Nobody seems to have witnessed the actual murder, but those who have seen the body up close report that the scene of death is much more bloody than the previous killing. If it is the same killer, it may be that he is becoming more violent, which could be an ominous sign of things to come."
"I can't believe he's saying this," said Mom, folding her arms angrily. "I'm writing a letter to the station today."
"There is a patch of oil or something similar on the ground near the body," Rask continued, "possibly from a leaky engine in a getaway car. We'll bring you more details as they come in. This is Ted Rask with a Five Live News exclusive report: Death Stalks America's Heartland."
I thought back to the stain I had seen behind the Wash-n-Dry—black and oily, like rancid mud. Was the patch of oil next to the new victim's body the same thing? There were deep '' currents in this story, and I was determined to figure them all out.
"The central question of psychological profiling," I said, staring intently at Max as he ate his lunch, "is not 'what is the killer doing,' but 'what is the killer doing that he doesn't have to do?'"
"Dude," said Max, "I think it's a werewolf."
"It's not a werewolf," I said.
"You saw the news today, the killer has 'the intelligence of a man and the ferocity of a beast.' What else is it going to be?"
"Werewolves aren't even real."
"Tell that to Jeb Jolley and the dead guy on Route 12," said Max, taking another bite and then continuing on with a mouth full of food. "Something tore them up pretty good, and it wasn't some pansy serial killer."
"The legends of werewolves were probably started because of serial killers," I said. "Vampires, too—they're men who hunt and kill other men, and that sounds like a serial killer to me. They didn't have psychology back then, so they just made up some crazy monster to explain it away."
"Where do you get this stuff?"
"Crimelibrary.com," I said, "but I'm trying to make a point here. If you want to get into the mind of a serial killer, you have to ask 'What is he doing that he doesn't have to do?'"
"Why do I want to get into the mind of a serial killer?"
"What?" I asked. "Why would you not—okay, listen, we need to figure out why he does what he does."
"No we don't," said Max, "that's what police are for. We're in high school, and what we need to figure out is what color Marci's bra is."
Why do I spend time with this kid?
"Think of it this way," I said. "Let's say that you are a big fan of ... what are you a fan of?"
"Marci Jensen," he said, "and Halo, and Green Lantern, and—"
"Green Lantern," I said. "Comic books. You're a big fan of comic books, so let's say that a new comic-book author moves into town."
"Cool," said Max.
"Yeah," I said, "and he's working on a brand new comic book, and you want to find out what it is. Would that be cool?"
"I just said it was cool," said Max.
"You'd think about it all the time, and try to guess what he's doing, and compare your theories with other people's theories, and you'd love it."
“Sure.”
"That's what this is like for me," I said. "A new serial killer is like a new author, working on a new project, and he's right here in town under our noses and I'm trying to figure him out."
"You're crazy, man," said Max. "You're really, head-on collision, insane-asylum crazy."
"My therapist actually thinks I'm doing pretty well," I said.
"So whatever," said Max. "What's our big question?"
"What is the killer doing that he doesn't have to do?"
"How do we know what he has to do?"
"All he technically has to do," I said, "assuming a basic goal of killing people, is shoot them. That's the easiest way."
"But he's tearing them up," said Max.
"Then that's our first thing: he approaches them in person and attacks them hand-to-hand." I pulled out a notebook and wrote it down. "That probably means that he wants to see his victims up close."
"Why?"
"I don't know. What else?"
"He attacks them at night, in the dark," said Max. He was getting into it now. "And he grabs them when there's nobody else around."
"That probably falls into the category of something he has to do," I said, "especially if he wants to attack them personally—he doesn't want anybody else to see him."
"Doesn't that count for our list?"
"I guess, but nobody who kills really wants to be seen, so it's not a very unique trait."
"Just put it on the list," said Max, "it doesn't always have to be just your ideas on the list."
"Okay," I said, writing it down, "it's on the list: he doesn't want to be seen; he doesn't want anyone to know who he is."
"Or what he is."
"Or what he is," I said, "whatever. Now let's move on."
"He pulls out his victim's guts," said Max, "and he stacks them in a pile. That's pretty cool. We could call him the Gut Stacker."
"Why would he stack their guts in a pile?" I asked. A girl walked by our table and gave us a weird look, so I lowered my voice. "Maybe he wants to take time with his victims, and enjoy the kill."
"You think he takes out their guts while they're still alive?" asked Max.
"I don't think that's possible," I said. "What I mean is, maybe he wants to enjoy the kill after the fact. There's a famous Ted Bundy quote—"