I Kill Killers

by S.T. Ashman

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

Ok first line starting right in.

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.

He conveniently didn’t address his own looks—or more the lack of them when compared to his pictures. Many of his kind were like this. Manipulative, dishonest, and yet with an air of entitlement, always prepared with an excuse to justify their self-serving actions.

Then my eyes settled on a very familiar five-gallon white-and-blue bucket of Fixx. The cleaning detergent used oxygen instead of chlorine. It was a fairly new cleaning product that erased all traces of hemoglobin, the oxygen-transporting protein in blood that was crucial in forensic tests.

Sure because we need to make it easier for murderers to get away with it.

This was the only time I felt excitement, and I often wondered why. Why did I feel this way before the storm hit?

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

“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 need to collect DNA from you so that the heroin needles will be linked to you. I’ll scatter them throughout your van to portray you as a heroin addict. That’s almost half the cover-up work. It’s a tragedy, but once drugs are involved, law enforcement agencies perceive the victim as less significant and are less diligent in their pursuit of justice.”

“You didn’t bring enough tape. So I had to cut through your lumbar spine intervertebral space, leaving you paralyzed from the waist down.”

Men like you always do as soon as the slightest bit of pain is involved. Kind of ironic. For someone who loves violence, it's striking to see how poorly you handle it when the tables are turned.”

I realized I’d made a mistake. I hated mistakes. They meant sleepless nights tossing and turning, replaying the error in my mind again and again and again.

I hated it when others were late. I hated it even more when I was late.

As always, in the aftermath of a kill, I would end my concert with the intricate melodies of Liszt's La Campanella.

Sounds like a pattern that could put you under suspicion eventually.

Yet playing the piano had saved me. I learned more about emotions through music than I ever did interacting with people or during the countless, dull years I’d spent in therapy. Each set of tones had a corresponding emotion that people felt. Minor notes were associated with sadness, while major tones were linked to lively and colorful moods. Those were emotions I should have felt and couldn’t, but at least now they had a sound. I was like a hacker deciphering a code.

This subtle disruption in the arrangement bothered me deeply, messed with my keen sense of detail and order.

I could stab a murderer without flinching, but the thought of clutter made me physically ill.

Liam knew marriage wasn’t easy, and once the honeymoon phase was over, he had tried to put in the required work to keep it alive. But like many clueless husbands, he didn’t realize how unhappy his wife was until another man stepped in and slapped a Band-Aid on a wound that needed stitches.

Your agents are overworked and underpaid. They’ll move on to another case more quickly if their motivation for seeking justice is taken out of the equation. Not many people are interested in bringing a killer’s killer to justice.”

Psychopaths like myself often found comfort in lust and sexual pleasure, experiencing it intensely.

Humans, by nature, will always seek shortcuts.

Suicide was a complex matter. One could spend a lifetime with someone and never truly know the depths of their depression.

“What if the next obstacle is a crazy pervert? You should let me walk ahead.” “To perpetuate the conventional belief that navigating through uncertain times is a responsibility designated primarily to men?” “No. Because I can punch harder than you. Not to be stereotypical.” “And that’s why you’ll be more useful from behind. Men usually are.”

“Because humans are as complex as they are troubled. For some, violence stimulates the brain’s reward centers or eases the pain of a hidden darkness.”

I chose a program of the world’s most-known masterpieces for today.” Liam grinned. “Thanks for keeping it light for people like me.” “Quite the opposite,” she countered, her face serious. “The easier the technical part of the piece is, the harder it becomes to play.” “Really? Why is that?” “Mistakes are easier to notice. It’s extremely hard for a drop of red blood to hide on a plain white canvas.” She paused. “Few of us will ever master that skill, but for the ones who do, the rewards are truly worth the effort.”

“So you were raised with the moral compass of those who enforce the law, not write it?” He didn’t have to answer this question, but she would most likely shut down if he didn’t. This was his last chance. He needed something. Anything. “He raised me to follow the law and respect it, if that’s what you’re asking.” They passed the backstage area and followed a hallway Liam had never been in before. “So you distinguish right from wrong based on laws and social norms?” “I guess.” Leah stopped and turned to look at him. “But the law is not always right. People are not always right.”

People pretend it’s the lack of humanity that is responsible for the atrocities we’re capable of when, in fact, humanity is the root of it.”

“I guess even mental illness is better when you’re rich.” “This is America, Agent Richter. Everything is better when you’re rich.

They were mere moths flying toward a wildfire, attracted by the light. And in this case, the wildfire was Leah Nachtnebel. Beautiful. Mysterious. Genius. Secretive. 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.