Writing fiction is an adventure. A world appears in the imagination and then the author gets to watch his creations find their way. It is tempting to protect them, but the good writer knows there must be conflict, danger, bad days, or it isn’t a good read.

Do you really want to hear the story of the guy who is loaded, gets along with everyone, and wakes up happy every day? No, you do not.

But it can’t be all doom and gloom, either. Sometimes we need to have a bit of fun. That is what I did the other night with part 2 of chapter 20, of Killing Hemingway. I liked the idea of Teddy meeting a hero. And he did.

******

The stuff at the beginning of a books, before the story starts, is called front matter. The front matter always has something about “all the characters are fictional,” so as to avoid any painful litigation from someone who thinks the story was about them.

So, my young protagonist gets to meet the real Nobel Prize winning professor from M.I.T, Wolfgang Ketterle. Teddy really liked meeting him. It’s a great name for a physicist, too, Wolfgang Ketterle. It just sounds smart, but alas, I don’t get credit for the name…his parents do.

You see, Dr. Ketterle isn’t fictional. He really did win the Nobel Prize in Physics.

I didn’t have his permission, so I was thinking of fictionalizing the name, but I decided to send him an email to ask if he minded.

He wrote me back.

Getting a response from a Nobel Prize winning physicist was much more exciting than I would have imagined. He said he didn’t mind me using his name. He added that he had read the chapter and enjoyed it.

I guess it never hurts to ask.

After Seth had dropped them off, Vikram wanted to go tell his mom might right away. Teddy decided he was going to pass on Vikram’s aunt’s birthday party. Vikram understood and waved as he began peddling like he was in the Tour De France.

Teddy walked with his bike.

I know you, you’re Teddy Alexander, kept playing on a loop in his mind. He started to cough. His stomach churned. He stopped at the park a few blocks from his house. The bench offered a chance to slow down his mind. There was a bunny, so Teddy focused on it.

The rabbit cleaned its foot and then went back to nibbling on some grass. Teddy thought it looked like a Peter, but then that seemed too obvious. The rabbit came closer. It was definitely a Peter, cliché or not. Much as he loved the sciences, he thought dissecting small creatures was gross.

He stopped looking at the rabbit and stared off at the passing traffic. Why did I think about biology? There wasn’t an answer. His little voice was just as stunned by their meeting with his seventh favorite Nobel Prize winner. He’s in the top three now.

The rabbit had been joined by a squirrel. It didn’t look like they were friends, more acquaintances. A bird flew past. Somebody was honking a horn at the corner. It wasn’t interesting enough to look up. Teddy shivered, though it was warm. His mind was back online.

M.I.T. sat on the Charles River in Cambridge, Massachusetts. It was a great school. That was all Teddy knew about the place, except that his third favorite Nobel Prize winner worked there and knew his name.

Teddy thought about how long it took to fly to New York City whenever they went for a visit. It was a long ways away. He could imagine himself taking classes, learning all sorts of wonderful things, and maybe even having his best friend Vikram there, too. He started to cry.

He missed his mom. She was only a few blocks away, but it seemed like thousands. He would go home and tell her what happened and then it would only seem like a few minutes before he would be done with high school and off to college, then a masters degree, and a Phd. Other people would know his name, and it would be nice like meeting professor Ketterle, but he really just wanted to have a girlfriend.

He wiped his arm across his eyes. The bunny hopped away and he was alone with the life he had yet to live flashing before his eyes. An old woman walking a tiny dog asked if he was okay. He said he was, and started to explain, but then stopped. “I’m fine, thanks.”

She gave him a look that actually made him less sad. She continued with her walk and he looked for the bunny, again. It was near a bush. He couldn’t see the squirrel. Teddy took a couple of deep breaths. Watching the Peter calmed his mind and after a while, he climbed aboard his bike and regained the excitement of being known by a Nobel winner.

He told his parent. Afterward, he called Mr. Ternov. They talked for an hour, but only a little bit about Physics, his future, or anything scary. Mostly, they talked about chess and the rabbit from the park. Mr. Ternov agreed that it was the right name to give the rabbit.

Tuesday, June 5, 11:00 a.m., Bobby Jones, Session V.

Jon yelled, “Have you seen him?”

Kimberly said, “No.”

“Has he called?”

“No.”

“But you called everyone else and cancelled?”

“Yes, but I couldn’t get hold of Mr. Mayer.”

“You didn’t accidentally call Mr. Jones, did you?”

“No, I don’t even have his number on file. He never filled that in on the form.”

Jon was getting nervous. The ending to his book was nowhere to be seen. He tapped his pen on the desk and then Kimberly put a call through. He grabbed the phone a bit too quickly, and then gathered his composure, before saying, “Hello…oh, it’s you detective, no, he is late.”

The second time the detective called, he was beginning to lose his patience. The third call, just before noon, was simply to tell Jon to go fuck himself.

Jon got Kimberly on the phone and said, “You can have the rest of the day off.”

The next two hours Jon sat in a fog. He could still finish his book, but it wouldn’t be the same. Had Bobby somehow found out about the detective? He must have. Jon was disgusted with himself. He got greedy. He should have just let Bobby go and, after the book came out, helped to track him down.

At 2:00 p.m., he was startled by a knock on the door. He jumped up, hurried to the door, and flung it open. His shoulders dropped. “Oh, it’s you, Mr. Mayer. You might as well come in.”

“You’re not glad to see me?”

“It isn’t that; I’ve just had a long day,” he said, turning to walk back to his desk. He took two steps before he was dropped to the floor. Jon didn’t know what hit him but then felt a burst of electricity and realized he was being hit with a taser. He couldn’t move. He lay on his stomach and saw a handkerchief close over his mouth.

*******

When Jon awoke, he was duct-taped to his office chair. A gag was in his mouth. The room seemed to be spinning, and he couldn’t understand what was going on. There didn’t seem to be anyone in the room and then Mr. Mayer came out of the closet. The door was splintered and broken. Mr. Mayer spoke, but it wasn’t his voice. “Hello, Doctor.”

Jon mumbled something, and Mr. Mayer said, “Now, I’m going to take the gag out of your mouth so we can talk. It is well after business hours, so nobody can hear you if you should yell out, but even so, if you do, I’ll tase you again. Got it?”

Jon nodded.

He stretched his jaw and realized whose voice was coming out of Mr. Mayer’s mouth. It was Bobby’s.

Bobby said, “Let me ask you a question.”

“Okay,” Jon said, having little choice in the matter.

“What do you think the brand is?”

“I have no idea.”

“That is strange, since you seem to be a fan of the currently as-of-yetncaught Tic Tac Toe Killer who uses a brand.”

Jon didn’t say anything.

“I find it interesting that you’ve never jumped to the conclusion that it was me.”

Jon gave a shrug.

“The reason you’ve never considered me to be the Tic Tac Toe Killer is because you knew that was impossible, didn’t you?”

“He always uses a rope; you don’t.”

“Yes, but when I first mentioned the brand, you didn’t know that. I’d have thought it would have been your first guess, but it wasn’t because, as we both know, you are the Tic Tac Toe Killer.” Bobby dropped a rope on the desk and gently laid the ring Jon had used to brand his victims beside it.

Jon didn’t say anything.

Bobby looked at him for a long while and said, “I see you wrote up my evaluation.  I read it while you were out. It is pretty good but not as good as your book. I’ll admit I haven’t read it all, but the parts about me are very captivating.”

“Thanks. I’m curious if I may ask, one professional to another, how many kills do you have?”

“You may ask, certainly, but I’m not sure I’m ready to tell you.”

“What is your brand then? You’ve got to give me that.”

“It is a phone with a single app on the screen,” Bobby said, taking out a money clip and showing Jon.

“It’s very nice.”

“Thanks.”

“Was that whole bit about the stockbroker bullshit?”

“Nope, not at all,” Bobby said, as he pulled a lighter from his desk and picked up the ring from the desk. He held it over the flame.

“What are you going to do with that?”

“You know what this is for. It is to brand the Tic Tac Toe Killer’s victims.”

Jon looked confused.

“I’m going to put the gag back in because I imagine you’ll want to scream.”

Jon’s eyes got big, and he tried to fight being gagged but didn’t have the strength. Bobby replaced the gag then ran the ring over the flame a while longer. He pressed it into Jon’s neck until it seared his flesh. Jon’s muted screams went unheard. Bobby sat down and pulled out a bag of peanuts. He flipped on the TV and watched baseball for a half hour as Jon struggled and wept. Bobby cracked the nuts open and popped them in his mouth. After about three innings, he said, “I love baseball. It is such a great game. There are few joys better than sitting at Yankee Stadium with a bag of peanuts on a warm June day. I’m sure you’ve figured it out by now, but I’m taking all of your kills or more aptly borrowing them. You’ll be the 38th victim. That must really gall you, knowing that all your planning and all, and in the end, history will remember you as one of the stupid victims.”

Jon screamed something, but Bobby continued, “In fact, I’m thinking of adding a few chapters about Tic Tac Toe to our book. Well, ours in the sense that it is a collaborative effort, but I’m afraid I can’t include you beyond being victim 38. There just isn’t enough room on the cover for us both.”

Bobby wiped his hands together and took the ball gag out. He gave Jon a smack across the face.

“No, I’m allergic to peanuts.”

“I know. Soon you’ll die a horrible death. It will be somewhat ironic I think. I’m sure the papers will pick up on it. They’ll probably say that your ballooning up and all was the reason that the killer left behind his rope.”

Jon felt his throat beginning to close and his eyes starting to swell shut. He was past angry and had moved to bargaining, but it was hard to talk. “Please, don’t do this, there is a needle…”

“I know I could save you, but I’m not going to. I’ve got all I need right here. I’ll be off now. I’ll be planting this evidence at the stockbroker’s place, and then it will be done. He’ll be ruined and jailed and can spend the rest of his life paying for what he did to my mother.”

Jon knew the end was near and had accepted it, but he managed to mumble one, last question. “One thing, please, how many kills do you have?”

“At the moment, zero.” Bobby grabbed the box of notes and locks of hair from each victim including the one he had just added from Jon, tucked it under his arm, and walked out. The next day, after making an anonymous call to the police and watching them arrest the stockbroker, he declared himself cured.

The End…

It was suggested I change the name of the story to Killer App. What do you think? I like it, but I want to know what you readers think.

If you liked my writing, you may want to check out my new page with some of my books.

Tuesday, May 29, 11:00 a.m., Bobby Jones, Session IV.

Bobby didn’t even say hello; he started right up the second the door closed behind him. “I think some additional information about the stockbroker is important. He retired from robbing people five years after I buried Mom. He was 45 at the time, loved fishing, and decided to get out of the rat race apparently. He left the city and bought a huge piece of land about a hundred miles north of the border. I’ve been there. Not to see him, but I’ve seen it. It’s in the middle of nowhere. Apparently, he rarely leaves, has all his food delivered four times a year, and spends his days fishing and hunting. Some say he is writing a memoir.”

“He sounds like an easy target all alone. Why all this other stuff?”

“He has earned punishment greater than death.”

Jon liked the sound of that and wrote it in his notes even though the recorder had it. He wanted to ask what it meant, but Bobby had already moved on.

“So, it was time. The first victim was a blonde from NYU. I followed her for a few days and found she always walked home from one particular bar, drunk, and alone. She was not the best-looking girl. I used a gun with a silencer and simply shot her in the head and put the body in my trunk. It was surprisingly easy. The rush was fantastic. I realized it was a little too clean a kill and suspected the authorities might assume it was a professional hit. This was okay, though, because I could do the next one differently. The key was the placement of the body and leaving my mark.”

“You still haven’t told me what type of mark.”

“Patience, Doctor. Most serial killers would mark the body, which has always seemed rather pedestrian to me.”

Jon, almost offended, said, “Why do you say that? Most serial killers use the marking as a signature. What makes it pedestrian?”

Bobby smiled and looked at Jon long enough that it became uncomfortable. “It has been done to death. Pun intended. I’m better than them, so I marked the locations. I simply took my lighter and brand and left my mark. That way, when the body was gone, my signature remained. One day, when the world knows of my masterpiece, people will be able to take a walking tour of the Golden Ratio of death.”

Jon liked that, too, and quickly wrote it down. He had to admit there was an elegance in the way Bobby’s mind worked.

“I had also failed to consider the DNA that might be left behind in my car. Though it was registered under the ghost’s name, I didn’t want to make it easier than need be for the police. After the first one was finished, I took a drive down to D.C. and left the car in a spot that was known for auto theft. I checked back three hours later, and it was gone. The D.C. metro is convenient because it is so easy to get to Reagan National Airport. I was home before I knew it. While money isn’t a concern, I didn’t want to spend 50K on each victim. From that point forward, I bought cheap cars. A little research, and I was confident I could use them for two or three kills before I sent them to the scrap yard.

In less than a week, the Travel Phone had found me plenty of easy victims in all shapes and sizes. I started to put some thought into not only the placement, but how I might frame the crime. The fourth victim needed to be put in a specific unit in a high end building, though, I suppose, I could have used the units above it. I preferred the ground floor. I digress. The point is, it was a bit tricky getting the body to the unit without being seen. I actually did it in two phases. It was easy to break into 103, but it wouldn’t have been if I had had to carry a body over my shoulder, so I left the mark behind a credenza then had a freezer delivered with the body inside. The couple who lived there both worked, and the doorman let the delivery guys into their place. Of course, I covered my tracks with regards to the pick-up and delivery, but that isn’t a particularly compelling story.”

“What happened to the people who lived there? Were they suspects?”

“No, the police realized that nobody would kill someone and have the body shipped to their home. They decided it was some sort of message from the mob as the wife was a lawyer who had worked on some cases that fit their logic.”

“So, the police didn’t see the pattern yet?”

“They still don’t.”

“That is very unusual. Most serial killers thrive on proving they are outfoxing the police.”

“I am NOT most serial killers.”

“I meant no offense.”

Bobby laughed. “I’m just messing with you, Doctor. I’ve read your paper, and that is true, but I have grander plans than simply outwitting a government employee. I mean, really, how tough is that?”

“So, how many have you killed?”

“It isn’t the number that is important though it is impressive. It is the Golden Ratio and all the points I’ve drawn. I’ve been at it for over 18 months and am nearly ready to put the finishing touches on my piece de résistance.”

“So you plan on stopping?”

“Yes.”

“Is that why you’ve come to me? To help you stop?”

“In a manner of speaking. In fact, next week will be the last session. All I want from you, Doctor, is a written analysis of our sessions. I am sure that will be enough for me to reach the fifth stage, acceptance.”

Jon, not quite sure he was ready to see the star of his book disappear, objected. “I think you’ll find that it isn’t so easy to quit. The thrill, the adrenaline, the rush of it all is like a drug.”

“Be that as it may, I’m ready to move on. In fact, I’ve brought you something.” Bobby reached into his pocket and pulled out a single, folded sheet of paper. He stood, laid it on the desk, took out a pen, and signed and dated it in front of Jon. Jon picked it up and read. He couldn’t believe his eyes. “You are releasing me from the patient-doctor privilege?”

“Yes. After next Tuesday, I won’t care.” With that, he got up and left.

Jon paced for a solid five minutes, considering the possibilities. He was sure that his book would make it to number one and stay there. He would do the talk show circuit then spend the rest of his life traveling the world. Actually, he hated being a psychiatrist. Retirement was one chapter away. He was too excited to eat, so he called Kimberly into his office for the next hour. When he was done, he showered, put on fresh clothes, and made a call.

“Hello, detective, this is…”

“I know who you are, you ass. I think about you every day. You know that guy killed again because of you.”

“I know, I screwed you over, but I’m going to make it up to you a dozen times over.”

“I can’t imagine how.”

“I’m quitting. I’m getting out of this racket.”

“I couldn’t care less.”

“Yes, but my last act is to serve you up with not just a killer but a serial killer.”

“You know something about the Tic Tac Toe Killer?”

Jon took a long breath. “No, not that one. I have a patient who has admitted to killing more people than I can count, and he has done it in a very nontraditional serial killer sort of way. I don’t believe anyone has connected the dots.”

“I think you’re full of shit.”

“I might be, but do you want this guy or not?”

“I’m listening.”

“Next Tuesday, he’s coming in for the last time. All you have to do show up and grab him. I’ll turn over all my notes and tapes and testify, whatever you need.”

“You’ll lose your license.”

“I don’t care. I’m done.”

“I’ll call you back.”

The rest of the day was a breeze. Mr. Mayer even noticed what a fantastic mood Jon was in.

That weekend Jon reviewed all his notes. On Sunday, the detective came in, and they talked for four hours. By the end of their meeting, he was sold. He agreed to be there on Tuesday, but with one caveat: Jon would cancel all his appointments that day save for the one with Bobby. Jon agreed and went to dinner. It was the first time he’d left the office in three weeks, and he was on top of the world.

Monday was cruelly slow. Tuesday morning was, too, until 10 a.m. when the detective called and explained they would be right down the hall. They’d call him shortly after eleven, and, if Bobby was there, he’d say, “Yes, I’m happy to reschedule.” Then they would swoop in and get him.

Tuesday, May 22, 11:00 a.m., Bobby Jones, Session III.  Jon had it written on the top of the pad long before 11:00 because he didn’t want to waste a second when Bobby arrived. Bobby was right on time. He sat down and asked, “Where did we stop last time?”

Jon didn’t hesitate. “You were saying that you had not figured out how to use the phone to randomize your choices.”

“Ah, yes,” he said, smiling. “Have you heard of Foursquare?”

“The game kids play?”

“No, there is an iPhone app. It is sort of like a game.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Well, as I said, I had built up a following, or more accurately, my ghost had, and so it seemed like Foursquare might be the answer to my problems.”

“How so?”

“The way it works, one downloads the app to his phone and then signs up. It is simple, and I used my ghost’s information and avatar to get started. Once I figured out the basics, I started another account just for the Travel Phone. I’m a student of human nature, and I estimated that most of the people who would be using and passing along the Travel Phone would be tech savvy and might also be on Foursquare themselves. I added the instructions, 5) Check me in with Foursquare. Actually, I retyped the list and made that the first instruction.”

“How did that solve your randomization problem?”

“It wouldn’t, if I were wrong about human nature, but I was ready to send the Travel Phone out into the world and test it out. I picked a Starbucks on 5th Avenue and left the phone, but a helpful old man caught me before I was out the door and returned it.  Thankfully, there are Starbucks every hundred yards, and, this time, I left it under a newspaper. Travel Phone’s adventure had begun.”

“Did it go as you had planned?”

“It did. Actually, it went better than I had planned. But let me explain my victim selection logic first.”

Jon grabbed his pad and pen. “Please do.”

“The first victim would be chosen from the first location on Travel Phone’s adventure. I would choose them from the pictures. I should mention that Foursquare has the ability for one to take pictures at the location after checking in. I added “take ten pictures” with Foursquare to the instructions. The best part of the Travel Phone’s victim selection plan is that it lets me view the pictures online.”

Jon looked up. “Brilliant, so you didn’t need to get the phone back to see the photos.”

Bobby smiled at the compliment. “Yes, that is correct. I could log on anywhere through an anonymous IP address and see where the little guy was going. I still needed to figure out who the people in the photos were in order for my plan to work, but that wouldn’t be too much of a challenge.”

“That seems like a huge challenge to me.”

“Social media and the internet have given us an unbelievable resource for tracking people down, but, in the end, it didn’t matter.”

“It didn’t?”

“No, because something quite wonderful happened that first afternoon. The first person who took the phone to a new venue also ‘friended’ Travel Phone. A surprising number of people who were in the photos did, too. In just the first stop, Travel Phone had twelve friends.”

“That does make it easier.”

“Yes, and I changed my rules for victim selection.”

“Most serial killers don’t deviate from their methods.”

“True, but I hadn’t killed anyone yet.”

“Fair point.”

“The new rule was the first new friend at the next location, then the sixth at the next, then the first, then the eighth, and, if Travel Phone didn’t get six or eight new friends, the count would continue even if it moved to a new place.”

“So you’ve adhered to the Golden Rule.”

“I had, but I wanted more.”

“More?”

“The plan was to create a masterpiece of death that was unrivaled in history. The selection was perfect, but the execution of each kill would be the brush strokes in my painting. As I said, I had little interest in sticking to one method of killing. What I chose to do instead was add to my canvas with the body placement.”

Jon flipped through his notes. “Have you told me what was on the brand yet?”

“I haven’t.”

There was a pause, then Jon said, “This is all confidential; you can trust me.”

“In good time, Doctor. Let me see, where was I? Oh, yes, the placement of the bodies. Once I had that nailed down, I could begin. The golden ratio is also found in the spiral of sea shells. It starts with a right triangle of one unit by one unit by the square root of two units. Then the second larger triangle continues at 90 degrees from the first, but the new side is now the square root of two, with the hypotenuse now being two.”

“Yes, I’m familiar with Pythagoras.”

“So, the first victim would be left near the original spot of Travel Phone, and then I’d have to see where the second spot would take me. As it turned out, Travel Phone moved only 50 meters between stop one and two. This gave me my starting distance of 50 meters and my direction. Are you with me?”

“I believe I am, but what if the next location didn’t land on your Golden sea shell?”

“That wasn’t an issue, because the body placement was separate from the selection. I merely used the first two destinations to choose where to begin.”

Jon wrote down some notes and said, “May I ask a question before you continue?”

“Ask away.”

“You’ve put a lot of thought into this, but I don’t see the connection to the stockbroker who took your mother’s money – is there one?”

“Yes, it is the final stroke of my masterpiece, but I don’t want to ruin the ending.”

“Please continue then.”

Bobby stood. “I’m feeling a little tired. I think that is all I have in me for today. I’ll see you next week.”

Jon replied, “You still have a lot of time.”

“I know,” he said and walked out.

Jon rubbed his hands over his face. His head was spinning. He yelled, “Kimberly, I’m going to need you to run out for lunch again.”

She popped her head through the door. “Meatball sandwich?”

Jon got up and fished some bills out of his wallet. “I think the one I want is called the Italian. All I know is that it has salami, cappricola, ham, provolone, lettuce, tomato, onions, mayonnaise, and all on a baguette.”

“Yes, I think you are right. I’ve had it.”

“Great, get me some chips and another six pack of Coke. Buy yourself whatever you like.”

Jon didn’t bother with digging out his research; he had been writing almost non-stop for the last week, and all he wanted to do was get today’s session down while it was fresh. The words flew from his fingers like angry hornets. When Kimberly returned with the food, he didn’t even stop to eat. At 1:00 p.m., he told Kimberly to call Mr. Mayer and cancel, but he couldn’t be reached. Jon wrote for the next hour and begrudgingly saw the rest of the day’s patients. He made Kimberly stay late again then worked well into the night. Somewhere around midnight he started to scour the internet for anything about his client, but he eventually gave up.

The next morning came much too quickly. He hadn’t left the office in eight days, and Kimberly had added dry-cleaning to her daily routine. Jon changed clothes and sent Kimberly to Starbucks. He told her not to pick up any strange phones. She had no idea what he was talking about but did as she was told.

Jon spent the entire weekend roaming the internet. He found countless forums and blog posts about people who had done things similar to the Travel Phone. Some had sent out disposable cameras, others little cut out of a character (one named Flat Stanley), which was done by a 5th grade class. Flat Stanley travelled to nine states then to France, Italy, and Hungary before being sent back to the class in Alabama. The kids wrote reports about Stanley’s adventures, and the teacher put them online. The pictures were rather cute.

It was 2:00 a.m. Monday morning when Jon found the first reference to Travel Phone. There were three pictures on a forum taken from a bar in the Meatpacking District. In total, seven comments, all positive, but that was it. Travel Phone had not gone viral, as they say.

Tuesday, May 15, 11:00 a.m., Bobby Jones, Session II had been written across the top of the notes. Jon said, “We left off talking about how your success hasn’t filled the emptiness.”

“I believe I said hole, but yes.”

Jon flipped back to the previous page, “Ah, here it is, yes you did. I stand corrected.”

“It really doesn’t matter. I’m probably too anal about details, but, if I weren’t, I’d have been caught long ago.”

“Caught?”

“I should probably back up. Before the first kill, I spent close to three years getting ready.”

Jon pulled out his poker face. “The first kill?”

“Yes, I’ll get to that, but you need to understand I’ve been very careful.”

Jon wrote furiously. He noted the time, the cold facial expression, the posture, and lack of hand gestures. The man before him redefined calm.

“The first thing I did was get a hold of a social security number. It was easy. The young man stopped needing it when the leukemia did him in a week after his third birthday. I set up an offshore account in his name and filled it with five million dollars. From that account I built his credit rating, which is excellent. No major purchases mind you – a TV here, a washer and dryer, a Honda Accord.  All were donated to various charities anonymously.”

“Do you mind if I record our sessions? It is entirely…”

“I don’t mind at all as long as you remember that it’s all confidential.”

“Of course it is.”

“I’d be very disappointed if it wasn’t.”

The tone was even, and Jon couldn’t be sure if it had been intended as a threat. He let it go and retrieved his digital recorder from his desk. “Please continue, and yes, it is all confidential.”

“Good. Anyway, I used the account to set up two other offshore accounts as backups. It was these accounts that I used to buy my first secure email account. Free accounts wouldn’t do. From there I set up another account. Each account served only one purpose.”

“How so?”

“I had one account that I used for my ghost’s Twitter account. I had one for Facebook, another for LinkedIn, and – the last one was the key – it was for the phone. Later, once Foursquare came about, I created another for that app.”

“Did you use the same boy for each of the accounts?”

“No, I used a combination of a dead Russian composer’s first name and a lesser known painter’s surname. The name isn’t important. What I’m trying to say is, I built a detailed footprint for my ghost. I have thousands of Twitter friends, four hundred people who know and like me on Facebook, and a hundred or so business contacts on LinkedIn.”

Jon, no longer needing to take notes, lightly tapped his pen on the pad until Bobby stopped and looked at him.

“Am I making you nervous?”

“What? Oh, sorry, childhood habit,” Jon said as he set down the pen. “Please go on.”

“I know the intimate details of hundreds of people, and they, me, or at least, they think they do. It is all a smoke screen, but that isn’t so impressive; the clever bit is how I choose the victims.”

“How many people have there been?”

“I’ll get to that. You wrote a paper at Harvard about serial killers. The part about there being rules really impressed me.”

“Yes, the rules are very important to people becoming serial killers.”

“You said, and I’m only paraphrasing, it was because they wanted to get caught. I thought that was crap when I read it, but now I’m not so sure.”

“Interesting,” Jon said as he grabbed the pen and made a note for later: Wants to get caught?

“I decided that I needed rules, but I definitely did not want to get caught. The first thing I wanted was a signature. I didn’t care much about using some exotic weapon, as that was a lot of bother and rather limiting, but there had to be a thread that tied them all together. I decided on a tiny brand.”

“A brand?”

“Like on cattle.”

“A branding iron?”

“Yes, but much smaller. I flew all the way to Malaysia and found a very old artisan who could make it.”

“What does it look like?”

“Not right now, but I’ll show you eventually. Suffice it to say, it’s unique and, if I do say so myself, very 21st century.”

Jon wrote down 21st century and looked up. When he did, Bobby continued, “So I had my mark, but I needed a method to choose the victims. I considered picking people from social media, but I thought that some clever math guy with a computer would find the connection. I love the show Numb3rs – do you watch it?”

“I’ve heard of it but never seen the show.”

Bobby seemed disappointed but only for a moment. “Well, anyway, I put a lot of thought into victim selection and couldn’t come up with anything elegant and artful. I was starting to think I might never get around to killing anyone, which would have been a shame. Then I saw a sea shell in a shop in the Florida Keys.”

“Why did you go to the Keys?”

“It was a hard winter in New York, and I was cold.”

“Fair enough.”

“The sea shell reminded me of the Golden Ratio and all of the examples in nature. That was going to be my method. I had to use the number 1.618 somehow.”

Jon began to draw spirals on his notepad as he listened.

“As I said, preparation was key, and now I had my first rule. More of a theme in the end. Now, how to apply it? So, I kept my eyes open and let fate lead the way. A few days later I read a blog post about a phone that had been left in a bar and how someone had picked it up, taken a picture of himself, and then left it at another bar. That night the phone went to three different bars, and then the next day the owner called it and tracked it down. The photos from the phone’s adventure were of people out having a good time, and the owner commented that the phone had had more fun than he did that night. An idea was born. I bought an iPhone 3S and cleared off most of the apps, leaving the phone app, the audio app, and the YouTube app. To the back of the case I taped a simple note, ‘Hello, my name is Travel Phone. 1) Take me someplace fun,  2) Keep me in NYC, 3) Take photos, 4) Give me a charge now and again.’ Then I realized the problem: the phone would travel about, but how would I use that randomness?”

Jon was on the edge of his chair.

Bobby looked at his watch. “We’ll have to continue from here next week.  I have to go.”

With that, he was up and gone.

Jon called Kimberly into his office. He rarely did this, but, when he did, it meant only one thing. She had a debt that was long from being paid. Though it disgusted her, she couldn’t refuse his request. The worst part was that it was always during lunch, and she had to live with the shame for the rest of the afternoon before she could go home and wash his musk off her body. She locked the office door as was expected and walked in, unbuttoning her blouse.

He waved his hand. “No, not that. I need you to cancel my lunch reservation and then run out and get me a meatball sub and a six pack of Coke. Here,” he said, handing her a fifty, “get yourself some lunch, too.”

When he heard her leave, he went to the locked closet and pulled out a thick three-ring binder filled with his research. Next he grabbed the stack of newspapers. Each paper had an article about the Tic Tac Toe Killer who was known for branding his strangulation victims with a small tic tac toe board containing an x  in the center square. Jon flipped through the papers, one at a time, reading the crime sections and looking for clues. He checked over every murder and accident listed but didn’t see any hint of what Bobby was talking about.

It had been five years since his bestseller. Three years ago, he had set out to write the definitive work on the mind of serial killers. It was to be his crowning glory. Jon imagined movie deals and even more wealth, not that he needed the money. He missed the accolades that went with a New York Times bestseller. Bobby wandered into his life, and he took it as fate. It was the singular sign that his new book would be all that he imagined. It would no longer just be about other famous killers; it would include patient…X. He chuckled to himself at the irony.

Twenty minutes passed. He gathered everything and locked it back in the closet. A few minutes later, Kimberly returned with lunch. The meatball sandwich was fantastic, and the next ninety minutes flew by.

Kimberly showed Mr. Mayer in for his appointment. Jon stood, but he waved him off. “Nonsense, stay where you are, I know my way to the couch.”

“How are you today, Mr. Mayer?”

“I’m better than a goy with a BLT.”

“I do love some bacon.”

“I wouldn’t know, but I hear good things. Let’s kibitz.”

“Go right ahead.”

“I’ve been coming here for a long time, and I’ve learned you are a man of habits. Eating lunch at your desk is not one of them. Something wrong?”

“Not at all. In fact, I’m fantastic. May I tell you a secret?”

Mr. Mayer put his hand over his heart. “I won’t tell a soul.”

“I’m working on another book, and I think I’ve found my ending.”

“Every book needs one. What’s it about?”

“I really shouldn’t say, but it will be even bigger than the first one.”

“Good for you.”

“Thanks. Now, how was your week?”

The rest of the hour covered a checkers tournament, senior center gossip, several detailed descriptions of meals, and a sad bit about the anniversary of his mother’s passing.

The last two patients came and went. Jon took few notes and barely listened.  When Kimberly knocked and asked if there was anything else, he said, “Yes, one more thing.” The look in his eye made her shudder, but she locked the door and returned to his office anyway. When he was done, he pulled out his wallet and reached in. Much to her relief, he didn’t pull out bills, which would have been unbearable. Instead, he handed her a dry-cleaning ticket and said, “Be a doll and grab this on your way into work tomorrow.”

One of the perks of success was prime office real estate. He had a full bathroom and a small bar. Jon had pizza delivered and spent the rest of the evening writing up notes from the taped session with Bobby.