4

The thing my lawyer, hired by my mother, never realized was that I didn’t get caught by accident. She, always clad in pantyhose that wrinkled around her ankles and a suit that was a size too big, didn’t appreciate my brilliance, and was far too stupid to understand the complexities of my brilliance. She showed me clips of myself on the news, as if this would prompt me to speak to her. I rewarded her with more silence. I would give her nothing.

In truth, I had grown bored even of killing. After twenty seven murders and not getting caught twenty six times, there was hardly an element of surprise. There was hardly an element of success when the police didn’t come knocking down my door. I had killed men and women, young and old, of every color, creed, race, religion. I had been careful not to let a clear method of operation emerge. I had poisoned, stabbed, strangled, and beaten. I had carefully dismembered and burned twenty six bodies beyond recognition, strewn their pieces in all four cardinal directions. I had tightly bound my hair at murder scenes, worn gloves, kept me and them separate so as to keep myself safe.
The twenty seventh time I wore my hair loose and took a gun. I shot a man in the street and left him there. I checked his pulse with my bare hands and let him scratch at my wrists while he still lived. I smiled cruelly and kissed the forehead of his corpse before strutting off down the block to my own house. That night, I accepted an invitation from neighbors and sat on their porch, sipping lemonade. When husband and wife went inside, she commented that I was sweet, if quiet.