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(cont)
A smile crosses his face. It’s always flattering to these guys when some armchair detective tracks them down for an autograph or a picture together or to answer some questions for his website. He probably hasn’t had any yet. Godless Jack’s address is on his website. There have been 28 published interviews with the I-80 Roadflare stalker I’ve been told, 17 with the Ice Cream Truck strangler. But not much Kris Kringle material, no. Derisive, stupid, primitive. Gimmicky they think. I feel a little sick being mistaken for a fan of a pathetic son of a bitch like Karl Edward Pratt. A fan. I shudder to think how desperate, depraved and stupid his fans must be.
“No,” I answer, my face grim and stony, “a fellow psychopomp.”
He goes through newspaper clippings in his head. Thinks about Oscar coverage. Then moves on to the local Bundys. It’s clear he is doing this because he examines my profile, the contours of my face, tries to get to the bottom of it. He doesn’t recognize me. Of course he doesn’t. I’m not a celebrity. I’m not a rolemodel. I have no merchandise and my killings can’t be rented at the local Blockbuster, so of course he doesn’t know my face. I relish it.
“Jeremy Jenkins.”
Once more, he searches for the name and struggles idly for my face.
“What’s your handle?”
I huff. “I don’t have one.”
Why does nobody see that I’m up to something more important? No end of annoyance. No fucking end of annoyance. My dissatisfaction registers heavily and he thinks I’m offended for an entirely different reason. Then again, who wouldn’t?
“ Don’t worry, kid. You keep it up and maybe someday…”
“I haven’t been caught.”
He still doesn’t get it. Very slow on the uptake.
“You should do something about that. Try letters. You really oughta read Godless Jack’s books. They done wonders for me.”
I huff once again. “I don’t need advice. The blonde in the park was mine.”
The skinny grey old bag puts out his cigarette. “Look kid, I’m just doin’ my best to get along. I’m trying to get some attention, some coverage. I can’t go round worryin’ who belongs to who. It ain’t my problem if some ‘pomp can’t stack the dusties. My meat’s my meat, your meat’s yours, man. You do your shit and you’re still choked to death, ain’t my problem. When the bait’s nice it’s nice.”
“You’re nothing.”
These are the last words he ever hears. I shoot him. He’s nobody.
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