Parked

We’re told the Dunn River Killer has killed five people in three months. Three women and two men, all aged 18-35. One black, one Hispanic, three white, all of them killed along or near the banks of the Dunn River between the hours of 9 PM and midnight. All shot in the back of the head at point blank range. Most were killed on Friday, but one on Wednesday, one on Sunday.

Police have no suspects, and no clues other than the time, location, and the type of gun used. Naturally speculators think it’s a white male in his mid 20s to early 40s, the perennial go-to profile for killers in the United States. Every year there are plenty of other killers from all walks of life, people like Richard Ramirez, the Night Strangler, or the DC Sniper, but they always look for a 30-year old white guy first. Maybe it’s because we tend to be the really twisted ones, like Gein, Dahmer, Bundy, Gacy. Other killers will just kill you, but the serious head cases will turn you into dinner, furniture, or a pair of shoes.

After the third killing, I started visiting the Dunn River regularly. Every Friday night between 9 and midnight, as well as other nights of the week. But like the police, I found nothing.

Since losing my job, I don’t have to get up in the morning. I have no girlfriend, s o I have plenty of time to cruise up and down River Drive in my car. Sometimes I stop, sometimes I get out. I don’t see or hear a thing. Just crickets, mosquitoes, and the moving of the water.

Police passed me twice. I wondered if they thought I was him. Maybe it’s a her. They don’t know, I don’t know. They told me to move along both times. The second time they took my name and checked my I.D. That’s fine. I’ll keep going back. The river is a big place.

I keep wanting to hear the rustle of grass. The scuff of a shoe on dirt. I wonder if I’ll feel the muzzle of a gun – they say it’s a .22 – pressed against the back of my head. I hope I do. I don’t want to catch him. I just want to die. I’m white. I’m 30. I’m there at his favorite time. Why won’t he kill me?

Maybe he’s too smart. He knows the police are looking here now. So I’ve wandered further up and down the river, making myself a target.

Maybe he thinks I’m bait. Or maybe he’s waiting until the police quit looking so hard. He could wait for months before killing again.

I can’t wait that long. Life is intolerable. Absurd. Absurdly intolerable. Every waking moment is an insult to my intelligence, my integrity, my soul. I have no one to strike against, no one to fight against, no one to blame. I just don’t want to see it all anymore. There’s no place for me here. Every meal is a waste, every conversation a mockery. There may be a world for me somewhere, but this isn’t it.

I go to the river every night now. Next week I’ll go from dusk to dawn, pause for an hour at a time, with my back to the shore, waiting. If he hasn’t killed me by the end of next week I’ll go to where the police found me, but I won’t move along. I won’t cooperate. I’ll act aggressive, maybe imply I’m armed. I already fit their profile. Suicide by killer or by cop will make me almost equally famous, and certainly equally dead.