law on my trail
by Admin Admin

"I was a strange kid. A born skeptic. I can remember sitting in church as a kid and thinking 'Why this God?' Why not some other religion's God?' I had discovered mythology in the school library and it immediately struck me as odd that people used to believe this stuff. They believed it in the same way my mother believed Jesus was literally the son of God. When we were saying prayers I would substitute 'Zeus' for 'God.' Not because I believed the Greek mythology was real, not because I thought Christianity was worthless. I just wanted to see if it would sound any better that way. I think I was seven when I did that."

I stopped for a second and lit a cigarette. Inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. Smoking, for all its evils, can be a deeply meditative activity.

"Are you a religious man?" I asked.

He stared at me, defiant.

"You don't have to answer." I shrugged, took another drag on the cigarette. "It doesn't matter."

I often find that while I smoke a cigarette I do not think of anything except smoking. It is one of the only things I do that stops the incessant internal chatter.

"Do you find that strange? That a serial killer went to church every Sunday? Had a loving mother and father?"

I didn't wait for an answer. He had already assumed a position of moral superiority and would never answer me. Already martyred in his own mind.

"You think you understand someone like me." I said, pulling the badge off his shirt and pinning it to my own. Smiling. "You've read the books. Ressler. That idiot Keppel. They think they have it figured out."

I thought for a second about blowing smoke in his face but didn't. Instead I turned my face up to the moon and exhaled. Looked back down at him. Duct tape covered his mouth but he could still breathe through his nose. Eyes red with fear, he was unable to hold back the tears. I couldn't blame him. He had good reason to fear. His hands were zip-tied behind his back, his feet tied to his hands, he was kneeling, unable to speak, looking up at a man he believed would enjoy killing him.

"They don't have all the data." I said. "Think about it -- do you really think all serial killers are caught?"

"What percentage do you think are never caught? Maybe, just maybe, a certain type of serial killer has never been caught. This type would have a greater measure of control. Like a gambler who is, almost in spite of his addicted urges, an outstanding poker player. Do you know professional poker players, guys who make millions from the game, often describe themselves as gambling addicts?

I stubbed out the cigarette and placed it into a ziploc bag and then into my pocket.

I caught him asleep in his car. He had been watching me as I first set up my tent. It was the first day of a weekend backpacking trip. I always bring duct tape when I'm hiking.

"Don't get me wrong, I fit a lot of the known patterns. I have to constantly struggle against keeping souvenirs. But I know the game. I'm disciplined."

"The organized type." I sneered, "According to your systems of classification."

I closed my eyes for a moment, pulled a cigarette from my shirt pocket with the precision of a soldier disassembling his weapon in the dark, and stepped closer to him. Then I opened my eyes again.

"I hate and distrust authority figures. Like politicians. And you."

I put my hands on my knees and stared into his judgmental eyes.

"My compulsion is entirely sexual in nature." I said drily, "It arises from an early fear of the female gender."

I stood again and contemplated another cigarette.

"There's more." I said, pulling a lighter from my pocket and placing a cigarette between my lips. "I fit the mold in many, many way. But you will never catch me. Never."

He raised his head and stared directly into my eyes. His were red, bloodshoot, and tear-filled.

"You will fuck up. Sooner or later." He was saying. "You sick fucks can't help yourselves. Then we'll get you."

He knew it was coming but he still looked shocked. I stuck the knife in at the jugular and pulled it cleanly across his throat. He stared at me, desperate, pleading, then looked away, a vain attempt to declare his pride intact before a vacant jury box. And then I pushed him down the mountain. We were only three minutes from Forest Service Road one-ninety-three, but there is no trailhead there, no cliffs for rock climbers to climb, no river to attract kayakers. His body will probably never be found. Certainly not before the scavengers tear it apart.