Short Story: Confession

So this one's a bit weird guys, it's inspired by Ed Kemper because I've been obsessed with Mindhunter on Netflix (might write a short review on it later?? who knows!). But anyway I was really intrigued by his story, especially how he confessed despite making clean getaways with each of his crimes. I took some creative liberties with names and details, but I think it turned out pretty cool :) Enjoy!

---

“September 30th, 1982, 1:15am in the morning. Can you state your name for the record?”

“Robert. Robert Haversham.”

“Well, Mr. Haversham. Are you aware that you may choose whether or not to answer our questions?”

“Yes.”

“And you know that anything you say may be used against you as evidence in court?”

“Yes.”

A pause. Robert fidgeted in his seat. His cuffed wrists lay on the cold metal table table. He drummed his fingernails on it, waiting for more questions. The officer stared at the blinking red light on the tape recorder, lost in thought. Robert saw his pinched lips and the tightness around his eyes. Why wouldn’t the officer look at him?

“Excuse me?” Robert saw him flinch. “May we begin?”

“Ah, uh, yes.” Let’s get started, shall we?”

Robert smiled. “Of course.”

*****

For the first time in days, Robert woke up with a purpose. The anxiety that had been mounting upon his shoulders seemed to fall away. He laid out everything he would need for the day’s job-- heavy rubber boots, a low-brimmed hat, a shovel, and his favourite hunting dagger. A familiar anticipation began building in his chest. He shoved his equipment into a duffel bag and walked out the front door.

At first, the day was as normal as any other. Robert stopped by the diner for a cup of coffee. As he waited, he skimmed through the morning paper. On the very last page, squashed into a column next to a local election campaign advertisement, was a short, dull article. Six unsolved murders, no further evidence discovered, no suspects. Robert clicked his tongue in disgust, crumpled the paper, and tossed it into a trash can. The officers were never going to make progress on the case themselves. Luckily, Robert knew exactly how to help them out.

Robert stopped at an empty parking lot. He settled down, finding a comfortable, inconspicuous spot, and waited. People never realized how much of his job required sitting around. But he didn’t mind waiting-- after all, impatient people didn’t last in his line of work.

The sun had reached its zenith and was sloping down toward the horizon when fortune finally smiled upon him. An old, beat up car trundled into the parking lot, the exhaust spitting dark clouds of gas. He crept closer and saw a woman rummaging in her purse, her eyebrows pinched in frustration. Perfect. Robert took a deep breath. He stood, silent as a shadow, and pulled out his knife. He kissed the blade, just like he did before every job, and leapt forward with an exultant cry.

It took him several hours to drag the body up the hill where he had laid his other victims to rest. He took extra care while digging the grave and arranging her lifeless limbs inside. After all, this would likely be his last job, and he wanted this memory to remain vivid in his mind long after they locked him away.

Robert ambled down the hill, head turned to the sky, basking in the fading warmth of sunset. Blood dripped from the knife clutched in his fingers. His footprints filled with tiny red pools. The sharp, clean taste of summer lingered on his tongue and caressed his skin. Every sensation was magnified tenfold by the knowledge that this would likely be his last day of freedom. There was just one last task left.

Robert could have run; thrown away his bloodied clothes, wiped away his fingerprints, and driven back home, returning to his boring, everyday life. No one would catch him. After all, he had honed his technique over the last few months, getting better with each murder. With each one, he learned how to choose the perfect target. He appeared, killed, and vanished, leaving behind no trace for the confused police tasked with solving his crimes.

But he didn’t run. Six unsolved murders, no further evidence discovered, no suspects. He hadn’t even made it to the front page. Soon enough, the police would give up and leave the cases in their dusty basement to gather dust. Newspapers would move on to more exciting stories than a series of unsolved cases in a backwater village. Even the families would grieve for their loss and move on with their lives. All of Robert’s planning, all of his hard work, would be wasted.

Of course, that left him with one choice. The only way to force the world to see him, to remember him long after he was gone, to whisper grim stories about him so he would never fade away. Robert walked down the street and entered the first phone booth he saw. His mind quieted for the first time in weeks. He knew what the verdict would be. Seven life sentences, perhaps even the death penalty. But death did not scare him, not as much as the other option, where his crimes would remain a few lazy lines in the cramped, yellowing sheets of an old newspaper. As he neared the end of his journey, time moved in syrupy dollops, each sensation branding itself into his brain-- the clink of coins slipped into the phone, the static dial tone, the responder’s voice blurring from disbelief to panic as Robert began to speak.

In that booth, Robert bared his heart and soul, confessing to everything. He told them how he had found his first target. How he had become addicted to the adrenalin that coursed through his body after a successful day of hunting. He told the woman on the phone the names of all six women. Where he had buried the bodies. Where he was waiting now, after burying the seventh.

“I’ll be here. Don’t worry, I don’t plan on running away.” He placed the handset firmly on the receiver and sat down on the curb outside the phone booth. His limbs felt light and tingly as if he would float away with the slightest breeze. Excitement bubbled in his stomach. He pictured the newspaper-- a blown up image of him on the first page with an article about his six victims, the unsolved crimes, and the shocking, unexpected confession. Despite the imminent arrival of the police, Robert smiled. His days of obscurity were over.

When he finally heard the sirens getting closer and the skid of wheels hurtling down the road, Robert felt an overwhelming sense of relief. He stood up, dusting off his clothes, and put his arms in the air. The next few moments were a blur of activity as cops spilled onto the street, pointing their guns, and shouting at him to kneel down. They cuffed his hands behind his back, shoved him into a car, and sped back to the station where Robert was thrown into the interrogation room until his interviewer arrived.

*****

Robert stopped talking, his throat parched. The overwhelming joy of confessing to his sins didn’t fade, no matter how many people he spoke to. A soft grin lingered on his face as he relived the memory of his last, wonderful day of freedom.

“Thank you,” he said. “For listening to my story, I mean. I never expected this to feel so good.”

The police officer was staring at him, mouth agape. His notepad lay abandoned, pen frozen in mid air. “Why? Why kill them, and then confess?”

Robert sighed. “Well, how else could I tell everyone it was me?”