Anatomy of a Killer by Peter Rabe Page A

jerk he had given, I think it was chest.
    Paul, on his back, was dead, of course, and the jacket had slid up into bunches and the pants had pushed up to his calves. How that always happens. Chest. Like I thought.
    First, Jordan moved the cars. He moved Paul’s car to the other side of the bridge and well onto the soft shoulder. He turned the lights off and left the key in the ignition. Then he walked back and moved his own car to the other end of the bridge, also well off the road. This way, the cars would not alarm any motorist.
    Jordan got out of his car and after he had closed the door, leaned against it for a moment. Dark and hot and I’ll lean here for a moment and then go back. The rest can be as simple as it’s been so far, because it needs no planning, because all I have to do is grab him by the back of the jacket and drag him down to the culvert. Done.
    Jordan walked away from the car and back to the bridge.
    But he’s lying on his back and can’t be grabbed by the back of the jacket.
    Jordan held out his hand for the railing and when he touched it—he knew he would touch it—gave a start.
    He’s dead, so don’t worry. This almost made Jordan giggle, though he did not let himself. It stayed a sharp, fluttery tickle in his throat.
    Jordan slowed on the bridge because he could now see the body on the soft shoulder.
    Though this is not a job as jobs go. None of it fitting the habits. Everything I do now is with the props gone. That new.
    He worked his hand along the railing and walked like a blind man. He could see well enough now, but did not want to.
    And even the job as jobs go hadn’t been all that good. It had gone easily, because of the habits, but the habits had not been quite good enough for all that was needed. For instance, he thought, and then, for instance, again. I’m calmer already, he thought. But I got him at the right time for the best light but not at the right time for the best drop. He should have stood closer to the edge so he’d drop down the incline all by himself.
    Jordan stopped. He could see it lying there, crabbed out with arms and legs the way they always do. He would now have to touch it.
    His scalp moved on his skull, and he thought he could feel his skull tight and hard over the inside of his head. He had an upsetting image—all of him curled soft into the inside of the skull. But it’s the second time. This is not the first…. He started to sweat, thin and quick, when he saw that it was worse now and not easier.
    Then he moved because it became impossible to do nothing.
    Jordan bent down and touched. He thought about the time after this time, all done with this, never again this, and so registered very little of what he was doing or what the body was doing, but the worst moments came through.
    He touched the jacket high up and yanked. A dead arm swung around and hit Jordan’s ankle. After his gasp the breath came out of Jordan’s throat, shocking him with the sound because it was like a giggle. But his throat felt all right after that, without the strain in it.
    I won’t drag him down, I’ll roll him down. I’ll do that and between now and the moment when I touch it again a headlight will swing around the far bend, and I’ll have to let all this go and just run, just run.
    But he only thought this and suddenly scratched his head where sweat tickled him and for a moment he was just scratching—nothing else—and after that he had his feelingless calm again, out of nowhere, but the way he was used to it. He only worried for one split second about the quick switches that went on inside him, but that thought never got anywhere because then he touched again.
    He dragged like a dog worrying a bone. When the body was over the edge Jordan let go with a quick jerk of his hand and kept jerking his hand like that, through the air, a little bit like a conductor with temperament. Because the body wasn’t rolling. But the quick pizzicato beat kept up Jordan’s speed. The dead