Grayson

Every killer has a signature. Even a copycat trying to emulate another murderer leaves behind a telltale calling card. Like a fingerprint, his signature makes the crime distinctly his.

Unlike a killer’s motive, the method to conduct the kill, the signature is deeply imprinted on his psyche. It’s a fixation that was already developed before he ever took his first life. And just like a compulsion, the killer wouldn’t be able to deny his carnal desire to commit this action.

He’s driven to do it.

My signature is pretty simple in design: torture. London uncovered this easily enough, citing I achieved gratification from staging scenes where my victims ultimately suffered.

Not everything I do has to be an elaborate design. For me, essentially, the simplest things are the most beautiful.

But this one aspect gives us very sharp insight into the copycat killer.

If we look closely, we might even see where the lines overlap and where they don’t, creating a new pattern: his signature.

Today’s newspaper has an interesting cover feature: Officials Confirm Two Homicides Linked to Same Perpetrator.

A second murder victim was discovered in another park in Rockland. Same MO—throat slashed; body dump—but the press isn’t giving away any further details. There’s no mention of whether or not there was a word written in blood across the victim’s chest.

I need this information.

It’s only been a week since Larry was discovered and Agent Nelson and Detective Foster raced each other to the crime scene. Seven days between victims.

I wonder what London thinks. How she’s evaluating our little imitator’s escalation. Is he angered over the lack of news coverage; the refusal from authorities to announce my presence in Maine?

I’m so curious over her thoughts that I’m looking for clues in the papers. Online. News broadcasts. Only the Feds are keeping London safely tucked away. No statements from the good doctor.

Ultimately, what this proves is that the copycat has inside knowledge. The DNA discovery was never revealed to the public. I can’t be sure, but I believe a purest—as the copycat has proven to be so far—wouldn’t act on theory alone. Especially a hyped one from the media.

Our copycat has access to the crime scenes.

Nelson arrived in Rockland first, staking the FBI’s claim on the scene, despite the local police objecting and pissing all over their territory.

Foster followed closely behind, always coming up in the rear. He has no official authority in Rockland, but he’s not working on the clock—he’s feeding his obsession. He’s been chasing me since the New Castle murders, and he’s not about to let some FBI hot-shot swoop in and steal his glory.

We can’t get too close to either of these characters; they’re too aware, too volatile. So we need a third party perspective. A way inside the crime scenes without physically entering them ourselves.

I look up from the paper, marking our objective right on time.

Forensic technician Michael Lawson works for the Rockland Police CSU Department. He’s twenty-five, just had a baby with his wife of a few months, and buried beneath a mortgage his salary can’t really afford. He’s perfectly preoccupied with life.

An ideal candidate.

What do you fear?

It’s the question I ask of all my victims. It’s my first move on the chessboard—our first interaction. The answer is the precursor to the design. The exchange doesn’t need to happen in person. We give our answers away freely. One only needs to pay attention.

We can break anyone down to their most basic attributes by simply uncovering their fears. Every choice we make or will make is rooted in what frightens us. Those fears direct our course.

Take our target, for instance. Let’s break him down.

Right now he’s seated on a bench. The afternoon sun to his back as he thumbs through his phone. He’s not really interested in what he’s looking at; he’s avoiding staring at the woman in the elegant suit standing two feet before him.

She’s beautiful. Shiny blond hair rolls over her shoulders in bouncy waves. Her gray pencil skirt hugs her curves; not too revealing, but leaving little to the imagination. She’s classy, and sensual.

The other pedestrians standing around the bus stop notice her, too. One man has no qualms in ogling her outright.

Lawson lifts the bill of his ball cap just enough to get a glimpse of the woman. Then he returns his gaze to his phone. This is the second time he’s checked her out since his arrival.

Because humans are governed by fear, we are exposed.

The ogling, confident man approaches her from the side. There’s a brief exchange between them. She tilts her head, her expression apologetic, then he nods before returning to his original post.

We don’t have to be behavioral specialists to understand what occurred.

In the background, our target has followed along as we have. His conduct has shifted slightly. He thumbs his phone more emphatically. Touches his forehead repeatedly. His leg bounces with a nervous, jittery tic. The alpha male was rejected, so what hope does he have in winning her affections?

Rejection: it’s one of our fundamental fears.

According to the late Dr. Albrecht, this fear falls under the basic fear hierarchy of ego-death. Fear of humiliation and the collapse of one’s worthiness. I learned this from London.

Lawson fears this failure so deeply that it’s triggered a physical response within him. He’s becoming agitated, angry. And what is anger but the natural reaction to fear? It’s our mind processing the information so we can make decisions.

It’s that simple.

What’s more, how do we use his fear to manipulate the outcome we want?

I mark the date and time on my newspaper as the bus pulls to a stop. Lawson is carried away to his evening destination, and I follow.

The bus ride doesn’t take long before we’re in the heart of the port district. I continue to follow Lawson as he exits the bus and heads in the opposite direction of his home.

I round a corner, and that’s when it happens.

A man in a business suit recognizes me.

It’s a slow realization at first. He glances up from his phone, then back down, and then his eyes snap to my face and widen in recognition. It’s unmistakable, that moment when all the senses heighten, adrenaline rushing.

There’s no sense in trying to run or hide, or to deny who I am. My only option is to discover his next move.

His mouth twitches, a natural, nervous reaction, as he says, “Good job.” He gives me a thumbs-up.

I tilt my head as I gauge his body language, his facial expression. He’s not a threat.

He won’t call the police. This man believes I’m a vigilante. The Angel of Maine. A hero. Taking out the trash.

I’ve read all the articles online and in the paper. Reporters citing citizens that claim I’m doing what the police fail to do.

Let’s clarify something: I’m not a fucking hero.

My victim selection is not based on any obligation to rid the world of filth. My victim selection is purely self-serving—an intelligent formula devised not to arouse suspicion.

Over the years, serial killers targeted prostitutes not because of their contempt for women—though some did suffer this defect—but mostly, because prostitutes wouldn’t be missed.

Of course, the police have wised up to this method, and so picking off hookers is no longer a viable option.

As such, my victims are scum. Sex offenders and the dregs of society loathed with such vitriol that authorities won’t waste resources to investigate their murders.

It doesn’t make me a good person. It just makes me smarter than the rest.

But, whatever helps people sleep at night. Trusting the big bad boogie man is out here hunting the evil of the world. Truthfully, I only see it as another means of cover. One more way to hide and secure my objective.

I give the man a curt nod before I pass him, saying none of this.

The interruption costs me nearly a minute before I can recover Lawson. I catch up to him as he’s heading farther into the port district. I tail him to the same bar he’s gone to for the past two nights. It’s his pattern, his routine—to unwind from his hectic day with two beers and then go home to his family.

I don’t go inside. Instead, I take up the corner of the building, jotting down the time on my paper, then start toward Portland.

For a year, I fantasized about how London and I would work in tandem. Partners. Accomplices. Lovers. There are obstacles, there always are, but her incredible talents have given us a way to overcome them, turn them into opportunities.

A carefully staged chessboard, where all players are pieces. Even London is purposely positioned to be moved on our board—she’s my favorite piece.

We need a pawn.

Building a trap is like courting a lover. It doesn’t have to be all hard frames and mechanics. You have to finesse the design. Nurture it into animation. Romance it with delicate strokes, and graceful strategy. Dance with your lover and she’ll fuck you good and hard.

Because that’s always the outcome we want.

Before London, I was too forceful. I was a brute. All physical strength and conceit in my knowledge, trapping my victims by coercing them to make a choice.

Choice.

A key element.

London’s time in the cage taught me a lot. People are willing to take the blame; they’re susceptible to their guilt. The human mind is a web of shame just waiting to be exploited.

Manipulation.

If used correctly, it’s a powerful tool.

While on the bus, I unfold the newspaper and transfer the dates and times to my book.

A list of names. A list of sins.

Some men keep little black books of their conquests. I keep a list of people and their offenses. Detailing them down to their rotten marrow.

One of these players has been a busy bee.

I arrive home in time for the evening news. I let it play in the background as I tack the map on the wall. I’ve added pictures to coincide with the string, creating a grid formation listing the murders, whereabouts, dates, and times.

Local authorities have not confirmed the theory that the recent, horrific murders of two Rockland men are linked to the elusive Angel of Maine, who is still at large. The FBI taskforce conducting the nationwide manhunt have made no statements connecting the crimes to the escaped convict, despite having at least one commonality: The perpetrator appears to be targeting victims based on their criminal records. Just like the Angel of Maine, Grayson Pierce Sullivan.

At least the media is on the right page. I’m sure the copycat is following the coverage just as closely, as are Nelson and Foster. Notably, these two players both have access to inside knowledge, and criminal records.

They’re also the most obsessed with catching me.

I stand and stare at the grid. My eyes see the details—the structure of the crude diagram—but my mind sees beyond. I stare at the images and details, not focusing on any one thing. Instead, I let my gaze blur. My mind moves ahead of the basic outline. Three-dimensional in construct, the design lifts off the wall and assembles into lines and patterns. A mental picture of the complete module.

Daydreaming got me beaten regularly as a kid. My mother had no patience for my easily distracted nature as a child. I often spent time in her closet, learning how to pick the door lock. But now I openly allow the trap to manifest and take shape.

London has decided the end game—but there are many moves to be played before we reach game over.

This is the rush. When the pieces align, and every part of the working model snaps together effortlessly. I feel it in my blood. Euphoria.