Returning to the scene after the fact was one of Richard’s favorite things to do. He was smart and worked his craft well. He knew how police operated, and he wouldn’t allow himself to be caught watching too closely. He’d taken the southbound Red Line back that morning, and now, with an egg-and-cheese muffin—which he would wash down with his third cup of coffee—he watched from the terminal’s second-story window. He peered out at the distant sidewalk where he’d murdered the blonde only a few hours earlier.
Richard snickered at the thought that had entered his mind on so many occasions—he didn’t know any of the women’s names when he killed them. The introductions were made only once he saw the IDs in their wallets. His thoughts took him back to last night, when he’d opened Callie’s purse and pulled out her driver’s license. He’d stared at her long blond hair and green eyes in the photograph. Richard’s heart skipped a beat as he remembered the night he’d killed his wife, Amy, and that was likely the most excited he’d ever been. That rush had fueled the fire for more. He couldn’t quit—and had no intention to.
Sorry our meeting was so brief last night, Callie, but you aren’t just a Jane Doe to me. You were a real person whose life I snuffed out within seconds, and I can call you by name when I reminisce about your demise. We’re connected now, like it or not.
Richard had missed the moment when she was discovered that morning. Since it was a Saturday, he assumed people would sleep in, and he wasn’t expecting Callie to be found so early.
At least I saw the detectives arrive and, a bit later, the ME and forensic boys.
Richard chuckled when he thought of the detective who’d trotted those few blocks to the terminal and stood in line next to him to buy coffee.
What are the odds? You just can’t make up that kind of shit.
When he sucked in a deep breath, his teeth chattered. Another kill was on the horizon, and the excitement was overwhelming. Richard couldn’t help himself—it was in his family, in his genes, and in his blood. He was born to kill, or so he’d been told, and every life he took increased his desire to kill again.
He looked out the window. The detectives had left, and the ME had taken Callie away. Other than the bloodstained sidewalk, which he would photograph once the heat died down, there was nothing that remained at the scene except a few officers milling around. They would soon be gone, too, and Richard would move on.
I’ll hit the Blue Line later and pick a new stop to study, but right now, I need more sleep.