He spent a long time with those, especially the videos.
And that was where he found the link to The Book. The Dummies’ Guide to Serial Killing. At first, he was angry. It was like the writer was making fun of him. Dummies’ Guide. But that was just camouflage. The Book explained it. Serial killers need to wear camouflage — not really, he understood once he’d read a bit more. Serial killers had to hide in the crowd, make themselves the same as the crowd. That was what camouflage meant. It was a pity because the clothes were cool and had been quite expensive, but he trusted The Book now.
The Book told him who he was and what he had to do.
And now it was almost time...
He needed to finish his checklist. Practice.
A few stray cats, his oath — he knew he wasn’t going to flinch.
Practice. Tick.
Choosing the right name.
The Dummies’ Guide to Serial Killing was very clear about the importance of a good name:
A successful serial killer will select a name with the same care he works out his modus operandi. (Modus operandi means the way you work. He’d looked it up.)
The name must be memorable. If you don’t get this right, the reporters might name you themselves (and remember: all successful serial killers get on the news) or even worse, they may not name you at all.
Tip: you can make a name memorable by choosing certain features. A name can:
Rhyme: everyone remembers Hannibal the Cannibal.
Alliterate: Darkly Dreaming Dexter and Buffalo Bill are hard to forget.
Inform: The Collector, Jack the Ripper. These names make it clear exactly what this serial killer does.
Describe: Bluebeard. These names describe a physical attribute of the killer and create fear.
Without a name, a serial killer is just another murderer.
He’d never heard of Bluebeard. It sounded a bit sad to him, but when he looked it up, he saw that Bluebeard was one of the best. Ever. Still, these days you couldn’t go round with your beard dyed blue. He didn’t even have a beard, for that matter.
He liked The Collector, but his modus operandi couldn’t involve collecting. His flat was too small. A physical attribute? He looked at himself in the mirror. He didn’t really have any, or not any good ones. Maybe he should have got a tattoo — a discrete one of course. Only a stupid serial killer would get tattooed on the face, though he kind of liked the thought.
She would look at him, and he’d draw his scarf back and she’d see the tattoo and know who he was. She’d scream then, but of course, it would be too late...
What about The Slayer...
Or The Gutter...
Great. He had almost named himself after a bit of roof. He hit the table with his fist in frustration. If he wasn’t careful, he’d end up making a fool of himself. Tonight was the night and he didn’t have a name. He’d got the weapon, he’d done the practice but he still didn’t know what he was going to call himself!
Choosing a name... He couldn’t tick that box yet.
OK. Moving on.
Choosing your first victim.
The Dummies’ Guide to Serial Killing said:
Great care must be taken over victim selection, especially your first victim. You will make most of your mistakes with her.
Tip: don’t choose someone you know well. Remember that’s how they caught Buffalo Bill!
He was right on top of this. Or — he wished he’d get a chance to say this out loud, or at least say it on the right forum — she was right on top of him. He’d done his research. It was serendipity (another word The Book had taught him). She’d moved into the upstairs flat a couple of weeks ago, but he didn’t know her. They’d never spoken.
She went out each morning, presumably to work, and each evening, she came running down the stairs in those tiny shorts that showed off all her legs, and her... things... joggling about under her T-shirt.
Dumb cow.
And when she came home from her run, about an hour later — he knew because he spent a lot of time watching her — she didn’t come back through the front gate where the road was and all the people going past. No, she came through the back gate that led into the small yard and went into the flats through the basement entrance.
The basement entrance was dark and hidden. No one else used it.
In the basement, there was just a storage cupboard for each flat and steps that ran up into the main building. If the door at the top of the steps was locked, then anyone who went into the basement was trapped.
Like a fly, in the web he had created.
Choosing your first victim. Tick.
He looked at his watch. Twenty minutes to go. It was time for the cat. First the cat, and then the dumb cow. That was his way. The cat was still watching him from the windowsill. He picked up his knife and reached over the pile of comics on top of the shelf to grab it by the scruff.
The cat arched and spat. Its paw moved fast and a sharp pain stabbed into the back of his hand. The knife dropped to the floor with a clatter. There was a hiss, and the cat was on top of the wardrobe.
He sucked the blood off his hand, angry now. The cat was going to learn a hard lesson. It had hurt him, and you didn’t get away with that. You didn’t hurt.
Of course. The Cat. That was it. That was his name. That was his signature — the dumb cow and the cat, together. His check list was complete.
Choosing a name. Tick.
Oh, he was going to have fun now. He pulled the chair across the room and stood on it, reaching towards the animal who backed away, still hissing, almost like it knew. He grabbed at it again but it twisted away, bit him and leapt over his shoulder onto the floor. The chair teetered and he jumped off, making the room shake. The bedroom door sprung open and the cat fled. He swore, sucking the blood from his hand where the cat had bitten him.
The cat was going to spoil it all.
But then he realised it didn’t matter. It couldn’t escape from the flat. It would be hiding, but he’d find it. He could do it later.
Afterwards.
Now it was time to get ready. He shook out the dark blue coverall and pulled it on, standing in front of the mirror to check the effect. In his pocket he had his knife and what The Book called the serial killer’s best friend, a roll of duct tape.
Modus operandi.
He knew exactly what he was going to do. She’d come through the back gate, go to the basement entrance. The basement light would be on — she wouldn’t go in if there was no light — but it would be dim because he’d changed the bulb. She wouldn’t see him standing in the shadows by the door. She’d go up the steps leading into the flats, turn the handle of the door at the top.
Which would be locked.
Should he come up the stairs behind her? Even say, ‘Good evening’?
Or should he be waiting for her at the bottom?
The Dummies’ Guide to Serial Killing said: plan well but be flexible. Always be prepared for the unexpected and adapt your plans accordingly. Tip: measure twice, cut once!
And then — he could take his time. Thanks to the duct tape, he could take all the time he wanted.
He stared out of the window, thinking about it, then he shook himself back into the here and now. Don’t waste time dreaming. It’s going to happen. It’s going to be real.
Soon, he told himself.
Soon.
And afterwards he would leave her there. They’d find her quickly enough. He’d go back to his flat and grab the cat — he’d have to do it fast, but it wouldn’t matter, not after what he’d just done.