every little detail. I mean, he
seems
like the kind of man who could have been a soldier of fortune, don’t you think?”
“A ‘soldier of fortune’?” I said, with maybe just a trace of sarcasm.
“What, I didn’t use the proper term?” Tammi said, hands on her hips. “Are you going to correct me, Paul?”
“I wasn’t trying to do that,” I said.
“No,” she said, the sneer thick in her voice. “I can’t imagine you would.”
5
I know Tammi cheats on me. Not in the flesh—well, maybe that’s not the right way to put it, considering what I found out. Once I installed the spyware on our computer, it was easy enough for me to reconstruct how she spends her days when I’m at work, especially since we’re on the same wireless network.
Maybe sending nude photographs of herself over the Internet doesn’t meet the legal definition of adultery, but some of her e-mails were … well, they were considerably more than cyber-flirting. Still, no matter how diligently I checked—even after I installed the recorder on our phone lines, and the fiber-optic cameras in the house—I never uncovered any evidence that she actually met any of those men in real life.
I call her from work sporadically, so she can never know when to expect it. But she always answers when I call. She never even sounds out of breath. I guess she doesn’t know forwarding our home number to her cell phone shows up on the bill every time she pulls that trick. Or maybe she doesn’t care.
I use my sick days to maintain surveillance, too. I tell her I’m going to work, but I spend the day watching the house. Or following her, when she goes out. I guess I could have paid a private detective to do all this, but it’s not the kind of thing I want to discuss with other people. Or even admit.
Besides, I’m not sure I could trust someone I hired. I’m the kind of man who likes to do things himself—that’s the only way I can make certain it comes out properly.
6
“Sure, they’re good enough to catch some moron holding up a liquor store, or a wife who poisons her husband,” Roger said, one Saturday night. “But the police haven’t got a chance against a highly evolved killer.”
Bobby Williams started to say, “There’s been plenty of murderers who thought they were geniuses until—”
“No, no,” Roger interrupted. “I didn’t say ‘smart’; I said, ‘highly evolved.’ There’s a big difference.”
“What?” Marcy Chilton asked. She’s the opposite of her husband, very parsimonious with her words.
“The highly evolved killer is one who makes a statement,” Roger said. “Not some animal who guns down a shopkeeper in a holdup.”
“You mean, like Ted Bundy, someone like him?” Tammi asked, breathlessly.
“Exactly!” Roger replied.
Tammi arched her back like a cat who had just been stroked.
“Ted Bundy was a sex fiend,” Theresa Wright said, sharply. She’s married to Sam Wright, a church deacon. The two of them generally agree with Roger on everything, especially when he starts ranting about liberals, but the idea of seeing a rapist as highly evolved apparently was too much for her to swallow.
“I’m not so sure that’s true,” Roger said, judiciously. “Certainly, there was a sexual … aura to his killings—there often is, I believe—but he was successful for a very long time before he was caught. And we
still
have no idea how many women he actually raped and killed.”
“
That’s
your idea of highly evolved? A killer who gets away with more murders than the authorities find out about?” Mark said.
“Well, isn’t it yours?” Roger challenged him. “Isn’t that the way we evaluate
any
activity: by whether you’re successful at it? Look at the most famous murderer in history, Jack the Ripper. Do you think, if he had ever been caught, he’d still be in the public eye centuries later? Do you think people would still be writing books about him? Making movies? Speculating about his
seems
like the kind of man who could have been a soldier of fortune, don’t you think?”
“A ‘soldier of fortune’?” I said, with maybe just a trace of sarcasm.
“What, I didn’t use the proper term?” Tammi said, hands on her hips. “Are you going to correct me, Paul?”
“I wasn’t trying to do that,” I said.
“No,” she said, the sneer thick in her voice. “I can’t imagine you would.”
5
I know Tammi cheats on me. Not in the flesh—well, maybe that’s not the right way to put it, considering what I found out. Once I installed the spyware on our computer, it was easy enough for me to reconstruct how she spends her days when I’m at work, especially since we’re on the same wireless network.
Maybe sending nude photographs of herself over the Internet doesn’t meet the legal definition of adultery, but some of her e-mails were … well, they were considerably more than cyber-flirting. Still, no matter how diligently I checked—even after I installed the recorder on our phone lines, and the fiber-optic cameras in the house—I never uncovered any evidence that she actually met any of those men in real life.
I call her from work sporadically, so she can never know when to expect it. But she always answers when I call. She never even sounds out of breath. I guess she doesn’t know forwarding our home number to her cell phone shows up on the bill every time she pulls that trick. Or maybe she doesn’t care.
I use my sick days to maintain surveillance, too. I tell her I’m going to work, but I spend the day watching the house. Or following her, when she goes out. I guess I could have paid a private detective to do all this, but it’s not the kind of thing I want to discuss with other people. Or even admit.
Besides, I’m not sure I could trust someone I hired. I’m the kind of man who likes to do things himself—that’s the only way I can make certain it comes out properly.
6
“Sure, they’re good enough to catch some moron holding up a liquor store, or a wife who poisons her husband,” Roger said, one Saturday night. “But the police haven’t got a chance against a highly evolved killer.”
Bobby Williams started to say, “There’s been plenty of murderers who thought they were geniuses until—”
“No, no,” Roger interrupted. “I didn’t say ‘smart’; I said, ‘highly evolved.’ There’s a big difference.”
“What?” Marcy Chilton asked. She’s the opposite of her husband, very parsimonious with her words.
“The highly evolved killer is one who makes a statement,” Roger said. “Not some animal who guns down a shopkeeper in a holdup.”
“You mean, like Ted Bundy, someone like him?” Tammi asked, breathlessly.
“Exactly!” Roger replied.
Tammi arched her back like a cat who had just been stroked.
“Ted Bundy was a sex fiend,” Theresa Wright said, sharply. She’s married to Sam Wright, a church deacon. The two of them generally agree with Roger on everything, especially when he starts ranting about liberals, but the idea of seeing a rapist as highly evolved apparently was too much for her to swallow.
“I’m not so sure that’s true,” Roger said, judiciously. “Certainly, there was a sexual … aura to his killings—there often is, I believe—but he was successful for a very long time before he was caught. And we
still
have no idea how many women he actually raped and killed.”
“
That’s
your idea of highly evolved? A killer who gets away with more murders than the authorities find out about?” Mark said.
“Well, isn’t it yours?” Roger challenged him. “Isn’t that the way we evaluate
any
activity: by whether you’re successful at it? Look at the most famous murderer in history, Jack the Ripper. Do you think, if he had ever been caught, he’d still be in the public eye centuries later? Do you think people would still be writing books about him? Making movies? Speculating about his
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