Serial Killer

by Herschel Cozine

Harry ran the tip of his finger around the rim of the glass on the bar in front of him. He studied the woman across from him. She was perhaps forty-five, give or take a few years. No wedding ring. Plain, in ordinary clothes and minimal jewelry: a small set of earrings and no bracelet. The look on her face was one of loneliness, almost despair. Harry grunted with satisfaction. Perfect.

Her eyes met his and he thought he detected the trace of a smile. Good. He would give it a few more minutes and then approach her. He lifted the glass to his lips and took a sip. Not too much. He had to keep a clear head.

Harry's victims fit a pattern. The newspaper accounts had mentioned this whenever they discussed the serial killings that had terrorized the town for the past six months. Sarah Whittington was the first, back in September. She was followed by Mary Johnson, a forty some year old widow with no children. But Janice Hope was Harry's favorite. Plain, unmarried, living alone except for a cat, she fought like a tiger when he attacked her. That was part of the thrill. The satisfaction, or more precisely the indescribable high was enhanced by the struggle of the victim.

Harry reached into his pocket and closed his hand around the knife. He stroked it fondly, all the while searching the face of his next victim.

At the moment the TV above the bar was discussing another killing in the city, a fiftyish male, found in an alley behind a bar. Harry grunted. Someone else's work. He wouldn't kill another man. That's not his thing. In fact very few serial killers prey on men. He shuddered at the thought.

Turning his attention back to the woman, he watched as she toyed with her drink, her eyes meeting his in fleeting glances. Yes. She was interested. Good.

He picked up his glass, slipped off the stool and slowly made his way to the far end of the bar where she was seated.

Helen watched the man as he approached her. He was definitely headed for her. She had made certain of that by her come hither look, subtle, even unnoticed unless you were looking for it as this man was.

She made herself up to appear older than she really was. She had no desire to appeal to young men. She had no interest in them. No. Leave them for someone else to deal with. She wanted men like the one who was walking toward her.

She smiled inwardly. He was perfect. The right age, obviously lonely, looking for love wherever he could find it. Well, she thought, he won't find it here. He'll find something else, not at all what he was looking for.

She reached into her purse and found the folded knife underneath her handkerchief. Stroking it lovingly, she let her smile broaden as the man slid onto the stool next to her. Her next victim. Funny how the press assumed all serial killers were men.