farmhouse. A light was burning in Mother’s bedroom on the second floor, but if she heard the pickup she never came to the window. I parked facing the barn with headlights on and went inside to hang the sickle back on its hook above the workbench. I did the same with the Smith & Wesson, returning it to Stumpy’s gun cabinet in the main room.
Later that night, as I stood in the shower watching the Mexican’s blood wash from my body and go swirling down the drain, I was feeling pretty darn good about myself. Your faithful servant had consigned two more pervies to that special place in Hell reserved for those who steal the innocence of youth. It was three down and a whole wide world to go.
Ah, my friends, the task was daunting.
So many pricks… so little time.
chapter six
On the day afte r Halloween, the body of Jose Morales was discovered by a neighbor, opened up on his kitchen floor like an exploded can of Chef Boyardee. Three days later a UPS delivery man sniffed a foul odor and led police to Doc Aldrich. And by week’s end, after both killings had been tied to the death of Harland Lee Wade, everyone in Nebraska knew a serial killer was running helter-skelter in the Heartland.
When the sheriff’s office announced all three victims were level three sex offenders, the sensational news hit the state like a bombshell. But when it was revealed the primary suspect was female, well, that was like a bucket of chum dumped into the sea-- whipping the media into a whole ‘nother level of frenzy. Suddenly yours truly was the headliner in every newspaper and the lead story on all the newscasts. And once reporters agreed on a nickname--mandatory for all serial killers--I knew I’d hit the big time. Henceforth your humble servant would be known as the Level Three Killer… or simply, L3K.
But unlike self-loathing mass-murderers, who seek post-mortem immortality through the slaughter of innocents, or serial killers who jerk off to their newspaper clippings, I didn’t give a rat’s ass about media adulation, nor the public’s pathetic appetite for death and destruction. The crusade wasn’t about me. It was all about justice.
Still, if nicknames were to be handed out, I could have done without “L3K”. It didn’t exactly roll off the tongue, know what I’m saying? I was a bigger fan of the moniker coined by some of the locals; “The Holt Hacker”.
I liked that one. Had a nice ring to it.
Anyway, details of the murders, including unconfirmed reports of missing appendages (and you know what I mean) sent shockwaves rippling through the region. Holt County’s Level 3 sex offenders were now requesting beefed up police patrols in their neighborhoods. And pervies throughout Nebraska--as well as in neighboring states like Iowa, Kansas and South Dakota--were clamoring for the same protection. A few were so spooked that they packed their bags and fled the Corn Belt altogether-- jumping from the pond before I’d even had a chance to drop a line. Those were the slippery pricks that got away.
For Deputy Gottschalk, the situation had become a major inconvenience that interfered with his bowling and pornography time. Dressed in uniform to begin the overnight shift that Friday afternoon, the man sat at the kitchen table and complained loudly while thumbing through the Holt County Independent. The newspaper’s banner headline shouted, POLICE SEEK LEADS IN L3K MURDERS. Beneath the header was a police sketch of the main suspect herself, drawn from eyewitness descriptions given by Pete the bartender and those three little dimwits who rang the Mexican’s doorbell on Halloween night.
I must tell you, boys and girls. Except for Elvira’s puffed up hair and bangs, that drawing looked nothing like me. Either my makeup had been that good, or the sketch artist sucked that bad.
“Female serial killers. Jesus H. Christ, the whole world’s gone
Later that night, as I stood in the shower watching the Mexican’s blood wash from my body and go swirling down the drain, I was feeling pretty darn good about myself. Your faithful servant had consigned two more pervies to that special place in Hell reserved for those who steal the innocence of youth. It was three down and a whole wide world to go.
Ah, my friends, the task was daunting.
So many pricks… so little time.
chapter six
On the day afte r Halloween, the body of Jose Morales was discovered by a neighbor, opened up on his kitchen floor like an exploded can of Chef Boyardee. Three days later a UPS delivery man sniffed a foul odor and led police to Doc Aldrich. And by week’s end, after both killings had been tied to the death of Harland Lee Wade, everyone in Nebraska knew a serial killer was running helter-skelter in the Heartland.
When the sheriff’s office announced all three victims were level three sex offenders, the sensational news hit the state like a bombshell. But when it was revealed the primary suspect was female, well, that was like a bucket of chum dumped into the sea-- whipping the media into a whole ‘nother level of frenzy. Suddenly yours truly was the headliner in every newspaper and the lead story on all the newscasts. And once reporters agreed on a nickname--mandatory for all serial killers--I knew I’d hit the big time. Henceforth your humble servant would be known as the Level Three Killer… or simply, L3K.
But unlike self-loathing mass-murderers, who seek post-mortem immortality through the slaughter of innocents, or serial killers who jerk off to their newspaper clippings, I didn’t give a rat’s ass about media adulation, nor the public’s pathetic appetite for death and destruction. The crusade wasn’t about me. It was all about justice.
Still, if nicknames were to be handed out, I could have done without “L3K”. It didn’t exactly roll off the tongue, know what I’m saying? I was a bigger fan of the moniker coined by some of the locals; “The Holt Hacker”.
I liked that one. Had a nice ring to it.
Anyway, details of the murders, including unconfirmed reports of missing appendages (and you know what I mean) sent shockwaves rippling through the region. Holt County’s Level 3 sex offenders were now requesting beefed up police patrols in their neighborhoods. And pervies throughout Nebraska--as well as in neighboring states like Iowa, Kansas and South Dakota--were clamoring for the same protection. A few were so spooked that they packed their bags and fled the Corn Belt altogether-- jumping from the pond before I’d even had a chance to drop a line. Those were the slippery pricks that got away.
For Deputy Gottschalk, the situation had become a major inconvenience that interfered with his bowling and pornography time. Dressed in uniform to begin the overnight shift that Friday afternoon, the man sat at the kitchen table and complained loudly while thumbing through the Holt County Independent. The newspaper’s banner headline shouted, POLICE SEEK LEADS IN L3K MURDERS. Beneath the header was a police sketch of the main suspect herself, drawn from eyewitness descriptions given by Pete the bartender and those three little dimwits who rang the Mexican’s doorbell on Halloween night.
I must tell you, boys and girls. Except for Elvira’s puffed up hair and bangs, that drawing looked nothing like me. Either my makeup had been that good, or the sketch artist sucked that bad.
“Female serial killers. Jesus H. Christ, the whole world’s gone
Similar Books
