I assume I need no introduction; you don’t know my name, but you’ve seen my work and you know what I am—“what” seems like a much more appropriate word than “who” in this instance, as I’m sure you’ll agree. But seeing my work and understanding it are two different things, and that is why I am writing to you. I do not take these actions lightly. I want you to understand them.
First, the proof, so that we are entirely clear: the man in the morgue is named Stephen Applebaum, and you found him behind the Riverwalk Motel. He sustained multiple wounds to the legs, arms, and torso, numbering into the midthirties; I won’t bother with an exact number, as there is likely to be some variance in our counting methods. His stomach contents, as I assume you’ve been informed, will have included two slices of pizza—I was too far away to see the toppings—and a chocolate frosted donut. I assure you that his dietary habits helped make my own meal well-marbled and succulent. To help remove any lingering doubt that I am the one who killed him, I bit off the smallest toe on his left foot, then put his shoe back in place; this detail will not be public knowledge, and will be known only to the medical examiner and, I assume, your team. I am not a poseur, claiming credit for another’s work. I am the one you are seeking.
Now for the explanation. Do not assume from my desire to explain myself that I am on some kind of crusade; I did not kill Applebaum to punish him, and if he was a sinner against some pale set of standards that is none of my concern. I did not kill him because I was righteous, or angry, or vengeant. I did not kill him for something he did or saw or knew. I did not kill him because he needed to die.
I killed Applebaum because I was hungry. I am a predator, and he was my prey. To deny this is to deny the order of nature itself.
You will struggle against me because it is in the nature of prey to do so. The antelope will always run from the lion. I don’t blame you for this or even warn you against it, nor will I waste your time with trite glorification of the thrill of the hunt. You will do your part and I will do mine. All I ask is that you remember this: the only animal safe from a lion is a lion.
Find what the lion fears, and you will have found everything.
“There is no signature,” said Agent Ostler, lowering the letter and looking at us. “It’s written by hand, in what I suspect is a fountain pen. I’ll make a photocopy as soon as this meeting’s over, and overnight the physical letter back to Langley for handwriting and DNA analysis. In the meantime, we need to figure out exactly what the hell this means.”
I stood behind the others, thinking. How did it know my name? Had Forman or Nobody contacted another Withered before they died? Had Meshara really read my mind and discovered my identity? Or were Nathan’s worst fears true?
Was Brooke communicating with the Withered?
“Obviously it’s a warning,” said Diana. “He said it wasn’t, but how stupid does he think we are?”
“Practically every sentence was a threat,” said Nathan.
“I don’t think it’s that simple,” said Trujillo. “What we perceive as a threat, the man who wrote the letter might perceive in a totally different context.”
Nathan snorted. “What possible context could make comparing us to prey not a threat?”
“The very context presented in the letter,” said Trujillo. “A lion doesn’t eat an antelope because he hates it, or because he wants to scare it, or because he feels superior. A lion is superior, because he eats antelope.”
“Lions don’t send letters to the antelope’s friends,” said Ostler. “He wanted us to know something, or he wouldn’t have communicated. This is not just a courtesy call from a helpful serial killer.”
“Don’t worry about what he wanted to tell us,” I said. I was still embarrassed by my poor analysis of the body, so I was determined to analyze the letter as well as I possibly could. “We can figure that out later, when he sends us another letter. First we need—”
“How do you know he’s going to send another one?” asked Nathan. “Or do you have some kind of inside knowledge we don’t?” He turned more fully toward me. “Why was your name on the letter?”
I didn’t flinch away from his stare. “I don’t know.”
“How does he know who you are?” Nathan pressed. “Or does he know you personally?”
“Easy, Nathan,” said Diana.
“If I knew who he was I’d tell you,” I said. “I want to find him just as much as you do.” Almost certainly more, I thought, but I didn’t say it out loud.
“Why wait for a second letter?” asked Ostler. Her authority cut through Nathan’s accusations, and I started speaking again.
“I’m not saying to abandon analysis completely,” I said. “Dr. Gentry didn’t let me finish. First we can look at the clues we have: not what he’s trying to tell us, but what he’s accidentally telling us without intending to. This letter is like a window into his psyche—what does it tell us about him?”