It was fucking ridiculous!!
I, the most infamous living New Yorker, had a fan page of my own on the net. Thousands of 'devout followers' logged in every day to share their thoughts on me. Some called me a Messiah; others said I was 'the coolest guy in New York'. There were even those who wanted to meet me, those who wished to come with me on those nights.
There was also the small matter of over 3000 wedding proposals on the site. I even checked out some of their profiles. Many of them looked nice, but were undeniably disturbed. After all who else would want to hook up with a serial killer?
"What're you looking at?" said a sultry voice from the adjacent room.
Alright, I take that back. Not everyone who hooks up with a serial killer is disturbed. Some can convert that angst into motivation to fight crime, and put people like Malcolm Burns in a coma.
"Nothing much, just surfing the net. You should see this."
The sleepy and bedraggled figure of Monica slinked into the room. Her hair was tousled and her eyes, bloodshot. The bags under her eyes were visible. This case had taken a lot out of her. All those sleepless nights she spent pouring over evidence were really taking their toll.
"Your guy has a considerable fan following. Take a look."
She sleepily browsed through the page, smirking at some of the comments.
"He's a real ladies man."
"Spot on! Some of these girls are pretty hot as well. Take a look at this profile for example. Lana Porter, 29, successful lawyer at the city's top firm, and she's publicly gushing over the butcher."
"Ahh well... New York is a big city. There are loonies of all types. I wouldn't take her seriously."
"Never judge a book by its cover, Monica. Read her first comment."
Still tired, she glanced up to the comment right on top. Reading through it minutely, she gave a weak smile.
"So her dad abandoned his family and ran away with a hooker two decades back. I guess it's understandable why she hates them so much. It says here, she would consider it an honour to defend the butcher in court if he ever got caught. So what's your point?"
"My point is, not everyone out there wants you to catch this guy."
She shook off her sleepiness and sat down in front of me, fixing her piercing gaze on me.
"This case has gone global. The media from six continents are following the story. There are guys in Tokyo who are commenting on various news blogs. No other case in recent history has captured such an audience. I had better catch him."
"Unfortunately for you, he has been silent this past month. So no new leads to work with."
Truth be told, I felt the urge over and over again, gnawing at my insides, telling me to go get a hooker. But with the extra long hours my girlfriend had been pulling at the station, she had converted my place into her base camp since it was just a few blocks away.
Mrs. Freemont was elated. She thought Monica had moved in me.
"So you coming to bed, or are you going to spend the night surfing the net for porn?"
"No, I have some work to catch up on. You go get some sleep."
She leaned over and kissed me. I parted my lips to accommodate her tongue as she sank into it. Her tongue sloshed all over the inside of my mouth for the next few minutes.
She detached her lips and walked back towards the bedroom. The last thing I heard her say was, "At least he's getting laid a lot, judging by his female fan following."
Once again, Monica was right. Every night she came back, frustrated and angry at finding nothing, she took out all that frustration on me leading to rough, animalistic sex including acts I'm pretty sure are illegal in the state of New York. Not that I was complaining, though I was sure that I would be unable to move for a week afterwards.
I needed to point them in a different direction. What better way to do that than write a letter? Zodiac did it, Jack the Ripper did it and now it's time for the butcher to give it a go as well. This letter would put me in exalted company.
So, while Monica went about her day chasing ghosts, I sat down to compose my letter.
The cops and the media probably got hundreds of crank letters every day. Some written by teenage pranksters, delusional nuts and bored guys without a hobby. My letter had to stand out. The best way to do that was to include a detail about a murder which was not known to the public. Something that only the police would know.
I spent the best part of an hour combing through the net and the papers looking for what was not there. I concentrated on the first murder. The police report outlined multiple sloppy stab wounds to the stomach and abdomen. 'Sloppy' was a pretty accurate description. It was one thing fantasizing about a kill, but quite another when it came to actually doing it. The slashes were hesitant and awkward. I accidentally slashed her neck and did the rest while she choked on her own blood. The police had graciously left out the part about her throat being slashed.
So, now that I could get them take to take me seriously, who do I make my scapegoat?
After the incident with Malcolm Burns, I had settled on pinning it on some religious fanatic. This letter would squarely put them in the spotlight. I had to find as many Christian metaphors against immoral women as I could.
"Monica Devereaux, you want to chase ghosts, I'll give you a ghost."
---
"Alright listen up, we have a development in the case."
The entire section turned towards Monica in unison.
"The butcher wrote a letter to us. He made three copies. One was sent to Judy Lynch, one to Stanley Quinn at the Times and one was personally sent to me."
"I am putting the letter on the big screen. Hopefully I will hear something apart from the obvious. By the way, this is the real deal, he knows about the throat slitting in case of hooker number one."
All eyes went to the screen.
Dear Reader,
Take a look around you. How many women do you see on the streets selling their bodies like cheap goods? The sanctity and purity of their bodies have been violated. In turn, they have led good men astray from the path of Jesus, our one true Lord. These seductresses are blights upon our society, ones that I plan to erase. Let me tell you about the first time.
I still get the chills when I remember that black hooker. I was not used to it and she was a feisty one. In the end, I slit her throat and watched as she bled out before inflicting the half a dozen other stab wounds. It was such a rush.
