I Kill Killers

by S.T. Ashman

When I was eight years old, I stabbed a boy.

on most days, I simply felt nothing—as if my inner world was a merciless desert devoid of even the slightest hint of life. Feeling that warm flicker inside me meant everything. Eventually I realized what it was: It was hope.

If a man as evil as Hitler could unearth the slightest bit of love within the depths of his icy, rotten heart—even if it was for animals—then perhaps, one day, I might be able to do the same.

There was nothing normal about any of this, and he not only knew it, but he loved it. He lived for these moments, craved my fear like a drug.

Ah, the crude savage. Among the myriad of killers, I detested his kind the most, with their raw ferocity and absence of finesse.

His dark eyes met mine, and I saw the evil flicker of a monster in them.

“It’s amusing that most of your kind share the same traits. Not one of you keeps going when I laugh. You need the screaming to feel powerful, don’t you? But the truth is, there’s nothing powerful about you.”

“I know death,” I said in a raw tone. “That haunting stillness that takes over when the last flicker of light leaves the eyes. It’s beautiful and terrifying at the same time.”

Joy. I shook my head. Why would any of this bring anyone joy? Joy is for family birthdays, holding a puppy, or kissing a loved one…not this!

I grappled with both the intricacies of Savant syndrome and the challenging world of alexithymia.

Of course it won’t bring them joy.

But it might give them closure.

placed the plastic bag with my red dress and blond wig under my gold-plated makeup table. I stowed the ballerina shoes away too. I’d dispose of them after the concert.

there was no mistaking the elegant man applauding from the private balcony on the first floor. Luca Domizio. One of my biggest admirers.

I played in Boston—nowhere else—and my concerts were sold out two full years in advance.

To this form of art, I owed my life. My existence. It had liberated me from mental institutions and endless therapy sessions. And every single time I touched those piano keys, even if my only emotion was gratitude, I vowed never to forget.

Tony and Liam belonged to the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI, a department dedicated to profiling and investigating serial criminals like killers, arsonists, and rapists.

“Chief Murray.” “Special Agent Liam Richter from Behavioral Analysis.” Liam introduced himself. “Tony Russo. Also Behavioral Analysis.” Chief Murray looked in Cowboy’s direction. “Cowb—Theo McCourt,” Tony said as Cowboy rose slowly, his face pale. “Violent Gang Task Force.” “McCourt?” Chief Murray asked. “Like the associate deputy director of the FBI?” “Yup. His nephew,”

I’ve never seen a crime scene with this much evidence, yet nothing adds up.”

“Maybe we aren’t standing in the mess left behind by a bunch of cartel brutes,” he said, narrowing his eyes at the corpse. “But a carefully orchestrated crime by a brilliant killer who knew exactly what he was doing.”

And rule number one isn’t don’t shit where you play, it’s never engage in person with a target more than once.

He had never seen a signature like this in real life. None of the people he knew ever signed so artistically.

but research has linked handwriting to cognitive development and information retention.

We sat there in a moment of silence as if we both needed time to admit who had been running the show so far: neither of us.

He had listened to millions of songs before, but never had music reached into his soul like this, tugging at his deepest fears and desires. It was as if she knew them and was laying them bare. It was unreal.

“Few of us will ever master that skill, but for the ones who do, the rewards are truly worth the effort.”

If one of them dies and the other hears the rare word somewhere, that means it was a message from the afterlife.”

“All right then. Our word would be lēros,”

“It’s old Greek and means nonsense.”

A red drop of blood on a white canvas, hiding in plain sight for the whole world to see. A serial killer of serial killers.

Much to my surprise, as I played, the music began to stir something profound within me. The tiniest bit of warmth tingled in my chest when I played. It was almost unnoticeable, yet for me, when this feeling first emerged a few days ago, it was one of the greatest moments of my life. I felt reborn with the hope that one day I might feel deeply and passionately about something.

“You and I are not the same. You kill people. I…I kill killers.”

Pain. I felt pain. I embraced the beautiful feeling, appreciating its intensity. I loved the way it burned, the fact that I could feel it at all.

It appears that Harvey Grand, the man responsible for poisoning Newcastle’s well water, has been released from jail.”

“We are a family of faith,” Mr. Lee, the father of Ami Lee—one of Harris’s victims—had said. “We get no pleasure from hate.” “I hope it was slow and painful,” Mrs. Lee had said. “May God bless whoever granted me this little bit of closure.” Two completely opposite views. Neither wrong…

Abruptly Mr. Grand halted in front of the small army of journalists, leaned over the microphones, and flashed a wide grin that exposed his yellowed teeth. “I want to say to the families of the victims…justice was served. And if any publishers or TV producers are interested in my story, they can contact my lawyer to place their bids.”

“I honestly don’t care about your secrets. I know you would never hurt me. And that’s all I care about.” His words caught me off guard. For once in my life, I was speechless.

The new Beamer I had purchased for him had broken down last night at the side of the road. “Nah. Traffic is awful. I’ll take the subway.”

“It’s your message from beyond.” His low voice churned like gravel. “Lēros.”

"Lēros," it seemed to whisper, a trick of his mind as he neared death. "Lēros, my love."