"It's not the same thing," I said. "They don't kill because, they want attention, they want attention because they kill. They want people to see what they're doing. Killing is still the roof reason—the basic need the killers are trying to satisfy. And this guy has something else. I don't know what it is, but it's there."
"What about John Wayne Gacy?" asked Neblin. "He killed gay men because he wanted to punish them. That's a reason."
"Very few of the men he killed were actually gay," I said.
"How much about him have you actually read? The gay thing wasn't a reason, it was an excuse—he needed to kill something, and claiming that he was punishing sinners let him feel less guilty about it."
"You're getting a little overexcited, John," said Neblin.
"Maybe we should stop now."
"Serial killers don't have time to kill nosy reporters because they're too busy killing people that fit their victim profile: old men, little kids, blond college students, whatever," I said.
"Why is this one different?"
"John," said Neblin.
I could feel myself getting light-headed, like I was hyperventilating. Dr. Neblin was right; it was time to stop. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. There would be time for this later. Still, I felt a buzz of energy, like the sound of rushing water in my ears. This killer was something different, something new.
The monster behind the wall sniffed gruffly at the air. It smelled blood.
7
I first noticed the drifter by the movie theater downtown. Clayton gets its fair share of drifters—people passing through looking for work, or food, or a bus fare to the next town over—but this one was different. He wasn't panhandling, and he wasn't talking to people.
He was just looking. Watching. Nobody watched people that much, and for that long, except me, and I had serious emotional problems. I decided that anyone who reminded me of myself was worth keeping an eye on—he might be dangerous.
My rules wouldn't let me follow him, or even look for him, but 1 saw him a few more times over the next few days—sitting in the park watching kids slide down the plowed-up snowbanks in the parking lot, or standing by the gas station, smoking, watching people fill up their tanks. It was like he was evaluating us, checking us all against some list in his head. I half expected the police to come pick him up, but he wasn't doing anything illegal. He was just there. Most people—especially If they didn't read criminal profiling books for fun, like I did—would just pass right over him. He had some kind of or range ability to blend in, even in a pretty small place like Clayton County, and most people just didn't notice him.
When the news reported a burglary a few days later, he was the first person I thought of. He was alert, he was analytical, nncl he'd watched our town for long enough to know who was worth following home and robbing. The question was, was he only a burglar, or was he something more? I didn't know how long he'd been in town—if he'd been around for a while, he might well be the Clayton Killer. Rules or no rules, I needed to see what he did next.
It was like standing on the edge of a cliff, trying to convince myself to jump off. I followed my rules for a reason—they helped keep me from doing things I didn't want to do—but this was a special case, right? If he was dangerous, and if breaking this rule helped stop him—and it was really a pretty minor rule, after all—then it was good. It was a good thing to do. I wrestled with myself for a week, and finally rationalized the idea that it was better, in the long run, to break this one rule and follow the drifter. I might even save somebody's life.
The day before Thanksgiving I had no school, and though Ted Rask's body came into the mortuary that morning, Mom refused to let me help, so my day was free. I went downtown and rode around for an hour until I found him, sitting on the bus bench by Allman's hardware store. I went across the street to Friendly Burger and sat in a window booth to watch him.
He was the right size to be the Clayton Killer—not huge, but big, and he looked strong enough to take down a guy like Jeb Jolley. His hair was brown and long, about chin length, and he wore it shaggy. It wasn't such a strange look in Clayton County, especially in the winter—it was freezing cold, and long hair helped keep your ears warm. He'd have done better if he had a hat, but then I suppose drifters can't be choosers.
His breath came out in short, hazy puffs—-not the long, lazy clouds of the other people on the street. That meant he was breathing rapidly, which meant he was nervous. Was he looking for a victim?