Serial Killers

Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Alan was sitting in his apartment when a hard knock sounded on the door.

He peered through the peephole and saw three police officers. Panic flared; he knew exactly why they’d come. He opened a window, climbed out onto the catwalk, and started down. When his boots hit the pavement, two more officers blocked his path.

“Mr. Gravestone, where are you going?” a voice called.

Alan didn’t answer. He bolted.

“He’s running! Headed east!” one cop barked into his radio.

Alan took every turn he could, but the street tightened around him. Officers cut him off—three in front, two behind.

“Freeze!” they shouted. “Don’t move or we’ll shoot!”

He stopped, hands in the air. They cuffed him and shoved him into the back of a patrol car.

The ride to the station was short. Alan sat in the interview room in the dark for two long hours, fingers drumming on the cold metal. He replayed every step. Where did I go wrong? he thought. Was it Hunterdale? No—I tied that up. It must be Prescott. I should’ve brought Lisa to him, not done it myself. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

The door creaked open. Lisa and Levi entered, composed and unreadable.

Alan forced a look of confusion and fear. “Lisa! What’s happening? Why am I here?”

Levi slammed his palms on the table. “You’re here for the murders of Amelia Hills, Tonya Patterson, Lily Tamery, Anya Orange, Andrew Hubert, and Hunterdale Narcissus.”

Alan laughed—too loud, too quick. “Why would I ever kill anybody? I’m a medical student. I don’t have time for this. I want to help people.”

He turned to Lisa, desperate. “Surely you don’t think I’m a monster, do you?”

Lisa’s face didn’t soften. She watched him as if seeing a stranger wearing an old friend’s skin. Everything about him felt rehearsed—the fear, the pleading—an actor’s performance. She had known him long enough to know the difference.

“Alan,” she said quietly, “the evidence shows you did this.”

Then the room erupted. Levi barked into his radio. Officers returned with bundles of evidence: surveillance of Alan at the café with Anya, footage tying his car to the news station the day he framed himself as a PI, the gun used on Andrew, Hunterdale’s suicide note, the sketch from Albert Prescott’s testimony, recipes for compounds found among Alan’s hidden notes—chemicals designed to mimic heart attacks and organ failure. The note signed “Toxic” from Andrew Hubert’s gun murder matched Alan’s handwriting.

A cold whisper from somewhere in his mind hissed, …but you were perfect…

Something inside Alan snapped. A laugh bubbled up—an unhinged, hungry sound that filled the room. When it faded, he looked at Levi and Lisa with wide, ravenous eyes.

“I plead innocent,” he said, flat.

Levi and Lisa exchanged a look. Alan’s expression shifted into something worse: proud and venomous. “I am innocent,” he continued, “because I did nothing wrong. Killing those worthless people was part of my journey to greatness. My perfect revenge for never being seen.”

Lisa’s voice cut through him. “You monster. Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Those were human lives.”

Alan screamed back, raw. “Where were they when my parents were murdered? Where were they when I was hungry? When I had nothing but that voice— that condescending, cruel voice!?”

He locked eyes with Lisa. “You suffered, too. Where were they for you? When were you abused? We both—” His voice faltered into a venomous whisper. “We both suffered the same things!”

Lisa’s face broke. “There is no trauma that justifies this. We had choices. I chose not to let it destroy me. You chose to become the very thing that destroyed others.”

Alan tried one last plea. “Listen—if you could just—”

“No!” Lisa snapped. She steadied herself, rage and sorrow warring across her features. “I will do everything in my power to make sure you never harm anyone again. You will be locked away. Forever.”

They made him sign a confession and hauled him away. Given how readily Alan cooperated — and how eager he was to take credit — locking him up was shockingly simple.

At trial, the judge pronounced the sentence: “Alan Gravestone, you are sentenced to six consecutive life terms without the possibility of parole.” The gavel fell. The courtroom emptied.

Transferred to maximum security, Alan spent his first nights pacing the concrete like a caged animal, whispering to himself in a thin, relentless litany: “I was right… I was right… I was right…”

Prison officials moved him from cell to cell. He kept trying to kill his cellmates — strangling, stabbing, even setting crude traps — and in the chaos, he managed to kill a few prisoners. Eventually, he landed in a solitary, reinforced cell reserved for the most dangerous inmates.

Alone in that small box, he bored at the concrete with his fingernails, leaving ragged streaks. He whispered into the darkness, patient and terrible.

“I will kill Lisa,” he murmured. “She will die. I will watch her suffer.”

Elsewhere,

The soft hum of fluorescent lights filled the nearly empty precinct. Lisa stood at her desk, quietly packing the last of her things into a cardboard box.

Levi leaned against the doorframe, hands buried in his coat pockets.
“So,” he said softly, “this is the end of this little endeavor.”

Lisa gave a faint, tired smile. “Yeah. I think I’ve had enough of Riverdale.”

Levi stepped closer. “I think the governor’s money was well spent, nevertheless. And I’m honored to have been a part of it.”

She let out a small laugh, “The honor was all mine, Detective Hills.”

Lisa closed the box and looked around the room one last time.
“Do you ever think I might become like Alan? I mean… we had the same hardships growing up.”

Levi thought for a long moment before replying, “No. Like you said yourself, we have a choice in the matter. It takes real strength not to let that kinda crap take you over. And luckily, good people are good at making friends. So you won’t be alone in it.”

Lisa nodded, wanting to say something, but no words came.

They walked together toward the exit. As they reached the door, Lisa turned back, taking one final look at the bullpen — the evidence boards, the clutter, the ghosts of everything that had just happened.

“Goodbye, Riverdale,” she whispered.

Levi opened the door for her, and the morning light spilled into the hallway — warm and golden.

Outside, the sun was rising, welcoming Lisa to whatever came next.

The End.

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