Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 108342 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 542(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108342 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 542(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Most serial killers didn’t wish to be caught. A few boasted in public of their exploits, and even fewer turned themselves in. It was a misconception that most serial killers were like Ted Bundy. Charismatic. Charming. All superficial. One thing many did have in common, besides the majority being biological men, was that they often worked from a level of higher intelligence. This frequently proved to be their undoing.
Once one murder was committed, and a second, then a third, there grew a sense of safety. Of being smarter than everyone else because they’d gotten away with years of offenses, inappropriate behavior and violence. The majority of them were also narcissists, and suffered a variety of mental disorders that were being left untreated. Rarely did they come from completely stable homelives, but there were always exceptions to this rule.
A good number of them struggled with perverse sexual fantasies and God complexes, too. They were sensation seeking human missiles, had severe issues with impulse control, and a complete lack of accountability, remorse or guilt for their crimes. When they demonstrated repentance, more times than not it was a façade, simply to escape a prison or death sentence, or to garner sympathy and somehow sway the masses. They desired full control of public perception, and often manipulated the media up until their dying day. Some were incapable of admitting to their crimes even to their friends and relatives once apprehended, tried and convicted with a mountain of evidence—still trying to convince the world that it was all a set-up, some great lie and injustice done to them.
John Wayne Gacy being a prime example. He’d confessed at one point, but then tried to muddy the pool with lies, even going as far as trying to insinuate there was a mystery man named ‘Jack’ who had drawn the diagram detailing where the bodies were buried in the crawl space of his home. Pure lunacy. But Gacy was a cunning son of a bitch, so much so, he even fooled himself…
She stared at her computer screen, sorting her thoughts. Re-learning what she knew, and piecing together information. It was a tattered jigsaw, but somehow, someway, the pieces fit.
If I could just figure out a motive, it would be easier to find out who was behind all of this. I’m calling the Medical Examiner again tomorrow. None of my calls have been returned.
No, I’ll go in person. There’s got to be something we must’ve missed.
She’d contacted some of the locals the police had interviewed, asking them about any unusual behavior from anyone they knew. Mostly, people were just pointing fingers, saying their strange neighbor who takes late night walks and blasts country music all day was a weirdo who’d do such a thing, or it was their piece-of-shit son-in-law who was probably the culprit. She even spoke to a couple of the people that offered a physical description of Nikolai being the killer.
Their stories were inconsistent, and she managed to discover that one of them had been under the influence of not only alcohol, but PCP at the time of the alleged sighting. Not only that, but their stories also changed frequently. They seemed unsure, and when she showed them five photos of different men, all of them with similar builds, one of them being Nikolai, they each picked out two totally different guys. Neither which was him. She believed this was a step in the right direction, but not everyone was impressed.
Some of the local police didn’t appreciate her assisting on this case—only Captain White had come to her defense. To Porsche, it didn’t matter either way. She was staying. She was going to see this out. She was in too deep now. This wasn’t a time for egotistic arguments, or people throwing their friends under the bus due to some beef on poker night. It was a time for banding together, capturing this maniac as soon as possible before he killed again, and putting a stop to it once and for all.
Clutch your fuckin’ pearls until they choke the shit out of you, bitch…
Nikolai helped Porsche off the rowboat and onto the pier. An old woman with the face of a blanched and mildewed prune glared at them through thick, red-rimmed glasses, sporting a nasty snarl. Her thin gray hair blew in the breeze like cobwebs. He was trapped between wanting to laugh or give her a show. He decided on the latter…
Once he had Porsche on solid ground, he wrapped one arm around her waist, dipping to her sweet-smelling neck, kissing her there, then claiming her juicy lips. The old biddy’s chops parted and her eyes bucked. Muttering something unintelligible, she turned away in disgust and stormed off, looking back a time or two and shaking her finger in his direction.
He handed the boat rental guy a tip, and they headed to his parked truck after a nice afternoon of lunch and boating. As they headed up the ramp, arm in arm, she stopped.