"Johnny!" Mr. Crowley shouted from the porch, "she sent a kiss back! Come look!" I smiled at him, forcing myself to feign the absent emotional connection. I wanted to be a real boy.
The lack of emotional connection with other people has the odd effect of making you feel separate and alien—as if you were observing the human race from somewhere else, unlUtached and unwelcome. I've felt like that for years, long before I met Dr. Neblin and long before Mr. Crowley sent ridiculous love notes on his cell phone. People scurry around, doing their little jobs and raising their little families and shouting their meaningless emotions to the world, and all the while you just watch from the sidelines, bewildered. This drives some sociopaths to feel superior, as if the whole of humanity were simply animals to be hunted or put down; others feel a hot, jealous rage, desperate to have what they ca'nnot. I simply felt alone, one leaf sitting miles away from a giant, communal pile.
I stacked some kindling carefully at the base of the leaf pile and lit a match in its heart. Flames caught and grew, sucking in air, and a moment later the pile was roaring with heat, the bright fire dancing wickedly above it.
When the fire burned out, what would be left?
That night the killer struck again.
I saw it on TV during breakfast; the first death had attracted a little out-of-town attention purely for its gory nature, but the second—just as gory as the first, and far more public—had caught the eye of a city reporter and his camera crew. They were there, much to the consternation of the Clayton County sheriff, broadcasting distant, blurred images of a disemboweled body all across the state. Someone must have managed to take the picture before the cops covered it up and pushed the bystanders back.
There was no question now. It was a serial killer. My mom came in from the other room, her makeup half done; I looked at her, and she looked back. Neither of us said a word.
"This is Ted Rask coming to you live from Clayton, a normally peaceful town that is today the scene of a truly gruesome murder—the second of this nature in less than a month. This is a Five Live News exclusive report. I'm here with Sheriff Meier. Tell me, Sheriff, what do we know about the victim?"
Sheriff Meier was frowning under his wide, gray mustache, and glanced up testily as the reporter stepped toward him.
Rask was famous for sensationalist melodrama, and from the sheriff's scowl, even I could tell he wasn't pleased about the reporter's presence.
"At this time we do not wish to cause undue distress to the victim's family," said the sheriff, "or needless fear in the people of this county. We appreciate the cooperation of everybody in remaining calm and not spreading rumors or misinformation about this incident."
He had completely dodged the reporter's question. At least he wasn't rolling over for Rask without a fight.
"Do you know yet who the victim is?" asked the reporter.
"He was carrying ID, but we do not wish to release that information at this time, pending notification of the family."
"And the killer," said the reporter, "do you have any leads about who that might be?"
"We have no comment at this time."
"With this incident coming so soon on the heels of the last one, and being so similar in nature, do you think the two might be connected?"
The sheriff closed his eyes briefly, a visual sigh, and paused a moment before speaking. "We do not wish to discuss the nature of this case at this time, to help preserve the integrity of our investigation. As I said before, we appreciate everybody's discretion and calm attitude in not spreading rumors about this incident."
"Thank you, Sheriff," said the reporter, and the camera swung back to the reporter's face. "Again, if you're just joining us, we're in Clayton County, where a killer has just struck, possibly for the second time, leaving a dead body and a terrified town in his wake."
"Stupid Ted Rask," said Mom, stalking to the fridge. "The last thing this town needs is a panic about a mass murderer."
Mass murder and serial killing are completely different things, but I didn't especially want to start an argument about the distinction right then.
"I think the last thing we want are the killings," I said carefully. "Panic about the killings would be next to last."
"In a small town like this, a panic could be just as bad, or worse," she said, pouring a glass of milk. "People get scared and leave, or they stay at home nights with their doors locked, and suddenly businesses start to fail and tensions go even higher."
She took a swig of milk. "All it takes then is one small-minded person to start looking for a scapegoat, and panic turns into chaos-pretty quick."
"We can't show you the body in detail," said Rask on TV, "because it truly is a gruesome, terrible sight, and the police won't let us get close enough, but we do have some details.