"So that's the problem with serial killers. They're just too predictable."
John was sipping his coffee and acting smug, as usual. He and Carl were sitting in the diner finishing their lunch. Carl was still working on the last of his tuna fish sandwich, John had moved onto his coffee already.
The diner they were at was a real dive. Stereotypical heavy clay dishes, thick wood tables, and brown pleather foam benches. The waitress that looked like she'd been there for years, slightly overweight with too much make up and a cigarette always hanging off of her lip. The cook behind the counter, with grease stains on his undershirt and a small sailor's cap on. Carl was amazed that places like this were actually real.
John had wanted to come here over lunch. He said he'd found the place a few weeks ago and really liked the atmosphere. Real down home people, he'd said. It didn't seem like it was worth the trip to Carl. He ate a few of his potato chips.
"See, they just keep doing the same thing, over and over. A killer is going to go after the same type of victim, use the same weapon, leave the same clues. Over and over. It's really pathetic, actually. I mean, they're obviously a bunch of brain dead loonies. Have to do everything exactly the same or it doesn't count. Ooh, that's scary. Please don't hurt me, Mr. Obsessive-Compulsive!"
John took another sip of coffee.
"And the cops don't even have a challenge with it. Hmm, let's see. We've got another dead prostitute, strangled by an extension cord, with a nail piercing her left nipple. Golly, I wonder how this could have happened. It must not be related at all to the thirteen other cases we saw! What an amazing coincidence!"
John openned his eyes wide in his best surprised face look as he said it, sloshing his coffee as he opened his arms in an exasperated pose. "What were the odds of this happening?"
Carl forced a half-smile and shrugged. He didn't know how John had gotten onto this topic. There weren't any serial killers in the news lately, no one stories about maniacs slashing up victims. Hell, there hadn't even been anything going on anywhere in the country, as far as Carl knew.
"See, that's why I can't respect these people. They're repetitive. No imagination. They come up with one idea that works one time and then don't have the balls to do anything different. They're afraid of change, you see. It'd just be horrible if you had to twist the knife clockwise instead of counter-clockwise, however could you cope? Friggin' retarded jerks.
"Now, what you really want to do is kill 'em all differently. That's how I'd handle things. Shoot one guy one night, stab another the next, strangle a third the next time. Keep the cops guessing. They'd all be standing around scratching there heads thinking everything's unconnected, but I'd know better."
Carl glanced up to see the old woman sitting in the booth behind John staring at them nervously. Carl gave her a small smile and tried to pass off a "pay no attention to him" look, but as soon as the woman saw Carl was watching, she immediately turned back to her food. Great. Now some old woman in some diner thinks I'm in cahoots with a lunatic. Well, at least this isn't any place I'll be coming back to.
The waitress came back and asked if they wanted anything else. Carl refused, saying he was fine and still finishing his sandwich. She offered to bring him a free refill of his Coke.
"No thank you, I'm really fine. I've got a half a glass left, so don't worry about it." Carl held up the half full glass as he spoke, and angled the base towards her. "See? Plenty here."
John slid out of the booth and stood up. "I'll take a piece of pie, please. Cherry if you've got it, Apple otherwise. And I'll be right back, gotta take a leak." He walked off towards the restrooms in the back.
"Sure thing, hon, slice of cherry pie and a refill on that Coke for your friend. Coming right up." She had turned and was already at another table before Carl had a chance to protest.
Carl sat in silence, finishing the last of his sandwich and waiting for John to come back from the bathroom. Hopefully he'd have his pie to eat by then and would quiet down, or at least change the subject. Perhaps he could get John diverted into talking about work or football or something. Anything that normal people talk about during lunch.
The waitress brought over John's pie and a refill of his coffee. She also brought Carl a new Coke, just as he hadn't asked. He shook his head and switched to drinking from the new one anyway. The one he had was starting to get watered down from the ice melting, so he might as well take advantage of the new one.
A door slammed shut behind him. Carl assumed it was the bathroom door and John was returning. He came up from behind Carl, around the table, and started to slide into the booth. Almost immediately, Carl tried to start fresh conversation.
"So how are things in your department? I understand that the Johnson Report is giving you guys some headaches. Anything my guys can help you out with?"
John looked a bit puzzled at the talk about work. They tried not to talk about the office when they would go out to lunch, they knew it tended to digress into a gripe session that left them both more irritated when they had started.
"Yeah, it's a pain," John stammered out, still confused at the quick questions on something new. He got a sly look on his face. "Most of the trouble is with Bill Richards, the VP two guys above me. Everything's gotta be perfect for him. He doesn't like the font, he doesn't like the way the numbers are rounded, he doesn't like the weight of the paper. Total whiner. I'd like to off him."
Carl choked on his Coke. John had managed to steer the topic back to his serial killer rant, and in record time too.
"I'd have to be creative about it, though. Make it look like the Xerox machine tipped over on him or something." John laughed as he spoke. "And, while I'm at it, I can take out the rest of the staff I don't like. That braindead secretary, that clerk in the mailroom, everyone. Bingo. Happy John time."
The old woman behind John had perked up again and was frantically whispering things to her husband. He called for the check, and she shot a cold stare at call. I'm on to you, she was thinking. I know you're not good people. It was obvious to Carl that she thought they were some sort of killing duo. Or that John was a lunatic, at least. He shook his head and sighed. He would definitely have to turn John down if he ever suggested coming to this place again.
"Of course," John continued, oblivious to the woman behind him, "Of course, I'd have to kill them all different ways. It'd be just like one of these nitwits to take out everybody in the office by having the xerox machine fall on them. Like that wouldn't alert the cops immediately. Hmm, let's see. Four people killed in the same office, all on Tuesday afternoons, all crushed by Xerox machines. Whatever could the pattern be?"
Carl shrugged his shoulders in response, even though he knew that John wasn't really asking the question. He waved his hand, signaling the waitress for the check. She indicated she'd be over in a few minutes. Weerily, Carl turned back to John, who continued to rant for another ten minutes. Gesturing wildly, he drank his coffee, ate his pie, and tediously picked apart the flaws in all serial killers. Carl half-heartedly nodded at the appropriate times, wanting to be polite but still trying not to seem interested.
The waitress finally brought the check, which they split evenly. Carl noticed that he had been charged for the second soda, no free refills at that place, apparently. He would have complained to the manager, but he just wanted to get out of there and back to the office, to the sanctity of his office where he could shut the door and block out John's droning. He'd claim he had important files to file, or something, and needed absolutely privacy.
They set down there money, with a large-ish tip for the waitress. John paid most of it, since he was obviously happier with the service than Carl had been. They each grabbed a couple of register mints on the way out.
"Anyway you know what I'm like, I'm a perfectionist. I don't see the point in going only halfway. Do it right or don't do it at all, that's what I always say. If you're going to go on a murderous rampage, make sure you don't get caught." John paused and turned to look behind him as they walked through the parking lot to Carl's car. "So, do you think I spooked 'em enough in there?"
Carl pressed his eyebrows together and gave John a quizzical look. He was grinning, almost chuckling, but not quite. "What do you mean?"
"Oh, you know what I mean. That old bat behind me that was spying on us, the people at the bar who kept turning to look at me. Hell, the waitress even gave me a few funny looks. Do you think I scared 'em enough? It probably made there day. They'll spend years telling their friends, and their kids, and their friends' kids about the day that some loon came into their diner and started bragging about knowing the right way to kill people. I can live with that kinda legacy out here."
John stopped and put his fists on his hips, puffing out his chest and sucking in his gut. "Ultimate Serial Killer Man. Smarter than any other killer around. Sure to kill dozens of people and never be caught." He was using his best radio announcer voice, which still wasn't very good. It forced Carl to chuckle, though.
"Come on, Ultimate-whatever. We've gotta get back to the office."
Carl unlocked the car and they pulled out of the parking lot. There was a little jog down some small winding roads, but then they were back on the main highway, heading back into the city. That definitely wasn't a diner that got much out of town traffic. Carl had no idea how anyone would have been able to find that place without specifically looking for it. And he didn't know why anyone would have tried to look for it. The food was okay, but not spectacular. Of course, Carl had never really cared for diners anyway.
The drove along in silence for a while. Carl found his attention drifting to the billboards littering the highway. Traffic wasn't bad at that time of day, though he had a suspicion that traffic was never bad along this particular road.
John looked uncomfortable, he was sweating and his face was much redder than it should have been for a late autumn day. Apparently something he had at the diner didn't agree with him. He reached over and turned on the air conditioner. Air slowly trickled out of the vents, gradually becoming cool. John turned the fan up to high and cold air blasted out onto them. He redirected both of his vents directly onto his face and loosened his tie. Carl politely, quietly closed both of his vents instead of protesting.
"So John, how do you know that there isn't some serial killer out there doing things better right now? People get killed all the time, maybe there is somebody out there who's smart enough to vary things up enough that he doesn't get caught." Carl glanced over towards John as he spoke, watching for a reaction. He was hoping to get some conversation out of him, maybe take his mind off of the obvious discomfort that he was feeling.
"Oh, there's no one out there like that. We would have heard about it if there were a serial killer around. The cops can't cover up something like that."
"No, John, that's not what I said. I asked, what if there were someone out there doing things the way you suggested? Different motive every time, different victim, different method. The cops would have a hell of a time linking all the crimes together, since they'd still be using the same primitive techniques. They could be looking for similarities between the crimes when they should be looking at differences. A clever killer would never do the same thing twice." Carl's voice rose as he spoke. He never shouted, just sounded more urgent.
"I suppose that's possible, but come on. There's never been anyone that bright and I don't think there will be. I mean, if I ever go bananas, you bet that's what I'd do. But otherwise? Right now? Naah. I bet nobody's ever thought of it. Well, except for me, of course. But that's just gabbing. It's not like I'd actually go put it into practice."
"Oh come on, John. I bet at least one other person has thought of it. Let's just look at what was in the papers for the last three weeks. A prostitute strangled in a back alley last Tuesday. A middle aged couple burned to death in their basement. The young, single man whose head was smashed in. The Black mother killed by gunshot through the heart."
John shifted in his seat, sweating slightly.
"Come on Carl, now you're scaring me. You were the one complaining that I was freaking people out in the diner and now you're spouting off worse than I was. Tjeez, did you memorize the entire obiturary section? Let's talk about something else."
Carl ignored him and continued.
"The rich executive who was decapitated in his corner office. The child hit by a car. The doctor that bled to death when his hand was cut off. The elderly woman that died in her sleep when her nebulizer failed. The list goes on."
John pounced on that last one. "Come on Carl, elderly woman who died in her sleep? And you think that some super smart serial killer did it? What, he snuck in and sabotaged her machine? Get real. People die all the time, randomly, without reason. It's neat and all to talk about some loon killing people all sorts of different ways to keep from getting caught, but it's entirely different to try to say that that's actually happening. I just don't think anyone is that bright."
The car stopped at a traffic light. Carl turned and looked directly at John. "It's possible that one person was behind all of them. Let's see, what else could we blame on this imaginary killer..." Carl trailed off as he turned back to his left. "How about the fifty four year old middle manager that had a heart attack on his way back to the office from a small diner where he had too much coffee? Terribly stressful job he had, his department wasn't meeting its goals. Tragic business. Of course, if the police had actually thought foul play was involved, they might have run a detailed toxicological exam and discovered the traces of poison in his body. The poison that attacks the heart and basically brings about a heart attack. Very difficult to track down that sort of thing. The death is the same, but it's brought about completely differently."
John was sweating profusely and his heart was racing. It was becoming more difficult to breath and he had a pain in his left arm.
"Of course, his best friend who was in the car with him at the time swore up and down that it was bound to happen sooner or later. Maybe he could have gotten him to the hospital in time if they hadn't gone out into the middle of nowhere to some rundown diner."
John was slumped over now, drooling a little. Carl continued, not caring if John could hear him anymore.
"You see, John. Some serial killers already are smart. Some do vary things up enough not to get caught. Some know how to make it look like they're putting sugar into their coffee when they're really spiking their friend's while he's in the bathroom. Some don't like it when they're told how all people like them are incompetent and unimaginative."
Carl looked at John again.
"Oh well, time to get you to the hospital. Got to keep up appearances and all. Hang in there buddy!"
| 10/24/2006 | The Seventh Story of the House |
| 10/21/2006 | The Sixth Story of the House |
| 10/13/2006 | The Fifth Story of the House |
| 10/04/2006 | The Fourth Story of the House |
| 10/03/2006 | The Third Story of the House |
| 10/02/2006 | The Second Story of the House |
| 10/01/2006 | The First Story of the House |
| 10/01/2004 | It's Your Turn |
| 10/02/2003 | The Experiment |
| 10/02/2003 | The Stain |
| 10/02/2003 | The Recorder |
| 10/02/2003 | The Secret Room |
| 10/02/2003 | Why you should always carry tools |
| 10/02/2003 | The Solicitor |
| 10/02/2003 | The Picnic |
| 10/02/2003 | Moving Day |
| 10/02/2003 | The Very Short Life of a Fat Man |
| 10/02/2003 | Life on a Farm |
| 10/02/2003 | The Mooresbury Men |
| 10/02/2003 | A Better Killer |
| 10/02/2003 | Scary Noises |
| 02/01/2003 | The Wind Blows In My Heart... |
| 01/15/2003 | I Am The Goddess |
| 01/15/2003 | Freak |
| 01/12/2003 | They Won't Be Coming Back |
| 01/12/2003 | Bugs |
