Page 11 of Spiders in the Grove

“So, about that one direction you think this case is pointing?” he reminds me.

I rest my back against the chair again.

“I believe this killer, this man, wants to be a woman, or absolutely believes he is a woman. I believe he hates men, and kills men—men he resembles in ways that, stereotypically, make him a man—because by killing them, he’s killing that part of himself. Of course, the feeling only lasts for so long before it wears off, like it does with all serial killers, and he has to kill again. There’s also a good chance”—I point my index finger upward—“that the killer was molested and raped by men, maybe just one man, I don’t know, but I think that’s where it all stems from.”

“What about the hair sample and the female DNA found at a crime scene?” Ware asks.

I tilt my head to one side, playing my piano with the skill of Chopin. “How long have you been hunting this killer, Mr. Ware?”

“Ten years.”

“And what is something common in many serial killers, especially after such a long time killing, and not getting caught?”

“They tend to want to get caught.”

“And in the media, when there’s a news report about the possibility that your untitled killer has struck again, what does the media always refer to him as?”

Ware looks now as if a bright light just flipped on inside his head.

“They refer to him as a man,” he answers. “As he.”

“And what is one thing many serial killers crave other than their need to satisfy their urges?”

“Attention. And proper recognition.”

“So, not only is he not being recognized properly because he’s constantly referred to as being a he, but he hasn’t even been given a title, therefore he doesn’t get the attention he seeks. The DNA, the hair sample, it’s all an attempt to make you and the media see him for who he believes he is: a woman.”

Ware feels like a total fool, I can see it in his face, but, he’s newly energized; I can practically hear him talking to himself, how he’s changing all of his plans, making room for the new ones. The guy may admire me at unhealthy levels, but he’s ready to get up right now and leave me sitting here so he can get to work on this new theory he believes will break his case.

Of course, everything I told him is bullshit.

This serial killer is definitely a woman; the stereotypical evidence about all the victims being men, is true. I have nothing concrete to back up my belief, but I don’t need it. Sometimes you just know, you trust it, you feel it in your gut. Although, with this new DNA evidence Ware has given me, it may well be the concrete evidence I need. And it may lead me right to her. Is this what she wanted? Does she want to get caught? By me, of all people? I think she does. I think our uncanny similarities are so much more than coincidence.

I have successfully steered Kenneth Ware in the other direction. For now. But he is an intelligent man, and what makes an intelligent man more dangerous is one who has that driving need to accomplish the thing he wants the most. This elaborate story I came up with will hold him off for a little while, but a man like Ware, I know, cannot be held off indefinitely.

But I have time. And, like Ware, I have a driving need to find this serial killer before he does.

And I will.

Niklas

I rap my knuckles on the door, and wait; there’s not much to look at while I wait, but I look, nonetheless. A small patch of grass, not much bigger than a carpet sample, sits beside the bottom step; it’s such an out-of-place thing, surrounded by dirt and bits of gravel and glass from the driveway. Tons of potholes look like landmines—the whole fucking trailer park is one giant fucking pothole. And I smell shit. Everywhere. I look down and turn my left foot sideways to check the bottom of my boot, then the right, relieved I didn’t step in any on my way up the dirt-and-brick sidewalk. But there are piles of shit spread across the yard—I’m surprised that small patch of grass was left untouched. Cats. They’re everywhere, too; I feel like they’re just waiting for the right moment to ambush me.

I knock on the door again, with more urgency this time.

Jackie, my friend and fuck-buddy—unlike Nora, who I really can’t stand—opens the door, and her face lights up when she sees me.

“Niklas!” She comes toward me, arms out at her sides, and hugs the hell out of me; I pat her awkwardly on the back, not being much the hugging type.

“Come in,” she urges, motioning for me.

I put up my hand. “I like you and all, but if there’s sixty cats in there, or you have some kind of hoarding problem, I’d rather just stand out here.”

She rolls her eyes, grabs my elbow, and drags me into her matchbox trailer, which turns out to be clean, despite the neighborhood.

“The cats aren’t mine,” she says, heading into the kitchen in full-view of the living room. “They’re kinda everybody’s around here, I guess. But they started with the lady in lot three—two cats became sixty; you get the picture.”

“Why do they shit all over the place? I thought cats were supposed to be clean?”

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