A Killer Like Me by Chuck Hustmyre

“I’m not on the cops beat anymore, as you so humorously put it.”
    “It’s a big story.”
    Kirsten stepped out onto the porch and forced Murphy to back up. “I really have to go.” She turned around and locked the dead bolt, then walked past him.
    “It’s about a serial killer,” he said.
    She was on the bottom step when she turned around. “What serial killer?”
    Murphy had known, at least hoped, that those two words would hook her. Kirsten was too good of a reporter for them not to. Now he had to follow through with the promise those words held. “We have a serial killer murdering women in New Orleans,” he said, the words tumbling out in a heap. “So far he’s killed eight that I know of.”
    “Bullshit.”
    “It’s true,” he said.
    She stared at him for a second, mouth partly open, the tip of her tongue running along the top row of her teeth. Her teeth were whiter than he remembered them. Almost sparkling. “Why haven’t I heard about him?” she said.
    “The rank is keeping a lid on it.”
    “So why are you telling me?”
    Murphy took a deep breath. “He’s killing prostitutes. They can’t protect themselves unless they know they’re in danger.”
    Kirsten shook her head. “If someone has killed eight prostitutes, don’t you think the rest of them already know about it? I know you, Murphy. What’s your real reason?”
    He hesitated. He considered. He formulated an answer suitable for a public servant. Then he rejected it. Instead, he looked in her eyes. “I can catch him.”
    Once he said it out loud, once he stripped away all the pretense and the pseudo-sentimentality about protecting the public, Murphy realized that all of his badgering of the rank, all of his complaining about their inaction—everything—boiled down to that one simple statement.
I can catch him.
    Murphy was a homicide cop. The man he was after was a killer. It was the same reason dogs chased cats. It was the natural order of things.
    “Are you heading a task force?” she asked.
    Murphy shook his head.
    “Why not?”
    “The rank is in denial. They say the murders aren’t connected.”
    “What makes you think they are?”
    “The cause of death has been strangulation. The victims all shared common characteristics. Geographically, there are also certain similarities.”
    “Prostitution is a dangerous occupation.”
    “It’s the same guy, Kirsten. I know it. And when you hear the facts, you’ll know it. I said I can catch him, but I can’t do it alone. If the story breaks in the paper, the rank will have to respond. They’ll have to give me a task force.”
    “Like I said, why me?”
    “If you were me, who would you tell?”
    She pulled a notebook from her purse and stepped back onto the porch. She took a seat on the swing. “Tell me what you know.”
    Murphy told her the story, leaving out only the part about the cable ties. All he said about the cause of death was that the victims had been strangled. Holding back exactly how they had been strangled would help weed out the nutty confessors and copycats. It was something only the cops and the killer knew.
    “Why won’t the department acknowledge that a serial killer is murdering prostitutes?” Kirsten said. “What are they afraid of?”
    Murphy was sitting next to Kirsten on the swing, though he noticed she was careful to keep some distance between them.
    “Serial killers attract attention,” he said. “Feds, the national media, self-proclaimed experts, kooks, bounty hunters, psychics—they all descend on the city. The rank doesn’t want that. Because of all the heat we took after Katrina, there was talk about disbanding the police department and letting the state police and the National Guard take over permanently. Most of that talk has died down, but there are still some state legislators who think that might be the best thing for the city. And that terrifies the rank.”
    Kirsten stood and walked across the porch. She leaned against the far