“Serial murder is as random as human psychology. We think we know people, because they look like us and talk like us, but under their skin, they could be anybody,” Gregson said.
“You’re creeping me out.”
“The truth is more frightening than fiction, and most people don’t want to think about it—they are content in their own little worlds of fantasy—they assume their values are the same, as the man or woman sitting next to them in church.”
“I just got chills,” Detective Talbert said.
“Fairy stories depict the woods as being dangerous. Beware of the big bad wolf. Beware of the witch who eats children. Don’t go into her house. These are all lessons that used to be taught to the naive. We think they are just stories, but they are more real than we would care to admit.”
“You could lecture at the University on Serial Murder,” Detective Talbert said.
“There are two kinds of individuals—astronomers or astronauts. I prefer to be in outer space. Should we examine the body?”
“That depends—have you eaten dinner?”
“I’ll be okay.”
Gregson and Talbert stood over the body. A stream of blood purged from a severed fire-hose.
“Shame—he had so much potential,” Talbert said.
“Yeah. I guess fate has a sense of humor.”
“Or we’re dealing with a man who has an inferiority complex, and a jealous streak.”
“Penis envy?” Gregson asked.
“No defensive wounds on his hands. The knife was thrust downward, while facing the perpetrator. That means, he was standing, when attacked. Check for a cerebral hematoma on the back of his skull.
“He hit his head when he fell. The victim knew his attacker, or at least he was comfortable enough to be within 6 inches of a monster—people criticize me for being skeptical of human nature, but they never met a butcher before.”
“The coroner is here, and the psychologist.”
“I’ve seen enough.” Gregson walked into the house. The girls were crying.
“There—there—don’t cry. There’s a man willing to talk to you,” Gregson said. A short balding man walked in. He looked spineless, despite having no infirmities.
“We want to talk to Gregson,” the girls said.
“I’m trained to listen to you,” said the psychologist. He wore a sweater and cheap kakis. “That man is likely to take advantage of you, whereas, I am a professional, and won’t make any sexual overtures.”
Gregson was already shrunk, and didn’t need the wash cycle again. He wanted a stiff drink and bed. He got under the covers with some scotch and washed the world away.
The next morning, Gregson walked downstairs. It was like a bad dream. Nothing was out of place. There were no police and no women. It was heaven. The only clue that something bad had happened was a red mark in the middle of the street.
“I guess the human stain is difficult to clean-up,” Gregson said. He took a sip of black coffee. He had a slight hangover. The sun was shining. His neighbor was leaving with a golf bag.
“Do you want some company?” Gregson asked.
“Couldn’t hurt,” Vick said.
“Yes, it could, if you want to play a dollar a hole?”
“You’re on! When my wife died, I went back to my old ways,” Vick said. It was like getting to know my single self again—or having freedom as a best friend.”
“It’s the greatest secret outside of society—hidden knowledge.”
Gregson drove them in his BMW Z3 with the top down. Two guys without women can be a tragedy or a comedy—all that is required is laughter.
Gregson teed-off like a giant. Vick followed. On the fourth hole, the PI observed a pattern. Vick never missed. “You didn’t want to go pro?” Gregson asked.
“Okay—I’ll have to tell you something—ever since I was visited by aliens—I can move objects with my mind. It’s not a command, but more of a partnership, between me and the space between us. That golf ball does what I tell it to do, just like I know you’ve thought about sex 7 times in the last 30 minutes.”
“My libido must be slowing down,” Gregson admitted.