If I Were A Serial Killer...

Chapter Four

"When you work hard to do something right, you don't want to forget it."

- Ted Bundy

* * *

I wouldn't make the mistake of being in the crowd to witness the discovery of my work. That would just be stupid. The police would freak out and tell everyone to stay where they were until they could be questioned. I'd be screwed.

Oh, yes, something I left out. DNA. Yeah, that wouldn't be much of a problem. On Google, there were instructions on how to clean up a crime. I would burn up everything possible, and wipe everything else down with acid. I would use tons of soap on the bodies, to take away all my DNA from the soon-to-be-discovered murder victims. I would also clean the interior of the house I had lived in. Soon I wouldn't be living there. I would wait a little while so it wouldn't be suspicious. Then I would move so far away that no government could find me.

You still see holes in my ingenious plan? Perhaps I left them there for a reason. Or perhaps not. Maybe I looked over them. Hopefully they wouldn't be enough to get me caught.

I would go home, and turn on the TV. The unveiling of a new museum would be on the news, and suddenly, a mass of shrieking and howling would rise from the crowd of hundreds as they saw my work. The news crew would pan in on my art, and the anchor woman would be speechless.

Then it would be time to listen to the police channels, where they would be asking if anyone from the area around the museum was missing. Families of the victims would pour in calls to police phones, but only three of the victims were from areas around the museum. The police would then widen their search, and find the rest of the victims' families.

Then there would be a press conference on TV, on every station. The police would have a spokesperson up on the stand, telling everyone that they thought the killing was over, but to exercise caution anyways. I would laugh softly at that. There would be no more killing. I would already have gone down in history books. People would read about me for centuries. I wouldn't be forgotten.

I would still listen closely for any mention of a nickname.

For three days I would patiently wait. Finally, the waiting would pay off. On the fourth day, while flipping through the channels, I saw a talk show discussing a picture of my work. I would frantically turn up the volume, and catch the end of the nickname, but the others on the show would repeat it.

The Puzzle Piece Killer.

Now that I would be able to live with.