Page 4 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

He scoffs. “New York’s big.”

“But you’ve been to Chase’s countless times. You testified you picked up sandwiches from Tony’s Bodega on Rivington?”

“Two roast beef on rye. We always have one before every game. For luck.”

“Of course. Looking at your bank transactions, you shop frequently in the area,” I gesture to the map on the easel. “Funny how all your routes intersect with the one building you claim you’ve never seen.”

“I don’t memorize every block.”

“No,” I agree, “just the ones you’re hunting.”

He clears his throat and swallows.

“You walked to Chase’s from the bodega. Walk me through the route.”

He rattles off a scenic detour. I mark it in red tape—clear for all to see.

“Interesting. Adds ten minutes and avoids her building in an almost exaggerated way.”

“I like the quiet.”

“Have you ever driven it?”

“Plenty.”

“Take me through that route.”

He does. I sketch it too, showing him going the wrong way on two one-way streets.

“Gotten any citations for driving the wrong way… countless times?”

“I know how I get there. I don’t need you to tell me.”

“Oh, certainly not.” I cross my arms. “But I have a theory.”

He stares at me, jaw tight.

“Mariela reported someone ringing her apartment around eleven to return her missing license. Soon after, she was attacked. I wondered—why buzz her first?”

“Objection. Why is this relevant?” Gannon’s lawyer adds an eyeball for good measure.

“I have a point. I promise.”

“Then make it, Miss Hartwell.” the judge says.

I continue, calm and deadly. “Mariela dropped her purse at that bodega the night she was attacked. Someone helped her pick up the contents. I think you took her license and a piece of mail.

You left Chase’s, rang her bell to see which light turned on. Then used the fire escape. Beat her. Gagged her. Raped her. Then snuck back into Chase’s and went to sleep. Alibi secured.”

His face is locked, jaw twitching.

“You don’t piddle where you sleep, Mr. Gannon. But Chase’s place? That’s your hunting ground.”

I flip to a second map. Jurors shuffle. Someone gasps at the red X’s that litter the page.

“Eight more women. Same injuries. Same pattern. All in a radius around Chase’s.”

“Objection! My client is not on trial for?—”

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