all of them creative names of businesses that exuded integrity and trust. The one he just put on read: community rescue unit. Actually he’d gotten the idea from listening to a group of cops at a truck stop café outside Toledo, Ohio. They had just caught a killer using a public works department uniform. Homeowners let him in without question. Almost as good as a uniform was his idea of converting the outside of his truck into a vehicle that people automatically trusted.
Finally finished cleaning up, he pulled out his log book andrecorded the date, time, and place in the corner. Then he added the details he wanted to remember:
Even drug whores fight for life.
Two bashes in the head and still crawling.
Rolled into the river.
Skin and bones. Not much of a floater.
Wrapped the strap of her bag around her neck.
Bag should weight her down.
He paused to roll up his shirtsleeves and only then noticed that the bitch had managed to scratch his arm. Immediately he grabbed a bottle of alcohol from one of the cabinets. He remembered her fingernails had been chipped and broken, and for the short time she sat in his passenger seat she couldn’t stop clawing at her scabs.
Seeing the damage she’d done made him angry and sick to his stomach. What if the bitch had given him some disease? He poured half the bottle over the open wound despite the sting. He didn’t mind the pain. Pain made you feel alive. Then he searched through his stash of pharmaceuticals until he found the antibiotic he wanted. He popped one into his mouth and washed it down with a can of Coke from the large ice chest he kept well stocked.
The whole incident was beginning to remind him that small mistakes had tripped up many killers and landed them in prison. Ted Bundy, Edmund Kemper, Henry Lee Lucas, Jeffery Dahmer—all of them had done something stupid that ended up getting them caught. Wouldn’t happen to him.
Along with talking and listening to cops, he prided himself on being an expert on serial killers, their patterns, fetishes, weaknesses, and even those mistakes that got them caught. But he wasmore careful and smarter. Besides, he could control when and where he chose to kill. He wasn’t driven by voices or impulses. Tonight was a rare exception. Tonight he killed out of necessity rather than challenge and hobby. There hadn’t been much pleasure in it. He just wanted Lily dead.
He had no idea if the woman had seen anything. He’d had no idea she had been staying in the farmhouse. How many times had he dumped a body and she was there? He couldn’t take the chance that she might have seen him. Although she didn’t seem to recognize or know him beyond meeting him earlier today. He wondered if she really had been one of Helen’s foster kids, though he knew there had been dozens over decades. So it was possible. And if she had been one of Helen’s then he was right—Helen would have been disappointed in her.
He bandaged his arm. It would be easier to make up what had happened if people didn’t see the claw marks. In fact, it would gain him sympathy. As he exited the back of his truck and moved to the driver’s seat, he found himself scanning the cars parked on the other side of the rest area. Only two vehicles.
He climbed behind the steering wheel and watched. A small SUV had two middle-aged women. One went up the incline to the restrooms. The other stayed to clean out their car. He pulled out his pair of binoculars from the console and watched her throw their garbage into the trash receptacle. Most of it was empty junk food containers and cups with sip lids—which probably meant coffee. Tired and exhausted. He saw the license plate was Texas. Lots of miles on the road. Long way from home.
Easy targets
.
The second vehicle was a four-door sedan. A man and a little boy. The boy looked ten or eleven, an age the man had evidently determined was old enough that the boy could go up the shortwalk to the building by himself to use the restroom.
Finally finished cleaning up, he pulled out his log book andrecorded the date, time, and place in the corner. Then he added the details he wanted to remember:
Even drug whores fight for life.
Two bashes in the head and still crawling.
Rolled into the river.
Skin and bones. Not much of a floater.
Wrapped the strap of her bag around her neck.
Bag should weight her down.
He paused to roll up his shirtsleeves and only then noticed that the bitch had managed to scratch his arm. Immediately he grabbed a bottle of alcohol from one of the cabinets. He remembered her fingernails had been chipped and broken, and for the short time she sat in his passenger seat she couldn’t stop clawing at her scabs.
Seeing the damage she’d done made him angry and sick to his stomach. What if the bitch had given him some disease? He poured half the bottle over the open wound despite the sting. He didn’t mind the pain. Pain made you feel alive. Then he searched through his stash of pharmaceuticals until he found the antibiotic he wanted. He popped one into his mouth and washed it down with a can of Coke from the large ice chest he kept well stocked.
The whole incident was beginning to remind him that small mistakes had tripped up many killers and landed them in prison. Ted Bundy, Edmund Kemper, Henry Lee Lucas, Jeffery Dahmer—all of them had done something stupid that ended up getting them caught. Wouldn’t happen to him.
Along with talking and listening to cops, he prided himself on being an expert on serial killers, their patterns, fetishes, weaknesses, and even those mistakes that got them caught. But he wasmore careful and smarter. Besides, he could control when and where he chose to kill. He wasn’t driven by voices or impulses. Tonight was a rare exception. Tonight he killed out of necessity rather than challenge and hobby. There hadn’t been much pleasure in it. He just wanted Lily dead.
He had no idea if the woman had seen anything. He’d had no idea she had been staying in the farmhouse. How many times had he dumped a body and she was there? He couldn’t take the chance that she might have seen him. Although she didn’t seem to recognize or know him beyond meeting him earlier today. He wondered if she really had been one of Helen’s foster kids, though he knew there had been dozens over decades. So it was possible. And if she had been one of Helen’s then he was right—Helen would have been disappointed in her.
He bandaged his arm. It would be easier to make up what had happened if people didn’t see the claw marks. In fact, it would gain him sympathy. As he exited the back of his truck and moved to the driver’s seat, he found himself scanning the cars parked on the other side of the rest area. Only two vehicles.
He climbed behind the steering wheel and watched. A small SUV had two middle-aged women. One went up the incline to the restrooms. The other stayed to clean out their car. He pulled out his pair of binoculars from the console and watched her throw their garbage into the trash receptacle. Most of it was empty junk food containers and cups with sip lids—which probably meant coffee. Tired and exhausted. He saw the license plate was Texas. Lots of miles on the road. Long way from home.
Easy targets
.
The second vehicle was a four-door sedan. A man and a little boy. The boy looked ten or eleven, an age the man had evidently determined was old enough that the boy could go up the shortwalk to the building by himself to use the restroom.
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