The Butcher

by Jennifer Hillier

Edward couldn’t do it the way he used to anymore, not unless he drugged them. And that, of course, took all the fun out of it. It was only truly enjoyable when they were conscious of their fear, knowing death was imminent. It was the look in their eyes that turned him on. That look, the moment they understood that they were going to die, was what Edward craved. Did this make him a psychopath? He didn’t think it was that simple. People killed other people for lots of reasons. It was just that psychopath was such a trendy word, something folks liked to bandy around as a way to explain why people did bad things. But Edward knew better. Some folks just liked doing bad things. In his opinion, there was no need to question it. It was why he’d stayed a cop and had never been interested in working for the FBI when they’d come calling after he’d brought Rufus Wedge down. Edward had never had any interest in analyzing the whys . . . because the whys really weren’t that fascinating. Besides, everybody had hobbies. Some people golfed. Some people fished. Some people hunted deer. Edward killed. Because he liked it, goddammit. It was really that fucking simple. And the kills had helped his career. He’d felt great satisfaction in creating the Butcher, and almost as much satisfaction when he accepted his promotion to chief of police.