I pull out what has now become a weapon and immediately wrap it in my handkerchief so it doesn’t drip blood onto the floor. I put the ice pick back in my pocket. Afraid that someone might come, I get out as fast as I can the same way I had come in. I cross the garden again cautiously, look around, there is no one in sight on the road and I climb over the perimeter wall again.
At home, first thing, I wash the ice pick well, then I take a relaxing cool shower. Yes, I did well, I think seeing myself in the mirror: I have an absolutely quiet conscience. The media, and the television the same day, have reported the news of the murder. They don’t know yet that the perpetrator of the crime will soon appear to be a serial killer, and nor do I for the time being because I don’t have any intention
