If used correctly, it’s a powerful tool.
While on the bus, I unfold the newspaper and transfer the dates and times to my book.
A list of names. A list of sins.
Some men keep little black books of their conquests. I keep a list of people and their offenses. Detailing them down to their rotten marrow.
One of these players has been a busy bee.
I arrive home in time for the evening news. I let it play in the background as I tack the map on the wall. I’ve added pictures to coincide with the string, creating a grid formation listing the murders, whereabouts, dates, and times.
Local authorities have not confirmed whether the recent murders of two Rockland men are connected to the elusive Angel of Maine, who remains at large. The FBI task force leading the nationwide manhunt has declined to comment on any potential link to the escaped convict.
However, the crimes do share at least one notable detail: the victims appear to have been targeted based on their criminal histories. Just like the Angel of Maine, Grayson Pierce Sullivan.
At least the media is on the right page. I’m sure the copycat is following the coverage just as closely, as are Nelson and Foster. Notably, these two players both have access to inside knowledge, and criminal records.
They’re also the most obsessed with catchingme.
I stand and stare at the grid. My eyes see the details—the structure of the crude diagram—but my mind sees beyond. I stare at the images and details, not focusing on any one thing. Instead, I let my gaze blur. My mind moves ahead of the basic outline. Three-dimensional in construct, the design lifts off the wall and assembles into lines and patterns. A mental picture of the complete module.
Daydreaming got me beaten regularly as a kid. My mother had no patience for my easily distracted nature as a child. I often spent time in her closet, learning how to pick the door lock. But now I openly allow the trap to manifest and take shape.
London has decided the end game—but there are many moves to be played before we reach game over.
This is the rush. When the pieces align, and every part of the working model snaps together effortlessly. I feel it in my blood. Euphoria.
6
FALLING UNDER
LONDON
When the call comes, I’m in the middle of a therapy session with one of my longtime patients.
“And how does that make you feel about your boss?” I ask Cynthia, then try not to glance at my phone for the time.
“Well…” she begins, her hands already wringing in her lap.
My thoughts wander as soon as she slips into a monotonous account of her female boss and their issues. At least she’s one of my easy patients. Cynthia can drone on for an hour with little input from me.
I thought I could transition into full-time general psychology easily enough, but my patients are always dealing with their “feelings”. So many fucking feelings. Grayson wasn’t wrong when he said I channeled my sickness through my patients, but it’s more than that, why I chose to work with killers.
Psychopaths only imitate emotions.
Listening to patients talk and talk and talk—endless, mindless, self-involved chatter about feelings and their problems—most of them melodramatic—makes me ill. I get home in the evenings and heave. Get sick before I barely cross the threshold, to purge it from my system.
I’m not sure how much longer I can employ the charade.
There has been another murder, presumably by the copycat killer, although certain, vital details of the murder have been omitted, making it difficult to know for sure. And I admit, in the back of my thoughts, there’s a question of whether the kill was Grayson’s…
I fail and look down at my phone, and my heart knocks. A missed call from Agent Nelson with a follow up text:I have information on your sister.
The world implodes.
Nothing will be the same after this. It’s a moment of vibrant awareness.
We get stuck—a swirling vortex of the same thoughts, centered on the same routine. A well-worn track of comfort. We’re bored, but too busy to notice the boredom slowly killing us.
