One profiler he’d worked with had spent days meticulously transcribing audio recordings a killer made of his torture and murder of eleven young women in the back of his van. She filed her report, drove home, did the laundry, made lunches and dinners for the next week so her husband wouldn’t have to worry about feeding their sons, and then ate her handgun in the shower so she’d be easy to clean up. She said so, in the sticky note she left on the closed bathroom door. I’m sorry. I can’t stop reliving it.
Damn
