I’m a journalist who specializes in the minds of monsters. There was this one serial killer, call sign "X." He’d butchered seven sex workers, gutted them like fish, and harvested their organs. Interviewing him was my white whale. I dreamed about it. Then the news broke: X was dead. Murdered. The guy who killed him? Ethan Vance. Here’s what I know about Ethan: We were classmates in elementary school. He’s a Ph.D. in Criminal Psychology. The guy was a genius, damn near perfect SAT scores back in the day. His girlfriend is an escort. His little sister vanished in the red-light district years ago. 1 I flew a thousand miles from Chicago to Seattle today just to sit across from Ethan Vance. Ethan is currently being hailed as a hero for taking out "X," the twisted psycho who terrified the West Coast for five years. X was a copycat, modeling himself after Jack the Ripper. He’d carve an "X" into the victim's face after removing an organ. Over the last decade, I’ve hit every major penitentiary in the country. I’ve sat down with hundreds of killers. They usually fall into three buckets: lust, vengeance, or passion. Then there’s the fourth bucket: The Deviant. Simple translation: I killed you, and I don’t need a reason. I still remember my first interview. The kid was 19. He killed a runaway foster kid in his rural hometown. I asked him why. He told me: "I was curious. I wanted to see what a human face looks like when the lights go out. What would he say? Would he twitch? Would he claw at the dirt like a dying cat, or whimper and cry like a puppy? I had to know. He was weak, alone. No mommy or daddy to save him. I lured him into the cornfield and shanked him right in the kidney. The look in his eyes... humans are different than animals. More pathetic. He held his side and ran, leaving this long, bright red trail through the stalks. I just walked behind him. Watching him stumble was hilarious. When he bled out and collapsed, I flipped him over. He didn't look hateful. He looked begging. His last words were, 'Please, save me.' I carved my initials into him. I wanted to thank him for being my first. I wanted to be with him forever. To commemorate the occasion, I gouged out his eyes and hid them in the root cellar of my old abandoned house." That interview stuck with me. But after a decade, the stories got stale. Same old motives. I needed something fresh. I needed a monster like that 19-year-old again. Then X showed up. The first body was missing a heart. An "X" carved on the cheek. The police thought it was a crime of passion. They wasted months looking for ex-boyfriends with "X" in their names. Three months later, another city. Another escort. Liver gone. "X" on the face. Six months later. Another city. Kidney gone. This time, the killer posed her. Legs together, arms crossed over her chest, eyes shut. He painted colorful wings on the pavement around her waist. From above, she looked like she was ascending to heaven. The victim had a brother who never showed up to ID the body. Later, a monk reported her ashes stolen from the temple. Victims four, five, six, seven. All escorts, all orphans. X started getting artsy. He nailed one girl's palms to a wooden cross. He posed another like "The Thinker." Then, silence. For three years, X vanished. Until recently. A body appeared in a dumpster. "X" on the face, heart missing. No art, just trash. The cops caught the guy in three days. The media cheered. But while everyone was celebrating, a drunk stumbled down a dark alley in Portland. He saw a woman framed inside a giant picture frame mounted on the wall. Her lips were stapled into a smile. It was a macabre Mona Lisa. Left breast removed. "X" on the face. A note was tucked in the corner: Dear Officers, I am X. I will not let some amateur take credit for my life's work. The surveillance state makes it hard, but I had to come out to tell you: You will never catch me. – Oct 6, 2017. The handwriting was elegant. He punched a hard dot after the date, showing his rage. Surveillance footage from a dark corner caught a glimpse of him. One leg didn't bend. He walked with a limp. Experts analyzed the gait. Eight out of ten doctors said the limp was real, likely an injury between the calf and thigh. Fast forward to 2020. October 6th. X is dead. And my old pal Ethan Vance held the smoking gun—or rather, the flower vase. I pulled strings. The Chief in Seattle loves my book, The Anatomy of Murder. He told Detective Ramirez to give me the green light. 2 Ramirez led me to the interrogation room. Ethan looked at me with genuine shock. "You? You're the reporter?" "Surprise, buddy," I laughed. "I'm kind of a big deal in the true crime world now. You're a hero, Ethan. You took down X. I flew a thousand miles for this scoop. You got a lawyer? I know some sharks." "No need," Ethan said calmly. "I don't need one." "Fair enough. The internet wants you getting a medal, not a prison sentence." I played it cool. Started with small talk to loosen him up. We talked about 5th grade. How he was the smart orphan kid everyone loved. How I shared my mom's dumplings with him. We reminisced about catching cicadas in the woods by the graveyard. He used to have this stray dog, a mutt named Buster. I was so jealous of that dog. My mom wouldn't let me have one because they were "dirty." "I loved that dog," I said. "Whatever happened to him? He live a long life?" "No," Ethan said, his voice flat. "Summer of 6th grade. He didn't come home. found him by the road with his skull cracked open. Adults said a car hit him." "That sucks," I said, shifting gears quickly. "Remember Old Man Jenkins? The guy with the limp? We used to steal his watermelons. I'd distract him, you'd grab the melon. He couldn't chase us with that bad leg. He'd hobble around, shoulders bobbing up and down. Funny as hell." We both laughed. The ice was broken. "So," I leaned in. "How did you kill X?" "I already told Ramirez." "I want to hear it from you. For the book." Ethan sighed. "Fine." Here’s his story: He went to check on Chloe (formerly known as Fang Xinyun), the girl X was targeting. He knocked, no answer. But he heard glass breaking inside. Worried, he kicked the door in. He found Chloe on the floor, an "X" drawn on her face in red marker. As he went to help her, a shadow moved across the floor. Sunlight hit it. He turned around. A masked man lunged with a knife. They fought. Ethan grabbed a heavy flower vase and smashed it over the guy's head. The guy went down hard. Ethan called the cops. The guy was dead. One hit. Later, Chloe woke up in the hospital. She told the police the attacker was a regular client who was obsessed with her. He wanted to run away with her. When she refused, he snapped. He screamed at her: "I'm X! The police haven't caught me in ten years! Since you won't come with me, you'll be my next masterpiece." He knocked her out. Then Ethan arrived. 3 "That's it?" I couldn't hide my disappointment. "What do you mean?" "It's so... basic. No offense, but I wanted X to be caught alive. I wanted to pick his brain. But he died from a vase to the head? It lacks flair." "Life isn't a movie, Jack. You have a weird fetish for 'flair'." "Maybe." I wrapped up the interview, but something smelled off. The narrative was trash. Serial killer falls for hooker, gets rejected, tries to kill her, gets bonked by a nerd with a vase. It wouldn't sell books. And wait—Ethan is a prestigious Ph.D. Why is he hanging out with an escort? I needed to talk to Chloe. I went to her apartment. She slammed the door in my face. I slid ten $100 bills under the door. Money talks. She let me in, but her story was identical to Ethan's script. When I asked about her relationship with Ethan, she snapped. "What, a Ph.D. can't date a girl like me? You men are all the same." "Chill, I'm just asking." "Get out! Take your dirty money and get out!" She threw the cash at my face. I crouched down to pick up the bills. That's when it hit me. Like a lightning bolt. I stood up and looked around. The windows faced North and South. They were covered with frosted paper. It was the exact time of day Ethan claimed the fight happened. There was no shadow on the floor. Not a distinct one. Ethan lied. 4 Why did he lie? And is X really dead? I rushed to the precinct and told Detective Ramirez. Ramirez smirked. "Not bad, reporter. We knew he was lying. Honestly? We suspect Ethan might be X." "What? No way. Why?" "His travel records. Over the last few years, Ethan has been in every city where X killed a girl, right around the time of the murders." "Coincidence? He's a profiler." "Maybe. But when you stare into the abyss, right? Plus, his sister. Her file has been cold for years. We think she's dead." I went back for a second interview. "What is your relationship with Chloe? Really." "She was my patient," Ethan said. "Then my girlfriend. I was testing a new hypnosis therapy. Long-term, slow-burn suggestion. I needed a volunteer who would let me reshape memories." "Hypnosis? You serious?" "It works. Chloe was scared of someone. She told me under hypnosis that a man wanted to cut her heart out. She wouldn't give me a name. We grew close during the sessions. I fell for her. I went to her place that day to confess my feelings, and I walked in on the attack." "Did the experiment work?" "No." "Okay. Next question. Ramirez thinks you're X. Your travel history matches the murders." "I'm a criminal psychologist. I study X. I track him. I go to the crime scenes to profile him. I felt like I knew him. I never expected to be the one to kill him." "Right. One more thing. You said you saw X's shadow on the floor. I went to Chloe's apartment. The lighting, the frosted glass... you couldn't have seen a sharp shadow. Why lie?" Ethan froze. He opened his mouth, but Ramirez burst in and dragged me out. 5 Ramirez looked grave. "No more interviews. We found new evidence." They found a shrine of X's photos in Ethan's house. The dead guy's real name was Caleb. Caleb didn't die from the vase. He died of poison. Caleb sent a text to Chloe before he died: "Run. Ethan is X." They found microscope slides of human tissue in Ethan's apartment. "I can't let you talk to him anymore," Ramirez said. "But if you want to investigate on your own... be my guest. Just don't print those four points yet." I went back to the hotel, buzzing. But something didn't add up. Ethan said he met Chloe six months ago. I went back to Chloe's. I harassed her until she slipped up. "What hypnosis? I've known Ethan for three years!" She slammed the door again. Ethan lied about the timeline. I needed to know about Caleb. The dead "X." I went to Caleb's apartment. The landlord was clearing it out. "He was a quiet guy," the landlord said. "Had a girlfriend once, then she stopped coming. He got skinny. Looked like a skeleton recently. No way he killed people. He didn't have the strength to open a jar." The room was empty. Just a bed and a desk. I looked around, frustrated. Then I saw a picture frame on the wall. It wasn't a painting. It was a slide puzzle. I started sliding the tiles. Head. Torso. Legs. Wings. Click. It formed the image of X's third victim—the "ascending angel." The frame popped open. A notebook fell out. I opened it. It was a list of phone numbers and cities. I called the first one. "Hello?" A woman answered. "Hi, um..." "Look, it's $200 for an hour, $500 overnight. Condoms mandatory." I hung up. Called the next. "I told you, I haven't seen any customers with a limp! Stop calling!" I froze. The notebook was a directory of sex workers across the country. A photo slipped out of the back pages. It was a group shot: St. Jude’s Home for Boys - New Year's Eve. I recognized the kids. It was Ethan. His little sister, Lily. And a third boy holding her hand. That boy must be Caleb. Ethan and the "Killer" grew up together.
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