The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

He also suspected, though, that he would find out that the victims had nothing in common. Thinking back on the guest lectures in the his Administration of Justice classes, he tried to remember what the officers and detectives had said about serial killers—that it usually turned out that there was some kind of pattern even to the supposedly random ones. It was usually when the profilers were called in that it became obvious—often much too late for subsequent victims.

“Well, this guy seems to have a thing for workout bags . . .” he murmured, also unable to recall the last time he had made it to the gym for more than one day in a row.

The moment he spoke the thought aloud, though, the connection became apparent to him. An instant later, he tried to dismiss it.

For sure that sergeant must have picked up on that.

Playing back the scenes from two of the murders in his mind—the most recent one at the apartment, and the one at the expensive home—John saw the sergeant had recognized it.

It’s like a calling card . . . he’s sending them gym bags with something inside.

John turned off the water and stood there, frowning while he dripped. This was the part that did not quite make sense.

Each of the bags contained something different.

He thought back through them: a snake (probably), a bottle of expensive liquor, a box of (presumably) poisoned brownies, and . . .

Damn.

That was where it kind of fell apart. That one bag, shipped to the woman in the office complex and unopened, had contained nothing but a bunch of papers.

The papers?

John thought about those. There had been several sheets of paper in each of the bags.

What the hell were they?

He had never gotten a good look at any of them. The one set that had actually passed through his hands looked like a college term paper or something.

Some kind of manifesto?

That kind of document was not at all uncommon from being issues by serial killers—particularly among the more severe whack jobs.

So what had it said?

John remembered the expression on the sergeant’s face when he had read it.

No, wait, he told himself, reaching for a towel.

The sergeant’s reaction had been different each time.