White (true)

Late twenties, early thirties (wrong)

Loner (mm… mmm)

Isolated (nope)

Impotent (hey!)

Narcissistic (well okay, I’ll give ’em that)

Low-paying job (nope)

No partner (wrong again)

Quiet (I’m a party animal).

You want to know how they catch serials?

Luck, dumb friggin’ luck. Bundy got stopped for a busted tail-light. I don’t have a damaged vehicle, no sirree. I’ve got cash; and if I ever get stupid, I’ll get a pick-up, a hound dog, and a shitpile of Hank Williams.

Music.

You ever hear of a killer into tunes? Apart from looney ones? I listen to music all the time.

But Time Out.

Not the mag, me. I’m beat. This writing isn’t as easy as the pulpists would lead you to think. I’m learning the craft from Chandler’s letters. All you ever need to know, he not only tells you how but why.

Oh and another reason the dumb fucks keep getting apprehended? Someone drops a dime. The Irish disease, like alcoholism, is ratting out. They invented Guinness but also the fink.

So don’t talk. You don’t talk, there’s nothing to rat out. ‘Loose lips sink ships.’

Gotta get some zzzz’s.

2

Sergeant Brant was in the canteen. Slung over the back of his chair was a Driza-Bone jacket. He was licking the chocolate off a Club Milk; the sounds he made were deliberately loud, exaggerated, and having the desired effect. Cops at nearby tables were aware of him, powerless to shout:

‘For fucksakes!’

Brant was a pig, worked at it. He was heavily built with a black Irish face that wasn’t so much lived in as squatted upon. He was wearing a very expensive suit that whispered: