Page 183 of Shhh…It’s A Killer Story

Every one of them had crossed my path because, at first glance, they had looked interesting.

Looking interesting wasn't enough. I opened the first file again.

Harold Benson.

Long-distance truck driver. His delivery routes crossed three separate disappearance locations almost perfectly. His work logs placed him within twenty kilometres of victims who vanished years apart.

Convenient.

Very convenient.

I spent almost an hour following his movements through fuel receipts, roadside cameras, motel bookings, and electronic toll records. By the time I reached the final page, I was disappointed.

He wasn't transporting women. He was transporting loneliness. The poor fool spent his "missing" hours sitting beside mountain lakes eating meat pies because he couldn't bear going home to a wife who had stopped loving him years earlier.

Sad but not evil.

I drew one thick black line across his name.

Not you.

The second folder belonged to Anthony Wells, a private surveyor who knew every forgotten logging road in three counties. He had access. He had an opportunity. He even owned equipment capable of moving bodies without leaving obvious tyre impressions. Unfortunately, he also possessed something monsters rarely tolerate.

Boredom.

He cared more about property boundaries than people. His internet history consisted almost entirely of weather reports and excavation permits. I almost pitied him. Almost.

Another black line.

Not you either.

The third folder was heavier, not physically. Emotionally. Richard Vance. Chief Medical Examiner.

Now...

You made me stop.

I smiled before I realised I was smiling not because I believed he'd killed anyone but because I recognised something beautifully familiar.

Control.

He never chased the spotlight. He never appeared on the evening news. He never stood over bodies with cameras flashing around him.

Instead...

He waited. Every corpse eventually arrived on his table. Every bruise passed beneath his hands. Every broken bone asked permission to tell its story. Richard decided whether it could.

I began reading.

One report described deep crescent-shaped bruising around a young woman's throat as post-mortem tissue damage. Another explained obvious restraint marks as "environmental deterioration." A fractured hyoid bone became accidental trauma. Defensive wounds became animal activity. Every explanation sounded perfectly reasonable. Perfectly educated. Perfectly forgettable.

Individually...

None of them mattered.

Together...

They formed a pattern so elegant it made my pulse slow. Most killers erase evidence. Richard erased conclusions. He never lied. That would have been careless. He simply chose different words. Different words create different investigations. Different investigations create different endings.