"Thank you," she said, nodding.
"But he did kill two this time," said Brad. He and I used to be friends, when we were little, but it had been years since we'd done anything together. "How can they say his methods haven't changed?"
Ms. Parker thought for a moment about what to say, but stared back blankly. After a moment she turned to me. I was the expert.
"The point they're trying to make," I said, "is that the killer still has himself under control. If he were killing a different type of victim, or if he were killing more viciously, or more frequently, it would mean that something has changed." All eyes were on me, and for once they weren't scowling or sneering— they were listening. I liked it. "See, serial killers don't attack randomly, they have specific needs and mental problems that shape everything they do. For whatever reason, this guy needs to kill adult males, and that need builds up and up until he can't control it, and he lets loose. That process takes about a month, in his case, which is why we've had one victim per month." It was all lies—he was killing more frequently, and he wasn't a regular serial killer, and his need was physical instead of mental—but it was what the police were thinking, and it was what the class wanted to hear, "The good news is, this means he won't kill anyone in this room." Until he gets desperate and you happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
"But there were two victims," said Brad again. "That's twice as many people this time—that seems like a pretty big difference to me."
"He didn't kill two people because he's getting worse," I said, "he killed two because he was stupid." I didn't want to stop talking—I was still too delighted that people were actually listening. I was talking about what I loved, and nobody shut me up, or said I was a freak; they wanted to hear it. It was a rush of power. "You've seen the way he just leaves his bodies there for anyone to find—he probably just jumps them at random, grabbing the first guy to pass by, killing him, and running off. This time that guy happened to be a cop, and cops have partners, and he realized too late that he couldn't kill one without killing them both, if he wanted to get away with it."
"Shut up!" yelled Marci, standing up. "Shut up, shut up, shut up!" She threw a book at me, but it went wide and clattered against the wall. Ms. Parker leapt up to stop her.
"Everybody calm down," said Ms. Parker. "Marci, come with me—get her bag, Rachel. That's right, let's go." She put her arms around Marci, and led her carefully to the door. "The rest of you stay here, and stay quiet. I'll be back as soon as I can." They left the room and we sat there for several minutes, first in silence, then in low murmurs of private conversation.
Someone kicked my chair and told me to stop being a jerk, but Brad leaned close to ask me question.
"Do you really think his methods are staying the same?" asked Brad.
"Of course not," I said. With Ms. Parker gone I could get a little more vivid in my discussion. "He used to kill one defenseless person in each attack, and this time he killed two armed policemen. That's escalation, whether they want to tell us it is or not,"
"Crap, man," he said. The guys around him shook their heads.
"This happens all the time with serial killers," I said. "Whatever his need is, one kill a month isn't satisfying it anymore. It's like an addiction—after a while, one cigarette isn't enough, so you need two, then three, then a whole pack, or whatever. He's losing control, and he's going to start killing a lot more often."
"No he's not," said Brad, leaning in further. "They found these bodies in a car, which means they can find this bastard by tracking his plates. And then I'm going to go to his house and kill him myself." The other guys nodded grimly. The witch hunt had begun.
Brad wasn't the only one who wanted revenge. The cops didn't release the name of the car's owner, but a neighbor recognized it on the six o' clock news and by the ten o'clock news, there was a mob outside the guy's house, throwing rocks and shouting for blood. Carrie Walsh was still stuck with this story, and the camera showed her crouched next to the news van while a crowd behind her shouted angry slogans at the house.
"This is Carrie Walsh with Five Live News, coming to you live from Clayton County, where tempers, as you can see, are flaring dangerously."
I recognized Max's dad in the mob, shouting and shaking his fist. He still wore his hair very short, infantry style, from his time in Iraq, and his face was red with anger.