Serial Killers
Chapter 5
Chapter 5
Copy cat
“DAMN IT!” Alan shouted, nearly hurling his laptop against the wall. Three photos of different detectives glared back at him from the screen, but he knew for a fact none of them were calling the shots. Three months ago, those same detectives had failed to solve his three murders.
“So unless those morons in suits suddenly changed,” Alan muttered, burying his head in his hands as he sat at his desk, “they’re not the ones running the investigation.”
Abruptly, he stood up so fast that his chair toppled backward. He began pacing, his mind racing.
“Okay, okay… this plan didn’t work. So how else can I draw out the detective?”
He paced only a few steps before freezing mid-thought. His lips curled into a grin.
“Alright. Here’s what I’ll do. I’ll go in as a reporter.”
He sat back down, flipped open his laptop, and began searching for journalists who resembled him.
“Parker T. Harold,” he whispered when a face caught his eye. “Same hair color, same haircut… skinny, young. Yeah, I could pull that off.”
Alan dug deeper, scrolling through Harold’s work. Unfortunately, the resemblance ended there—Harold’s thing was natural disasters, not crime.
Alan leaned back, amused, and thought through the problem. Why would a natural disaster reporter cover a serial killer’s case? His grin widened as the answer formed.
“One reason could be,” he reasoned silently, “that reporters today are desperate to stay relevant. With so many investigating on why the police are digging through medical deaths, it’s only natural someone like Harold would chase the theory of a serial killer.”
Alan grabbed a notebook and pen, ready to sketch out the beginnings of his new persona.
And with every minute he spent crafting his new persona, Alan was building a near-perfect alibi.
Meanwhile, down a back road leading out of Riverdale, a man named Hunterdale Narcissus spotted a girl walking alone on the shoulder.
Without hesitation, he pulled over in his red truck and leaned across the seat.
“Hey, you need a ride?” he called.
His voice was slightly charming. It wasn’t too kind. It was more flat, almost mechanical—because Hunterdale didn’t care. He only said what was necessary to get what he wanted.
“Umm, no thanks,” the girl replied nervously. She didn’t break stride, but her eyes flicked toward him with suspicion.
“Suit yourself,” Hunterdale muttered. He leaned forward as if reaching for something inside the cab. Then, louder, he shouted:
“Oh, and one more thing—”
The girl paused, just long enough to turn her head.
“I’m the Toxin of Riverdale.”
bang!
The gunshot cracked the still air. The bullet hit her square in the chest, dropping her where she stood. Calmly, Hunterdale stepped out of the truck, walked over, and fired once more to finish her. Then, with a practiced hand, he placed a pre-printed note on her body.
It read:
Dear Riverdale Police,
I would be terribly insulted if I didn’t consider just how perfect I am, and how flawlessly I execute my killings. I asked for you to challenge me—but now I see none of you are smart enough. Pathetic.
—The Toxin of Riverdale
Hunterdale slid back into his truck and drove away, his pulse steady, his mind calm. This was what he lived for.
But the moment he arrived home, reality shattered his calm.
“You didn’t take out the trash before you left!” a voice shrieked.
His wife, Gabby, came storming down the stairs clutching a bulging trash bag. She hurled it at his chest, and it thudded to the floor at his feet.
“I can’t trust you to do anything! If I told you to breathe, I’d turn around and you’d suffocate!” she spat, before storming into the kitchen.
Hunterdale stood frozen, pale, the echo of gunshots still in his ears. Slowly, he bent down, picked up the bag, and carried it toward the can outside. His thoughts burned like acid.
I’d love nothing more than to shoot you on some back road. No notes. No theatrics. Just the satisfaction. You and my good-for-nothing boss—both of you! You don’t see how perfect I actually am! You don’t give me any opportunity to prove it either!
He hurled the trash into the can and slammed the lid shut. The bang echoed, loud enough for Gabby to hear.
“What was that?!” she screamed from the kitchen.
Hunterdale froze, then stammered, “I-It… slipped.”
A disgusted sound answered him, followed by silence.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered under his breath.
Moments later, Hunterdale was back in his truck, heading to the local news station with a copy of the note.
“What's this?” the news anchor asked, examining the paper. Mildly annoyed at Hunterdale’s presence.
“I don’t know,” Hunterdale said convincingly, finally nailing his rehearsed line. “Some guy just came up to me and said, ‘Give this to the media.’”
The news anchor looked up at him. “Did you get a good look at this man?”
Hunterdale shook his head. “No, not really.”
The anchor frowned but replied, “I’ll look it over. Thanks… I guess.”
Hunterdale held a smile as long as he could, but the moment the news anchor went inside, he whispered under his breath, “‘Thanks, I guess?’ Who does he think he’s talking to? Just some average person? No—he will regret disrespecting me when I put a bullet in his rib cage.”
Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it. This is chapter 5, so if you are interested in how this story continues, hit subscribe. And all stories are better to talk about with friends so please share the story. thank you again, hope to see you soon.
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