KILLER ADDICTION: When Murder Becomes A Habit

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

RYAN HAD BEEN A NIGHT owl for as long as he could remember, sleeping by day and roaming by night—never seeing the sun, like a vampire or nightcrawler. He awoke in the late night and felt a thrill of anticipation; tonight would be special—when he could witness the aftermath of his kill of The Junkie, as he had labelled her. He got out of bed full of energy and quickly dressed in his usual all-black ensemble of jeans, T-shirt, leather jacket, and cowboy boots with the shiny silver tips. He slipped on his black leather driving gloves with holes cut out for the knuckles and to top off the look, donned his trademark Ray-Ban Aviator sunglasses, even though it was dark outside.

As usual, Ryan didn’t eat in the apartment but made his way to his regular bar down on the corner where he chugged a beer and wolfed down his usual order of loaded chilli fries.

With his tousled hair, confident swagger, and an air of mystery and danger about him, Ryan was the life of any party and a regular at many nightspots around the city. Men wanted to hang out with him, and women wanted to sleep with him. His walk, appearance and manner screamed, ‘I’m a badass motherfucker, so stay out of my way.’

After some light-hearted banter with the sexy waitress who he had bedded the week before, Ryan promised to come back to meet her by the end of her shift. As he made his way into the cool night air, his pulse quickened, and he felt a stirring in his groin with the promise of what was about to unfold. He walked the short distance over to his studio, opened the gate, then straddled his classic 1977 Harley Davidson FXS Low Rider and started it up. The engine roared into life and he peeled out into the street in a thunderous roar of exhaust and tyre screeching.

Ryan parked his big bike out of view at the rendezvous site he’d meticulously arranged the night before, then strode down to the Potomac River and found the spot where he had kidn*pped The Junkie. The place was deserted in the late hours of the night. He quickly walked over, sparked up his big Zippo lighter and surveyed the scene, spotting the newspaper with a note scrawled across the top. With a soft laugh to himself, he said with a smile, ‘Ha—gone looking for you, babe? How about I help you find her, buddy?’

Ryan pulled out a plain piece of notepaper from his pocket and wrote I’m at the old factory where the C and O Canal meets Rock Creek. Come look for me. He laid out his note next to the newspaper and impaled it into the ground with a syringe, then retreated to a vantage point among a small clump of trees. Hidden from sight and with an excellent view of the surrounding area, he settled down to wait.

Ryan’s anticipation was building with every passing minute until at last he saw a dark figure scurry over to the patch of ground where he had left the note. A lighter flame flickered, and Ryan could tell the figure was a man, who in the dim light appeared to resemble the boyfriend of The Junkie. The man bent down, picked up Ryan’s note and held it up close to his face, then flicked out the lighter, stuffed the note in his pocket and lurched forward, setting off at a quick but unsteady walk. Ryan followed, keeping his target in sight by the light of the moon and the occasional streetlamp.

Across the park they went, under Interstate 66 on Theodore Roosevelt Bridge, under the elevated arteries that fed the city’s road network, past the John F. Kennedy Center and alongside the Watergate Complex made famous by President Nixon’s fall from grace. The man made his way across the Rock Creek Bridge, oblivious to Ryan’s stealthy pursuit. On the last stretch, they headed up Rock Creek until they hit the historic Chesapeake and Ohio Canal. Ryan’s heart was racing, and the blood was pounding in his ears as he watched the man frantically searching, looking through the windows of the old building, yelling out, ‘Sally! Sally!’ in words dripping with fear and panic. Ryan’s excitement grew until he could barely contain himself—the voyeuristic act of seeing the impact of his kill on a loved one was proving to be almost as much of a thrill as the killing itself.

Finally, the addict’s manic searching stopped—he’d seen something!