The morbidity of the soul never ceased to amaze Alexander.
Opposite him, heavily chained, sat Victor Chernenko, the butcher of Bratislava who for two decades had kidnapped, mutilated and killed young women while posing as a respectable greengrocer. When he eventually slipped up the police had lots of trouble bringing him in, so convinced were the town’s residents of the innocence of this upstanding member of society.
Alexander peered into Chernenko’s eyes. They weren’t black or cold. Merely the eyes of someone you might run into everyday in your local neighbourhood. The eyes two dozen women had foolishly trusted.
“You wanted to get caught,” Alexander stated.
“What makes you say that?”
“The way you slipped up. You were meticulous in everything you did for twenty years. And then you stuff a bloodied sock between the apples. You wouldn’t do that by accident. Not you.”
Chernenko’s snicker quickly became a full-blown belly laugh.
“Let me tell you something, you prick. I wanted to go on until my body was no longer capable to overpower those bitches. Why would I deny myself the pleasure of cutting away at their bodies, a pound of flesh a day? You should have seen their gaze. Terrified of the pain at first, but after a couple of weeks, they got used to it. They even looked forward to losing another piece of meat. Because they knew it was the only thing they’d be able to feel that day. One of them even got her pussy wet when she saw the knife. They enjoyed it. And so did I.”
He said it all without those trusty blue eyes ever turning dark.
Perhaps that is the key to catching the criminally insane, Alexander pondered.
Not searching for evil in people’s eyes.
But for the unnatural lack of it.
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