The Book of the Dead

A serial killer strangled my daughter at the tender young age of ten. Her life was snuffed out like a candle before it had time to give off much light.

Twenty years later, his identity is still unknown.

Every year, on the anniversary of my daughter’s death, another child dies, strangled by the hands of the same killer.

There is no doubt the killer is the same because I receive a text and picture from his burner phone. Every year, the same text, different photo, from same phone number.

I keep their images, along with my daughter’s, in a little black book which I carry in my breast pocket…like a cross or a good luck charm.

Each year I paste another picture and donate twenty-thousand dollars to a GoFundMe charity setup for the victim’s family.

Being independently wealthy, I don’t need the money, but I find it fascinating to watch how the families spend their unexpected windfall.

One family bought a boat, which I thought was a complete waste of my money, until I realized how it helped bring the surviving members of the family closer together. They spent lazy summer days camping at the lake and skiing or tubing behind the boat. It made me a jealous that I had no family to do likewise.

Another used it as a down payment for a new house, but even with the sizeable deposit the home was too much for them to handle financially and within three years they filed for bankruptcy. Some people are unable to handle newfound wealth.

Several families bought flashy new cars, usually a sporty convertible, almost always driven by the husband. One grieving mother bought a BMW, although, of course, the 20K barely made a dent in the cost of the car.

The women were by far the most practical, buying washers and dryers, or dishwashers. Several put the money into savings for their surviving child’s college fund.

One family donated it to a charity of their own. Apparently, they didn’t need the money either.

There wasn’t a pattern to the killings, with the exception of being the same perpetrator and the victim is always a child.

Different ages, but always younger than twelve.

Different sexes, about evenly split.

Different States, but always a midwestern State.

Rural victims, city dwellers, and small towns, death visited each randomly.

No pattern, except for the date, the phone, and the killer.

The FBI is convinced the killer is somebody who knows or is related to me, because of his obvious fixation.

It makes for an interesting Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner, as I stare at the faces sitting around the table staring back at me. They shift uncomfortably in their seats or fiddle with the silverware, anything to avoid an unpleasant conversation with me. I wonder that they still invite me to these gatherings.

I stare at people everywhere I go. I stare at the faces at the supermarket, at playgrounds, in Church, and, unnerved by my intensity, they all stare back.

I finally reached the end of my rope after twenty-years. Not from any financial drain…I could easily afford to make 20K payments for an additional twenty years, but my conscience can’t take it.

I thought I would be caught years ago. I certainly left enough clues, but either they were piss poor clues or lousy detectives. Either way, I’m done.

I stare at the noose hanging from the ceiling fan. I know the fan will hold my weight because I installed it myself.

This is my confession, and last will and testament. I leave my estate to be divided amongst the families of my victims. Their future portends purchases of more cars, boats, and appliances.

The police will find this note pasted in my little black book along with the pictures dead kids, faces bloated and splotched from being strangled.