He waited along the shore, ducking back into the foliage whenever he heard voices. He checked his watch. It wouldn’t be long now. The sun was dipping to the west, behind downtown Minneapolis, turning the dark hulking skyscrapers into silhouettes against a blood red sky.
He eyed the narrow opening in the bushes behind him. He clenched his fists open and shut again to stop himself from checking one last time. He knew it was there. Only moments ago, he had ducked through the secret opening into the hide away, checking the package for the third time in a half hour.
An hour ago, he’d climbed down the steep embankment to the banks of the Mississippi and crept into the hidden grove. The car-sized clearing was surrounded by dense brush and invisible to anyone on the banks of the river. Still, he’d waited, holding his breath and listening, making sure nobody had tailed him. Once he knew it was clear, he’d unearthed the geocache. He’d carefully removed the giant flat stone placed over it to retrieve the large plastic bag. Instructions were taped to the inside of the plastic bag, asking finders to leave a comment and their stamp signature.
He smirked. He was going leave his signature, all right. Inside was a metal ammunition box that contained an ink pad and a notepad. He tossed the ink pad on the ground. He wouldn’t be needing it. He scanned and read the most recent messages left on the pad. The last one was left a week ago.
“This one was a bitch to find.” The comment was stamped with a rabbit.
“Almost broke my neck coming down here. Soo cool. Great job.” This one was stamped with the head of a hipster bearded guy.
Taking a small knife, he sliced his palm and then with the other hand, brought out his skull-and-crossbones stamp, dipping it into the blood pooling in his cupped palm. Trying not to leave smudged fingerprints, he stamped the last page of the book with his blood.
The brazenness of it sent a sexual thrill down his spine. The idiot cops would be so excited to see his blood and fingerprints. But they’d soon be disappointed. He’d ground the pads of his fingertips to nothing. There were no recognizable prints. Not that it mattered. He was off the grid. Off the books. They could submit his DNA to the moon and back and not find a match to identify him. The only thing the DNA would do was link him to all the other dead bodies.
And that was the point. It was about time they realized that he was no amateur. He’d been doing this for a long time. He’d been getting away with it for so long that it was beginning to bore him. Time to up the ante.
When they found this body, there’d be no doubt. They’d know he’d struck again and would finally realize how prolific a killer he was. It would be spread in giant letters across the front page of the paper. He stifled his high-pitched giggle at the thought.
He heard more rustling and ducked deeper into his hiding spot. Not the sounds of a squirrel or deer. The shuffling sound through the bushes was a person.
It was time.