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Entertainment, Music, Literature, & Culture
3 A.M. Magazine
Erectile Dysfunction
Entertainment, Music, Literature, & Culture
3 A.M. Magazine
Page 10
  Tucker appeared too stout to be strangled. Perhaps if he was hit over the head first. . .No—too risky. Maybe the knives, one in each eye, like that one guy in the Toyota. . .

A headline on the Santa Fe Gazette leapt out from the front page, disrupting his dark plotting.

TRAIL OF BODIES STRETCHES CLOSE TO HOME

He read on:

The recent multiple murder spree to hit a Texas highway hasn't ended at the border. Three more bodies were discovered yesterday, all bludgeoned and pierced through in similar fashion.

The half-page article went on to read that New Mexico police were working with Texas authorities, but there were no leads in the case. Only one person was thought to be behind the deaths and the FBI believed it to be the work of a serial killer. And then further down Jake saw his own name—nickname that is.

. . .The FBI does not believe the Nose Eater—the serial killer that has been stalking motorists along California's Highway 50—to be involved. None of the bodies' noses has been maimed or removed in any way to suggest his presence. In Texas, three of the dead are thought to have been transients, unlike the murders of the motorists along Highway 50. What the FBI does believe is that evidence collected from the scenes so far gives all indication that the killer is African American. They are now searching for a black male. . .

"Did you see the front page?" Tucker asked.

"Huh?" Jake grunted, snapping out of the trance he'd fallen into with the riveting article.

"That story about those killings down in Texas?" Tucker continued. "You know—it scares the shit out of me to think that I was down there about the same time that those people got killed. I mean, I could've been one of them."

"Yeah," Jake said. "You're pretty lucky." Jake knew now that it was destined that Tucker would face an untimely death. Fate had delivered him from the black hands of one serial killer and into the white hands of another.

"I ain't racist or anything," Tucker said. "But if you ask me—it seems like niggers are gettin' pretty crazy nowadays."

And then he hit the replay button on the car stereo.

In his mind, Jake proclaimed that anyone who would listen to the same fucking song over and over again deserved to die. Violently. Jake promised himself before ditching the man's body later, he'd shove that fucking CD down his throat.

Let the feds figure that one out!

 

"LOOKS like we lost him," Agent Bell muttered angrily.

Svenson didn't respond. He remained statue-like beside the recklessly parked Berreta, staring at nothing while his eyes were pointed at the glass doors of the restaurant. He turned around suddenly, sweeping his sight over the parking lot, the unmoving semis, the twenty or so FBI vehicles on the scene, the luminous flashing roadblocks of California Highway Patrol.

Bell said, "Well, at least we know what he looks like. Description's been faxed out to Sacramento P.D., as well as to the Nevada state line."

The weight of the day's events were too much for Svenson to bare any longer. A flood of disappointment crashed down upon him. The knowledge that he had been within the sociopath's striking distance. That he had been mocked and ridiculed through the sociopath's beguiling demeanor. A mockery of his intensive study of serial criminals. A mockery of his intensive training. His first week in the field and he had blown it. Blown it at the precise moment when it would have counted most.

 
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