Serial Killer

Ken Cravens cranked his Mustang up to 120. He weaved through the slower traffic like a race car driver he once dreamed of being. Fifty feet back, red and blue lights stayed with him. Sweat poured off Ken. The cops had set a trap. Ken walked right into it. He had stalked this woman for weeks, not knowing she was a decoy. She was the kind he searched for. Ken hid behind her garage. Then sneaked to her back door. As soon as he picked the lock on her kitchen door, alarm bells went off in his head. Something was wrong. Light flooded the room.
Too late, he realized it was a trap. The police were inside waiting for him. His heart failing him, he turned. Jumping the back fence, he hit the alley running. Adrenaline pumped through his veins, giving him speed. They were shooting at him. Their first bullet went wild; the second clipped the arm of his shirt. He didn’t realize the bullet had hit him until he felt his forearm burn, and blood trickling down.

“Stop, police.” They shouted. Ken returned fire, not hitting anything but just hoping to scare them. Two deputies chased him through the neighborhood. Lights in the homes he passed flicked on as he ran. He hid in the bushes and watched three cops run by. They were so close he could have reached out and touched them. He quieted his labored breathing. When they were a block down, he sneaked out. He had left his Mustang two blocks away, parked in an alley behind a vacant house. Hands shaking, he jumped into the driver’s seat. Ken had disabled the dome light. Fingers trembling so he could barely insert the key, he started the engine. Leaving the headlights off, he exited the alley and almost hit a police car. He swung around, hitting a board fence. The police officer in the other car opened fire, spiderwebbing the windshield. The bullet missed him by inches. He shot out of the alley onto the main highway and began the run for his life. He hit the Buckeye Street ramp to the interstate at 80. Ken cranked the Mustang up to a hundred. With tears welling up in his eyes, he glanced behind. At least six police cars lined up behind him. He brought the car up to 120 and left it there. They flew through the night. This was his last run. He would die before he would let them put him in a cage.

He remembered his first kill 20 years ago. He was in high school. Cheryl Mann had been a cheerleader. It was after the last game of the season. Her father had worked late, unable to see the game. He promised to pick her up. She was waiting on the steps of the gym. Ken sneaked up behind her as her father’s car came down the street. He hit her behind the ear with a potato in a sock and then dragged her out of sight back behind the gym. Ken wrapped duct tape over her face, wrists and legs. Waking up, she struggled against the tape. Her eyes wild, she mumbled something, then blacked out and died. She must have had a weak heart. He pushed her dead body against the building. Her father called her several times. Then, taking a flashlight from the car, he searched for her. Ken ran, hiding behind the bleachers on the football field. He still remembered her father’s screams when he found her dead body. “No, no, no. Oh, no, my baby girl. I’m so sorry. Daddy’s so sorry.” The police questioned Ken as they did everybody in Cheryl’s class. They could never make an arrest in Cheryl’s death. It remained unsolved until now.

His second kill was better. He learned from the first. He stalked her until she walked into an alley behind the restaurant where she worked. Making sure there was no one around when he took her. Ken kept her alive for two days before he killed her. He told her at least five times a day he was going to let her go. She didn’t believe him. After doing it so many times, she did. He was keeping her hopes alive. On the second day, he hugged her, telling her. “I’m going to let you go,” Ken said, still hugging her.

“Oh, thank you.” She said, her eyes moist. She relaxed in his arms. “I...” He drove the knife into her side. He kept stabbing her until she was dead. He remembered her eyes still staring at him in death. That was the beginning he couldn’t stop. Ten more followed her in death.

He thought of suicide. Now the police were going to do it for him. A helicopter flew overhead, its spotlight framing the car. Its bright light shone on him. He looked up. Tears came to his eyes. This was the end; he couldn’t escape. He rounded a curve on the interstate. Red and blue lights swam a hundred yards in front of him. This was the end. He pressed the accelerator to the floor. He increased his speed to 125, then 130, and finally 135. The car was at its maximum speed. The police put spike strips down. All other traffic hung back or stopped to see what would happen. Tears dimmed Ken’s eyes. This was the end.

Two little boys, their faces pressed against the window of their parent’s car, stared at him as he flew by. He felt like waving to them. Silently, he mouthed the words Don’t be like me.

To avoid the strip, he took the Mustang onto the grass embankment. The steering wheel spun in his hands. He couldn’t control the car. It was like it had a mind of its own. He flew up the embankment until he went airborne. In the air, the car twisted and turned. Sobbing, Ken held onto the steering wheel. He saw the end of his life. A life filled with regret. The car flew into the concrete bridge abutment. It came apart. The gas tank exploded.

The police picked up the pieces of the Mustang the best they could. The burn marks on the abutment would take time to fade. They took the parts of the car to a salvage yard. Him they took Ken’s body to York’s funeral home. They filed it away, never to be brought up again.