Serial Read Free

again.
    “Agent Chase. Would you please explain to the remaining men in this room the difference between a psychotic and a psychopath?”
    Without hesitation Emily responded, “A psychotic can actually be considered ‘crazy’ in that they may or may not experience a break with reality. There is usually always a trigger or some sort: family life, work, or society. It differs between these types, but during their kills they might not understand the difference between right or wrong or they might not realize the weight of their actions. These are the types that ‘snap’, the ones who, had they not endured some type of physical or emotional trauma, would have possibly avoided committing their resultant crimes.”
    She paused a beat before finishing her comparison.
    “A psychopath, on the other hand, has no known mental dysfunction. These are your natural born killers, gentlemen; the ones who know what they are doing is wrong, but they do it anyway. They are charming and charismatic. They blend into society and usually climb the ladder of success in both their personal and professional lives. They are, for lack of a better term, evil incarnate. What makes them so difficult to track is their ability to think clearly during their crimes. They are masters of leaving a clean scene, so to say. Nothing there but the remains of whatever atrocity they committed and NOTHING that would link them to the act. It is only when they become manic, or kill out of a driving need rather than a cold fascination, that they make mistakes.”
    The silence in the room emphasized the seriousness of her words.
    It was time to show these men exactly what kind of monster we were hunting.
    “Without any further questions or interruptions, I would like to now introduce you to our perpetrator, known only as the Cascades Killer.”
     

Chapter Two
    Jude
     
    “Have you had a chance to look over the quarterly earnings report?”
    Thomas interrupted my morning coffee with his ridiculously upbeat voice. I looked him up and down, noting his Simpsons tie and his scuff marked shoes. He would need to be written up for both during the next employee evaluations.
    “I have not,” I replied crisply and snapped my newspaper. I dared him to look at the front page, the feature spread about the ‘Cascades Killer’. A little claim to fame perhaps. He didn’t fucking notice, useless skin sack. I said, “Is there anything urgent I need to attend to?”
    “Uh,” he stuttered and pissed me off even more. I hated being pissed off. I hated the weakness it showed. I hated how sniveling it made the other person and I hated the images it brought forth in my mind most of all. Images of spraying arterial blood soaking my clothing…teeth gnashing and flesh tearing under my powerful form…terrified eyes flashing as they realize their life was over.
    So I composed myself, smiled and said, “Ok, I’ll get to it after coffee. Dude, you know you should never interrupt me before my first gallon in the morning.”
    He laughed and backed out of my office, “No problem boss, I’ll remember that next time.” He turned to leave and I imagined an axe sticking out of his back. Fucking quarterly earnings reports, who had time for that shit? That’s what I hired the likes of him for.
    “Hey Tom,” I called after him. He turned back with a question on his face. “Shut the door, will ya? I’m a few cups away from being sane.” I laughed, he laughed and the door was shut.
    I took a sip of my drink and turned back the newspaper. The idea of sanity is one that I have puzzled over for years. I’ve never felt quite all there, but not in a bad way. It’s not like I hear voices or get messages through radio transmissions. I’ve always felt smugly superior somehow. That’s all. As though I have an edge or know something the rest of the world doesn’t. Bringing death seems to do that to a person, focuses the differences and makes your superiority much more apparent.
    My first kill