Page 1 of Serial Killer Games

1

The Serial Killer at Work

There’s been another murder.

“It was a hundred-foot drop,” Kara-from-Accounts says as she presses theDoor Closebutton at the end of the day.

“One fifty, at least,” says Stanley-from-IT. “It’s a fifteen-story building.”

The elevator lurches as it begins its descent, and everyone goes quiet for a moment, contemplating that fairground feeling of falling, falling.

“Have the police done a press release yet? Do they know for certain it’s connected to the others?” Tiffany-from-Project-Management asks. Her commuting sneakers squeak as she rocks back and forth.

“It only happened yesterday. They haven’t said anything yet.”

“It wasn’t a murder,” Stanley-from-IT says. “He threw himself off.”

Tiffany-from-Project-Management gasps. “How do you know?”

“It’s what I wanted to do when I worked there.” Stanley-from-IT guffaws.

Kara-from-Accounts doesn’t laugh. “Nine falls in five years, each at a different office building downtown,” she muses. “There’s someone behind it all.”

Everyone thinks there’s someone behind it all. The existence of the Paper Pusher has been a topic of speculation at every temp job I’ve had. Every downtown office building I’ve worked at in the past five years.

I know a little more than most.

“Maybe it was an HR exercise. A trust fall gone wrong, eh? Eh?” Stanley-from-IT doesn’t get a laugh from Kara-from-Accounts, so he turns to Tiffany-from-Project-Management. He doesn’t get his dues there, either. He frowns. “It’s just an urban legend,” he says irritably. “You don’tactuallybelieve someone’s going around pushing people off rooftops?”

Kara-from-Accounts sniffs.

The elevator doors open on the fourteenth floor to welcome a newcomer dressed in all black, her red lips a surprising pop of color at the end of this boring, dreary day. She slides in like a shadow, bearing her phone like a talisman that will protect her from small talk, and slinks against one wall of the elevator, the collar of her black trench coat flipped up and her face angled down at the screen. I don’t know her name yet, but I make a point of learning names and departments. I’ll figure her out soon enough.

“It’s a serial killer. Iknowit,” says Kara-from-Accounts.

The shadow perks her ears.

Stanley-from-IT sticks his hands in his pockets and gazes up at the grille ceiling, shaking his head with a stupid smirk on his face and sighing indulgently. Stanley is a bit of a bully. “Serial killers don’t push their victims off rooftops. Theystrangle them, or slice them up. They like to watch their victims die.”

Tiffany-from-Project-Management turns green.

“Maybe this serial killer is squeamish,” Kara-from-Accounts persists. “Maybe he doesn’t like to get his hands dirty.”

“He? Who says it’s a he? It could be a she,” Stanley-from-IT says indignantly.

“Are you agreeing with me that this person exists?”

I watch the newcomer from across the elevator. Her eyes gleam, and she presses her lips together like she’s heroically restraining herself from joining in the conversation. And normally I wouldn’t join in, either. Generally, I prefer to watch and listen. I stick to the fringes. But…

“What’s the appeal of serial killers?” I ask, and everyone startles. They’d forgotten I was there. Unremarkable, dull, in my gray coat and gray slacks and gray tie, my everyman haircut and glasses. I melt into the walls wherever I work.

“What?” Stanley-from-IT says.

“Why do people enjoy the topic so much?”

There’s an awkward little pause while they sit with my accusation that they’reenjoyingthis, and the woman in black jumps into the silence.

“Wish fulfillment, obviously.”

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