carved out a rectangular space. The task was harder than he thought, at least two hours hacking away with a box cutter twenty pages at a time until he reached the back cover.
Concealed inside the empty space is a one-million-volt stun gun he bought off the Internet for a hundred dollars. The Streetwise SW1000 has a hard plastic case, is only eight inches tall, two inches wide, and one inch thick. It fits perfectly inside the space he cut out of the
Book of Mormon
.
Powered by three nine-volt batteries, the stun gun delivers a devastating high-volt, low-amp blast that temporarily disrupts the central nervous system and will put a grown man on the ground. According to the manufacturer, the charge can travel though several layers of clothing.
He reaches toward the book with his right hand and closes his fingers around the stun gun. They tremble slightly. He has never used this device before.
In one swift movement, the killer rips the stun gun from inside the book and shoves the twin electric prongs against the woman’s chest, high above her breasts. He presses the activation button on the side of the device with his thumb, triggering the short electric explosion. As the million-volt shock slams through the woman’s central nervous system, her eyes roll back into her head and she collapses on the tile floor.
As the killer steps into the house, he kicks the woman’s feet out of the way and closes the door. He prays none of the neighbors saw him.
She lies on her back, eyes open. They roll around in their sockets as she tries to focus on his face. She is also trying to speak, but no sound is coming from her trembling lips.
The killer drops the
Book of Mormon
and reaches behind his back. He pulls a plastic cable tie from the waistband of his pants and loops it around the woman’s neck. He cinches it lightly, not tight enough to kill her but enough to prevent her from screaming. Or so he hopes. Murder is an art, not a science.
In a few seconds, the shock wears off and the woman starts kicking at him. He zaps her again. The faint smell of burning flesh drifts up toward him. He grabs her ponytail and drags her into the kitchen. Other than the TV, there are no sounds inside the house. He has steeled himself to deal with the children. On his way to the woman’s house he rehearsed what he was going to say to them.
Mommy fell down. Quick, help me get her up.
When they run over to help, he will simply zap them with the stun gun. If a million volts aren’t enough to kill them, it will certainly keep them quiet. Then he will do what has to be done.
God’s work requires sacrifices, both large and small.
But he sees no children.
He bends close to the woman. “Where are your children?”
Her mouth opens. Drool spills from one corner. She tries to speak but can’t. Maybe he has cinched the cable tie too tight.
“Where are they?” he says.
“Bedrooms,” she croaks, her choked voice barely audible. “Please don’t . . . hurt them.”
He rolls her onto her stomach and rips down her cotton shorts. Her buttocks are white and firm. He jabs the prongs of the stun gun against her right butt cheek and thumbs the trigger. The woman convulses. Her back arches in agony. The killer smiles.
He stands and pulls a butcher knife from a wooden block on the kitchen counter . . .
Ten minutes later, the killer strolls across the small den to the staircase. Upstairs he finds the children’s rooms. The girl’s room is on the right, the boy’s on the left. A bathroom stands between them at the top of the stairs.
The children are down for their naps.
The girl is six. He smothers her with a pillow.
He wakes up the boy. The nine-year-old is confused. The killer says he is Mommy’s friend. The boy nods like he understands. Mommy went out for a little while and asked him to watch the boy and his sister until she returns. Do you have any games you like to play?
Yes, the boy says, video games.
He and the boy play a colorful animated
Concealed inside the empty space is a one-million-volt stun gun he bought off the Internet for a hundred dollars. The Streetwise SW1000 has a hard plastic case, is only eight inches tall, two inches wide, and one inch thick. It fits perfectly inside the space he cut out of the
Book of Mormon
.
Powered by three nine-volt batteries, the stun gun delivers a devastating high-volt, low-amp blast that temporarily disrupts the central nervous system and will put a grown man on the ground. According to the manufacturer, the charge can travel though several layers of clothing.
He reaches toward the book with his right hand and closes his fingers around the stun gun. They tremble slightly. He has never used this device before.
In one swift movement, the killer rips the stun gun from inside the book and shoves the twin electric prongs against the woman’s chest, high above her breasts. He presses the activation button on the side of the device with his thumb, triggering the short electric explosion. As the million-volt shock slams through the woman’s central nervous system, her eyes roll back into her head and she collapses on the tile floor.
As the killer steps into the house, he kicks the woman’s feet out of the way and closes the door. He prays none of the neighbors saw him.
She lies on her back, eyes open. They roll around in their sockets as she tries to focus on his face. She is also trying to speak, but no sound is coming from her trembling lips.
The killer drops the
Book of Mormon
and reaches behind his back. He pulls a plastic cable tie from the waistband of his pants and loops it around the woman’s neck. He cinches it lightly, not tight enough to kill her but enough to prevent her from screaming. Or so he hopes. Murder is an art, not a science.
In a few seconds, the shock wears off and the woman starts kicking at him. He zaps her again. The faint smell of burning flesh drifts up toward him. He grabs her ponytail and drags her into the kitchen. Other than the TV, there are no sounds inside the house. He has steeled himself to deal with the children. On his way to the woman’s house he rehearsed what he was going to say to them.
Mommy fell down. Quick, help me get her up.
When they run over to help, he will simply zap them with the stun gun. If a million volts aren’t enough to kill them, it will certainly keep them quiet. Then he will do what has to be done.
God’s work requires sacrifices, both large and small.
But he sees no children.
He bends close to the woman. “Where are your children?”
Her mouth opens. Drool spills from one corner. She tries to speak but can’t. Maybe he has cinched the cable tie too tight.
“Where are they?” he says.
“Bedrooms,” she croaks, her choked voice barely audible. “Please don’t . . . hurt them.”
He rolls her onto her stomach and rips down her cotton shorts. Her buttocks are white and firm. He jabs the prongs of the stun gun against her right butt cheek and thumbs the trigger. The woman convulses. Her back arches in agony. The killer smiles.
He stands and pulls a butcher knife from a wooden block on the kitchen counter . . .
Ten minutes later, the killer strolls across the small den to the staircase. Upstairs he finds the children’s rooms. The girl’s room is on the right, the boy’s on the left. A bathroom stands between them at the top of the stairs.
The children are down for their naps.
The girl is six. He smothers her with a pillow.
He wakes up the boy. The nine-year-old is confused. The killer says he is Mommy’s friend. The boy nods like he understands. Mommy went out for a little while and asked him to watch the boy and his sister until she returns. Do you have any games you like to play?
Yes, the boy says, video games.
He and the boy play a colorful animated
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