Jacob Landry's Blog
Panic
The next few weeks were a blur as the news rambled on about the the horrendous killing in Vermont. Police canvassed the area the following morning, talking to neighbors, interrogating suspects that lived nearby. Joe watched it all live from the comfort of his desk chair, chuckling as they fumbled around, completely clueless. The best part was that no connection had been made to his local killings, so there was no search for a serial killer, just a random drunken bimbo stabbed to death in her apartment. For days Joe lived the charmed life of the blissfully happy. He went to work, he smiled at strangers, and he laughed as he sat in front of his computer each night, watching the cops talk about “clues” they had found that Joe knew had absolutely nothing to do with the case. They were drowning in failure and had no idea that he was a thousand miles away, safe at home, sipping the woman’s blood in his pajamas.

As the case wore on it started to become dull. Other people died, horrible things happened around the world and the mysterious gruesome murder was no longer the forefront on everyone’s minds. It had been chalked up to just another unsolved case and everyone moved on. Joe began to become quite anxious. He sat in his chair, bouncing his knee up and down under the desk and sipping the blood from the flask, letting the iron taste take him back to that night for a few moments of satisfaction.

A week to the day after the murder had taken place Joe was sitting in his chair late at night, fighting sleep and listening to the reporter drag on about how there were no new developments. His flask sat in front of him, a fain streak of red running down the front of it.

“This just in,” she said, bringing her right hand up to her ear to shield the noise as she listened to an important message. “Security footage has been found from outside a local pub that shows the victim leaving with an unknown man.” Joe’s blood was suddenly ice cold and his heart stopped for a second as the clip began to play. There he was, all over the news for all to see, clear as day. They zoomed in on his face then cropped the photo, zooming out with the photo and placing an 800 number next to it. “If you know this man or have seen him lately, please call the number on your screen.” Joe looked out the window to his right and saw someone walking by on the sidewalk, they glanced up so he darted away from the window, falling out of his chair and slamming into the floor hard.

He grabbed his chest as he laid there on the floor, his heart had resumed beating but so fiercely he was worried he would have a heart attack right there on the floor, at least the cops would never catch him. Joe scrambled to his feet and grabbed the flask off his desk, unscrewing the lid and tipping it back, nothing came out. His mind was racing, his anxiety hitting an all-time high.

“I have to go…I have to get out of here.” Joe started pacing the apartment with the empty flask in his right hand, muttering to himself. His anxiety turned to frustrating and he flung the flask across the room, “Shit! How could I have been so stupid? Four kills…four! Lamest serial killer ever!” Joe suddenly froze, aware that he was talking out loud, hopefully not too loud but he was never quite sure how much the neighbors could hear. “Ok, I have to go,” he whispered to himself, rushing across the room to collect his flask. He headed to the kitchen and pulled out a bottle of bleach from under the sink, dousing the flask until the blood was completely washed off and he was sure the inside was cleansed. He then rinsed it repeatedly until he was sure it was safe to drink from again. Throwing it in the drying rack next to the sink, he darted back towards his desk, he kept his clothes in a small dresser next to it. Clothes started flying everywhere as he tore through them, trying to make the ones he wanted land in the suitcase that was still open from his last trip. He grabbed the gun that still sat on his coffee table, checked the safety, then popped it into his pants pocket. As he zipped up the suitcase another panic attack began to set in.

“I can’t just walk into an airport with a gun and my face all over the news…I can’t drive anywhere, they’ll eventually have my license plates…it’s only a matter of time.” Joe began to pace again, taking a momentary break to drag his suitcase over to the door and slip his flask into the front pocket. Maybe I’ll just find a motel in the country, somewhere outside of town for a while. Then I can plan a way to ditch the car and keep moving…” Joe barely had time to finish his thought before a loud knock sounded on his door. He froze in his spot, awkwardly poised in mid pace, his heart beating so loud he was afraid whoever was in the hall would hear it. A few moments of silence and then the knock sounded again, louder this time. BAM BAM BAM, three quick slams on the door, but no voice. On TV the police always yell something, right? Something like ‘Police! Open up!’ So maybe it was fine, just an angry neighbor or someone selling something. His mind played through a million difference scenarios, none of them positive.

BAM BAM BAM! Joe pulled his gun out of his waistband and started to walk towards the door.