence at the scenes of my crimes. Maybe next time, I will leave some DNA— either a sample of skin, blood, sweat, semen, hair, saliva, dandruff or fingernail clippings—but the kicker will be that it won’t belong to me.
Now the question is, where am I going to obtain this rogue DNA? Maybe I should go to the local gay hangout and scrape some semen off the toilet stall floor? Break into a barbershop and steal some spare hair clippings? Empty a few ashtrays from the local Bar And Grill? Grab any old Coke can from the garbage and leave it at the scene? No, I couldn’t do that. I have to make sure that the sample was from a man. Scientists can now obtain DNA samples from tiniest amount of saliva on a cigarette butt or a coffee cup. They don’t even need the follicle at the end of a hair sample, they can obtain the DNA just from a clipping. Unfortunately for the criminal, as soon as the suspect discards a cigarette butt or a Coke can, that evidence enters the public domain and the police don’t need a warrant to take it and test it.
I guess the world is my oyster. There are so many possible places to obtain my traceable evidence that I am almost spoiled for choice. Maybe I should just raid a sperm bank and mix a little cocktail of semen to put up my next victim’s vagina. Now that would confuse them. The police would have to come to the conclusion that there was a gang of serial killers on the rampage.
Maybe I should sneak into Charlie Landru’s house and bag some of his DNA. What a laugh that would be. Such sweet, sweet revenge. Teach you to fuck my wife, buddy.
On the other hand, maybe I shouldn’t mess around with a winning (hopefully) formula. Planting DNA could backfire and I’m having too much fun to screw things up now.
ENTRY 70:
Susie Morton was next on my list and I saw no reason to deviate from the overall plan. I waited until the Syracuse Orange Men were playing Boston University at the Dome. The town would be packed with Bostonians eager to support their team.
Susie’s patterns were pretty random, so on the off chance I decided to visit Viva Debris Comedy Club, on the assumption that she would probably go there first, then on to Sh-boom’s for a nightcap.
Viva Debris was amusingly decorated with the detritus of a million garage sales. Wrecked cars littered the dance floor, manned by garishly dressed mannequins and lit by old fifties standard lamps. Not one item of furniture matched with another and the outfits worn by the waitresses echoed the decor. One girl might be dressed up as a sailor, the next as an extra from Oklahoma, the next as a naughty schoolgirl. The crowd fit right in, with businessmen rubbing shoulders with shaggy-haired students, nerds with pocket protectors dancing with cheerleaders and jocks flirting with nurs
es just off their shift from the nearby St. Francis’ hospital. It was a crazy place, a perfect hunting ground, because a person could easily move amongst all the chaos and not be noticed as anything out of the ordinary.
Susie was propping up the bar and I was disappointed to see that she was already talking to some pea-brained, Adonis type. He was wearing a Syracuse sweatshirt, the sleeves pushed way up to show biceps that The Rock wouldn’t have been ashamed of. I went up to the bar close to them, ordered my usual and kept an eye on the proceedings.
Susie was wearing an eye-popping, pink and green, low-cut minidress that had a very Sixties feel to it. I thought that it was a trifle young for her, but she had the body to pull it off, so why not? I noticed that her companion was a bit diffident and all was explained when another bruiser with a matching sweatshirt sidled up to him and brazenly gave him a full kiss on the lips right in front of Susie. They swapped spit and everything. I was a bit shocked. I was used to seeing such shenanigans at Trexx, Syracuse’s primo gay hangout, but not here. But who I am to complain? Some guys fuck each other up the ass, some prefer to strangle girls. Different strokes for different folks. Viva la difference, I say.
Susie didn’t look surprised, in fact she greeted Bruiser Number Two with affection. I hung back as the brawny pair went off to trip the light fantastic on the dance floor. Susie finished off her drink and then sat there looking thirsty. I made my move.