- trial and release -
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Trial and release of a self-confessed serial killer.
What the people in court that morning saw was not at all what they had expected. The man billed as the most prolific serial killer in British history, the man supposedly responsible for the deaths of three hundred people, was neatly dressed and well presented. He appeared, to the slightly more observant in the crowd, to be gloating; the police would never have caught him if he hadn't waited for them after his last kill. The police claimed he had become 'sloppy.' I knew otherwise.
I knew because the man standing in that dock, with the memory of a decade's worth of kills, was I, Theodore William Brundy.
Why did I kill them? That's simple. You see, contrary to popular belief, murder is fun. It's like sex; the first time is the hardest, but also the one you remember long after the rest have faded in your memory. I remember my first kill like it was only yesterday.
It was on an average British Midsummer night, the sky a subtle shade of navy, the twilight fading fast. It was light although the sun was down and the moon not risen. Her name was Sandra Winters. I had been following her for three days, getting a feel of her routine. She worked at the local shop, finishing at 9.30pm. I waited for a few minutes, leaving the store as she went off duty. I followed at a safe distance until we reached the common. Making sure no one else was around I moved up just behind her, taking my knife from the thigh pocket of my combats as I did so.
I placed the point of the knife in the small of her back, so I could be sure that she knew she was in trouble. I commanded her to turn and face me, keeping the knife where I could make quick use of it if she screamed. That was the first time I saw the look, pure fear was etched on her face. A feeling halfway between orgasm and elation hit me, and a sardonic grin spread across my face. She must have noticed the change in my features, as she began to plead for me not to hurt her. I lied to her, saying she would not be hurt if she co-operated, she obviously thought that I intended only to rape her, or steal from her, she relaxed slightly. As she calmed I instructed her to remove her coat.
As she stood there, wearing only her red and grey uniform, I saw what I was looking for in the dim light. A quick pulse flowing through her neck. I moved my knife towards the obvious source of blood and death. As the blade sliced her soft flesh open she screamed, and then the screaming stopped, forever. As I watched, I saw the light slowly fade from her eyes and a smile of triumph came, unbidden, to my lips. I moved my mouth towards the gashed neck and gently flicked my tongue across the fresh wound; the taste of warm blood filled my mouth. I drank until the blood went cold, savouring the smell and taste of the girl I had watched for so long as the life blood passed out of her body.
After my first kill it became easier and easier. I stopped using my knife, preferring instead to throttle them and pierce the skin with my teeth, which were sharpened to a point. I killed young girls, some as young as eight or nine, teenage girls, twenty-something. Never much older as the taste of the blood dimmed with age. That's what killing became for me; the hunt, the kill, the blooding. Some people do it to foxes; I did it to people. Always women, always local and always I drank their blood until it, like them, became cold.
My last kill was a girl a little older than Sandra Winters, but I was older too. She didn't fill me with the same sensations that had always accompanied the kill. It was cold, calculated and boring. It was at that point that I discovered that something was missing. I knew the true meaning of desensitised. So, after that kill, I waited. When the police showed up I was there, standing near the body. My face was cleaned of the blood and my gloves once again in my pocket, but sure enough, there I was. As there was no one else there they arrested me.
So here I am, up for three hundred murders, most of which I actually committed. Here is the prosecution, trying to have me convicted of crimes that I know I perpetrated, but they have only the sketchiest of evidence for. I know I'll get away with it, a sensation that has alluded me for the last ten years.
It comes time for the jury to make their deliberations. My shirt is crumpled, my hair gel irritates me and I'm getting bored, dangerously bored. I look over the courtroom once again. I notice that the judge is female. I've heard about female judges before, sixty-five years old and all skin and bones. It is for this very reason that I have to restrain myself; she's young, young and beautiful. I realise there and then that I must have her.
It is quickly announced that the jury are ready to give their verdict. They come in and sit down. I'm only half-paying attention, the rest of my attention is focused on the lady judge and her neck is truly magnificent. I subconsciously run my tongue over the sharpened points of my canines. I must taste her blood. She looks so sweet.
"Not guilty!"
The words rattle round somewhere in my brain and I have the feeling I should be standing. The gaoler unlocks my shackles and I am taken back to my cell to claim my belongings. I hurry along as much as is possible; I must find that judge. I must have her. As I walk out of the police station attached to the courts I see her leaving by a small side door. I walk up to her slowly, deliberately. As I get to her my hands reach across her neck and cut off her air supply.
What the people in court that morning saw was not at all what they had expected. The man billed as the most prolific serial killer in British history, the man supposedly responsible for the deaths of three hundred people, was neatly dressed and well presented. He appeared, to the slightly more observant in the crowd, to be gloating; the police would never have caught him if he hadn't waited for them after his last kill. The police claimed he had become 'sloppy.' I knew otherwise.
I knew because the man standing in that dock, with the memory of a decade's worth of kills, was I, Theodore William Brundy.
Why did I kill them? That's simple. You see, contrary to popular belief, murder is fun. It's like sex; the first time is the hardest, but also the one you remember long after the rest have faded in your memory. I remember my first kill like it was only yesterday.
It was on an average British Midsummer night, the sky a subtle shade of navy, the twilight fading fast. It was light although the sun was down and the moon not risen. Her name was Sandra Winters. I had been following her for three days, getting a feel of her routine. She worked at the local shop, finishing at 9.30pm. I waited for a few minutes, leaving the store as she went off duty. I followed at a safe distance until we reached the common. Making sure no one else was around I moved up just behind her, taking my knife from the thigh pocket of my combats as I did so.
I placed the point of the knife in the small of her back, so I could be sure that she knew she was in trouble. I commanded her to turn and face me, keeping the knife where I could make quick use of it if she screamed. That was the first time I saw the look, pure fear was etched on her face. A feeling halfway between orgasm and elation hit me, and a sardonic grin spread across my face. She must have noticed the change in my features, as she began to plead for me not to hurt her. I lied to her, saying she would not be hurt if she co-operated, she obviously thought that I intended only to rape her, or steal from her, she relaxed slightly. As she calmed I instructed her to remove her coat.
As she stood there, wearing only her red and grey uniform, I saw what I was looking for in the dim light. A quick pulse flowing through her neck. I moved my knife towards the obvious source of blood and death. As the blade sliced her soft flesh open she screamed, and then the screaming stopped, forever. As I watched, I saw the light slowly fade from her eyes and a smile of triumph came, unbidden, to my lips. I moved my mouth towards the gashed neck and gently flicked my tongue across the fresh wound; the taste of warm blood filled my mouth. I drank until the blood went cold, savouring the smell and taste of the girl I had watched for so long as the life blood passed out of her body.
After my first kill it became easier and easier. I stopped using my knife, preferring instead to throttle them and pierce the skin with my teeth, which were sharpened to a point. I killed young girls, some as young as eight or nine, teenage girls, twenty-something. Never much older as the taste of the blood dimmed with age. That's what killing became for me; the hunt, the kill, the blooding. Some people do it to foxes; I did it to people. Always women, always local and always I drank their blood until it, like them, became cold.
My last kill was a girl a little older than Sandra Winters, but I was older too. She didn't fill me with the same sensations that had always accompanied the kill. It was cold, calculated and boring. It was at that point that I discovered that something was missing. I knew the true meaning of desensitised. So, after that kill, I waited. When the police showed up I was there, standing near the body. My face was cleaned of the blood and my gloves once again in my pocket, but sure enough, there I was. As there was no one else there they arrested me.
So here I am, up for three hundred murders, most of which I actually committed. Here is the prosecution, trying to have me convicted of crimes that I know I perpetrated, but they have only the sketchiest of evidence for. I know I'll get away with it, a sensation that has alluded me for the last ten years.
It comes time for the jury to make their deliberations. My shirt is crumpled, my hair gel irritates me and I'm getting bored, dangerously bored. I look over the courtroom once again. I notice that the judge is female. I've heard about female judges before, sixty-five years old and all skin and bones. It is for this very reason that I have to restrain myself; she's young, young and beautiful. I realise there and then that I must have her.
It is quickly announced that the jury are ready to give their verdict. They come in and sit down. I'm only half-paying attention, the rest of my attention is focused on the lady judge and her neck is truly magnificent. I subconsciously run my tongue over the sharpened points of my canines. I must taste her blood. She looks so sweet.
"Not guilty!"
The words rattle round somewhere in my brain and I have the feeling I should be standing. The gaoler unlocks my shackles and I am taken back to my cell to claim my belongings. I hurry along as much as is possible; I must find that judge. I must have her. As I walk out of the police station attached to the courts I see her leaving by a small side door. I walk up to her slowly, deliberately. As I get to her my hands reach across her neck and cut off her air supply.
presents
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