J. T. Raymond eyed the young blonde woman carrying two bags of groceries from behind a large bloom of pink azalea, his large frame tingling with excitement. The hi-rise that was his new home loomed against the vernal sky, its grayness undiminished by the colorful shrubbery that scalloped the grounds. Spring was in the air, a time to enjoy the flavors and textures of life and cast away the garments of winter, all caution and inhibition.
But that was all for the world outside his skin. Inside, the urge to kill had returned and, as always, it would cling relentlessly with cruel sharp teeth. He would hear, see and smell nothing else until the blood washed all over him, bringing satiation and the only kind of peace he could ever know.
He fingered the outline of the leather sheath through the folds of his thin raincoat. The long and shiny knife spoke a language beyond words. The surgical gloves were in the outside pocket. The young blonde woman approached the entrance. At last, he whispered to the part of him that knew what he wanted, what he needed. At last.
She leaned against the door and knocked impatiently on the glass with one slender hand. On her ring finger a ruby and diamond cluster of extraordinary beauty glittered like a thousand stars. The doorman looked up sharply from inside, alert to her need but momentarily preoccupied assisting an elderly gentleman. Heaving a sigh, she placed her packages on the stone walkway and reached inside a leather pouch for her keys. Raymond came up behind her.
"Allow me, miss," he said, in a manner as soft and polished as the sheen on his Italian loafers. A faint smile rose to his lips as he inserted his own key into the lock. She smiled back, revealing even white teeth. No fear. It worked every time, despite the warnings on the evening news about the killer of three women who stalked this East Side Manhattan neighborhood. He had even mulled about with all the other curious passersby beside the yellow police tape cordoning off the last crime site on the next corner. He supposed he didn't look like a killer, whatever that meant. He was too well dressed, too charming, too rich and handsome to evoke suspicion.
No one ever saw beyond his technical genius or the specialized line of computers he designed and manufactured. In the grandest of ironies, he had been instrumental in developing and formatting the National Crime Information Computer, which tracked the world's most dangerous felons. Deep in the night that made him laugh. Just like the memory of their screams. His work kept him isolated and too remote from living to be a part of its pain. Women deserved whatever they got. They were so stupid, so trusting.
