Next, he inserted the tweezers to withdraw a thick bundle of folded paper for visual examination. He put on his glasses, which sat crooked on his face because of the scarring on his mangled left ear. Unfolding the letter, he read.
Thank you, Inspector, for setting this little drama in motion, and with it my resurrection.
Saint Claire bowed his head, regretting he had opened it. Taking a breath, he sat back and continued to read.
I must emphasize the word “resurrection,” Inspector, because I am dead. I died over twelve days ago. I am rotting in a grave as you read this letter. In fact, I contrived my own murder, and because I am the most brilliant serial murder artist of all time, I have also contrived my resurrection. Before this drama is concluded, you are going to raise me from the dead, you are going to proclaim to the world that I am (or was) the best and brightest of my class.
Bundy was prolific, but he wasn’t bright. Gary Ridgway was a cheap, inbred moron. The BTK Strangler was a barbarian, and the Night Stalker was a pervert. Dahmer and all the others were idiotic, petty, little amateurs who didn’t understand what they were, and they are only known to the world because they got caught. They are famous, but they are not the great murder artists. Zodiac came close, but he lacked sophistication and style. I am in my own class because I kill for the sheer intellectual thrill of playing God. This eternal blazon must not be to ears of flesh and blood.
Saint Claire opened the drawer and grabbed a magnifying glass. Placing the page on the table, he examined the script: 12-point Times New Roman, italic, printed in black ink by a laser printer.
When I was alive, I killed at will, right under your noses, and no one came close to finding me, except you. Mine is a problem encountered only by the most exceptional of minds. I have murdered so efficiently that I’ve left no discernable traces, no trail for any of you to follow. I’ve laughed at the best of you as you’ve run around in circles, like fools in a dark room, too insipid to realize the lights were off.
To call myself a mere murder artist would be an understatement. I am a genius at killing, a maestro at murder, and like you, a Renaissance man besides. To murder without art is an abomination, a criminal act. My work by contrast, is divine.
Saint Claire reread the penultimate paragraph, trying to understand the killer’s connection to him. Was this someone he had met or arrested?
And to the point of this letter, Inspector: the fact that I am dead notwithstanding, I am going to commit seven murders over the next thirty days. In other words, I am going to create seven murder crime scenes from right here, where I rot in my grave, and there’s nothing any of you can do to stop me. That alone should confirm that I am the greatest serial murder artist of all time, but being the egocentric and psychotic god that I am, I want my work to be appreciated… and admired.
There, Inspector, is where you fit in. That is, if you’re up to the challenge. You are, without exception, the most brilliant mind I have encountered in all my killing. You, like me, are both smart and lucky. If your luck holds, you have a remote chance of stopping me and saving innocent lives, and I realize that’s a motivator for you. You do want to save lives, don’t you?
Like interdependently placed dominoes, each murder I commit will set off the next murder, from seven to one. If you can stop one murder at any point in the progression, you save that life and prevent the murders that would have followed in turn, and therefore you win. However, if you fail to stop the murders, you will be forced to tell the world and history about me.
Ah, there’s the rub. There’s the artistic device that is present in all my work. In irony, the world greatest murder artists, ipso facto, have always rotted within their pathetic graves unknown. And yet from my grave, I am going to murder people at will, and then I’m going to force legendary detective Deuteronomy Saint Claire to describe for all time just who I was and how very brilliant I am.
If you don’t stop me, Inspector, it is your own lack of luck and intellect that will make me the greatest serial murder artist of all time. And so, absent thee from felicity awhile, Professor, and in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain, to tell my story.
Nullum magnum ingenium sine mixtura dementia fuit.
Happy Birthday, Inspector