morning – no rain, light breeze, forecast calling for no clouds and a high in the mid-seventies. She enjoyed the warmth as she made her way down the sidewalk, recalling her discussion with Kennedy last night. It might be nice to get away someplace different, where there weren’t any skyscrapers or horns honking. The thought of Kennedy on a surfboard doing the California dreaming thing made her smile as she turned and approached the coffee shop where she got her morning jolt of caffeine each day before work. Nodding to the invariably aloof young man behind the counter, she exchanged a handful of change for a tall cappuccino, quickly exited, and threaded her way through the pedestrians to the front entrance of her building.
Once through security, Silver bee-lined for her office, where as requested a copy of the paper sat waiting. The front page was a collage of crime scene photos, obviously taken by the killer. Particularly chilling was the central one where the victim was still alive, bound to the bed and obviously aware of his imminent fate. His eyes spoke such horror that Silver found herself looking away. More than any of the other shots, that particular one would cause a riot. She knew it the second she saw it. They were in deep trouble.
Her inbox had a stack of messages, which she rifled through as she waited for her computer to boot up. Three from Washington, spaced every fifteen minutes. That couldn’t be good. Even as she registered the thought, her desk phone rang. Silver steeled herself for the onslaught she knew was to come. She took a quick gulp of her coffee and resignedly lifted the handset to her ear.
~ ~ ~
The killer re-read the article and smiled, leaning back in his swivel chair, feet up on his computer desk as he nibbled on a doughnut. It had been another rough night, made more so by his brain racing at a thousand miles an hour, and he felt like he had a hangover even though he hadn’t taken a drink in months. He hoped the headache would fade as the day progressed – there was much to do, and he couldn’t afford to be incapacitated.
The reporter had done a decent job of splicing in the message he had sent. At this stage, it was long on speculation and innuendo and short on fact, which is how he preferred it. The art was in getting the balance right – provide enough to titillate and keep the story topical without tipping his hand and revealing too much.
The idea that he was bringing guilty predators to his brand of justice was the most important point, and that had come across loud and clear in the article. He didn’t want to be lumped in with the Ted Bundys of the world – twisted psychopaths who killed to satisfy some primal bloodlust. Quite the opposite, he didn’t consider himself to be a particularly violent man.
He swallowed a morsel of doughnut and reached for his coffee while he debated his next target.
The killings would get harder from here. The final ones were increasingly high profile. He wanted to save the best for last. Make a statement.
He didn’t think anyone would figure out the connection until it was too late. Only a few people in the world understood what these men had done and how they were intertwined. If he had more time, he could have targeted a dozen more equally deserving, who were also beyond the reach of justice, but he didn’t have that luxury, although he’d certainly daydreamed about it.
There was only so much he could accomplish. It would require all his skill and patience to successfully carry out his plan to fruition.
He was at the halfway point, but already tiring. That wouldn’t do at all.
After standing and stretching for a few moments, he paced over to his kitchen with his now-empty cup and got a can of soda. One of his guilty pleasures; he’d never acquired the taste for diet drinks. Full tilt was the only way he drank them, sugar be damned. And the caffeine would help him stay alert. At this point he needed all the help he could
Once through security, Silver bee-lined for her office, where as requested a copy of the paper sat waiting. The front page was a collage of crime scene photos, obviously taken by the killer. Particularly chilling was the central one where the victim was still alive, bound to the bed and obviously aware of his imminent fate. His eyes spoke such horror that Silver found herself looking away. More than any of the other shots, that particular one would cause a riot. She knew it the second she saw it. They were in deep trouble.
Her inbox had a stack of messages, which she rifled through as she waited for her computer to boot up. Three from Washington, spaced every fifteen minutes. That couldn’t be good. Even as she registered the thought, her desk phone rang. Silver steeled herself for the onslaught she knew was to come. She took a quick gulp of her coffee and resignedly lifted the handset to her ear.
~ ~ ~
The killer re-read the article and smiled, leaning back in his swivel chair, feet up on his computer desk as he nibbled on a doughnut. It had been another rough night, made more so by his brain racing at a thousand miles an hour, and he felt like he had a hangover even though he hadn’t taken a drink in months. He hoped the headache would fade as the day progressed – there was much to do, and he couldn’t afford to be incapacitated.
The reporter had done a decent job of splicing in the message he had sent. At this stage, it was long on speculation and innuendo and short on fact, which is how he preferred it. The art was in getting the balance right – provide enough to titillate and keep the story topical without tipping his hand and revealing too much.
The idea that he was bringing guilty predators to his brand of justice was the most important point, and that had come across loud and clear in the article. He didn’t want to be lumped in with the Ted Bundys of the world – twisted psychopaths who killed to satisfy some primal bloodlust. Quite the opposite, he didn’t consider himself to be a particularly violent man.
He swallowed a morsel of doughnut and reached for his coffee while he debated his next target.
The killings would get harder from here. The final ones were increasingly high profile. He wanted to save the best for last. Make a statement.
He didn’t think anyone would figure out the connection until it was too late. Only a few people in the world understood what these men had done and how they were intertwined. If he had more time, he could have targeted a dozen more equally deserving, who were also beyond the reach of justice, but he didn’t have that luxury, although he’d certainly daydreamed about it.
There was only so much he could accomplish. It would require all his skill and patience to successfully carry out his plan to fruition.
He was at the halfway point, but already tiring. That wouldn’t do at all.
After standing and stretching for a few moments, he paced over to his kitchen with his now-empty cup and got a can of soda. One of his guilty pleasures; he’d never acquired the taste for diet drinks. Full tilt was the only way he drank them, sugar be damned. And the caffeine would help him stay alert. At this point he needed all the help he could
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