Historical March 1990 report or notice. Original dates, prices and contacts describe the source period; current availability has not been established.
For months now, he had been planning how he would do it.
He really didn’t care about who he did it to; the subject was quite immaterial, although necessary. She—and it needed to be a she—would be a tool, that’s all.
As long as he could remember he had thought about it.
The perfect crime, that is. Whenever he wrote about it in his diary, he always put it all in capitals. THE PERFECT CRIME he would write.
Sometimes he would use a marker to write it on the wall of public restrooms. “Are you ready for ‘THE PERFECT CRIME?”‘ he would write. Once, a couple of years ago, he sent a postcard to the police station on Union Avenue with “THE PERFECT CRIME is coming—are you ready?” written on it.
After he mailed the postcard, though, he grew very afraid and didn’t leave his apartment for almost a week.
He was smarter than to write on the card; his handwriting could be traced, he knew.
Instead he had cut out letters from magazines and glued them together to form his message.
But then he worried that maybe they could trace the magazines to him or find his fingerprints in the glue. Twice, he was sure, he had seen unmarked cars, solid color Chevrolets with men in wide-brim hats riding inside, driving down his street.
He was really scared then.
He was sure that they were looking for him.
He was worried about being caught and sent back to the hospital, but he was more worried that he wouldn’t get a chance to do it. Being in the hospital again wouldn’t be so bad if he had done it.
He had first thought about THE PERFECT CRIME when he was in the hospital for the second time, or maybe it was the third time.
There was some program on television, some kind of cop show, and he remembered the cop, a tall thin man, saying, “They all think they can accomplish THE PERFECT CRIME, but they’re wrong!’ That seemed like a long, long time ago, even though he was only released four years ago.
Now he didn’t work, and spent most of his time watching television, especially police shows.
He also thought a lot about THE PERFECT CRIME. THE PERFECT CRIME, he had decided, needed to be simple.
There couldn’t be any motive, besides committing it.
He wasn’t interested in robbing anyone or hurting anyone, just a quick murder. • He had identified his victim.
She was a college student who lived up the street from his apartment.
He sat on his porch and watched her coming and leaving throughout the day.
He knew that the times that she walked to and from school were fairly predictable, and she didn’t seem to have any friends. Earlier he had selected two other candidates, but one had a boyfriend and one moved away, so he was left with the girl in the black coat.
He didn’t know her name, but that was just as well.
He wished that he could kill the girl in the black coat without injuring her, but that was impossible.
At least he wanted it to be painless. Being painless meant that it had to be quick. That pretty much ruled out a blunt instrument. Loud noises scared him and attracted a lot of attention as well, so that meant that a gun was out of the question.
He wasn’t very big—she was at least as big as he was—and all of the years of being tied to the bed had weakened him, so he was not going to let himself get into a fight with her.
He walked to the university library and tried reading about poisons, but he couldn’t understand or remember all of the odd-sounding names.
A wry smile crossed over his face as he realized that this was one of the reasons why it was so hard to commit THE PERFECT CRIME.
He became even more excited about the idea.
For four days in a row he had gone to the university library.
He went to the sociology section and looked through the books and journals on criminology.
With all of the articles about crimes, criminals, and crime detection, he was sure that he’d find a way to commit his PERFECT CRIME.
Besides, he enjoyed reading about all of the horrible acts that others had done.
But everybody that he read about had been caught and he knew that he wouldn’t be.
On Thursday he was sitting at a big table, looking at the pictures of electric chairs, when a voice whispered, “Can I sit here beside you?” He quickly closed the book, he was always afraid that others would see what he was reading and know what he was up to.
He looked up and saw her.
It was the girl in the black coat. Dumbly he nodded yes, and she sat down next to him, her coat draped over her arm. “I’ve been watching you!’ she began. “I’m a soc major and I’m really into criminology, so I notice when someone new is in this section of the library. Are you a plainclothesman or what?” she asked. “No, uh, no. I just like to read,” he responded.
At first he could not handle the flood of emotions and thoughts that were washing in his brain.
The girl in the black coat was here, talking to him. Part of him wanted to run so he wouldn’t get to know her, and part of him wanted to grab her now and do it.
He was thinking a thousand thoughts but couldn’t think. “Well yes or no?” she asked with impatience in her voice.
He realized that he had not been listening to her. “I’m sorry, what did you say?” he asked. “I said that I’d like to know what you’ve been reading. How about a Coke?” “Oh, sure:’ he said.
She went to the door and he followed her, still trying to put all the pieces together.
They walked across the campus into the Student Union Building and sat at a table.
She went to get the sodas and he excused himself and went into the restroom.
He closed the door and, now alone, began to shake and gasp for air. Slowly he walked to the basin, the room was deserted, and splashed cold water on his face.
This must be fate, he thought, he must be getting closer to it.
He returned to the table and found her looking through a book she had been carrying, Criminology and Criminals.
He decided that knowing more about her would make it easier, so he asked her where she was from. “Lawrence, Kansas.
At least that’s where I went to college!’ she said, sipping her Coke. “And how about you?” He didn’t know what to say, he surely couldn’t tell her about his time in prison or the hospitals, so he took a drink of his soda to give himself a moment to think. “I’m from here,” he said, “tell me about your book.” She smiled and sat back in her chair, and slowly opened the text. “Here’s an interesting part. Would you like me to read it to you?” she asked.
He nodded and waited.
After what seemed like a long time she continued, “This is called ‘The Search For The Perfect Crime: You’ll find it most relevant!’ He began to have difficulty swallowing and everything seemed to be getting very bright.
He started feeling numb and could no longer see, but he could hear her voice as she read, “There is some debate whether or not there can be a perfect crime.
Most experts believe that it is not possible:’ He heard the book close and she whispered, “But the experts are wrong. Did you enjoy your soda?” Everything became very dark and quiet.
Originally published in The Times of Skinker-DeBaliviere, March 1990.
Read this article in the original newspaper issue.
Original source: SD_Times1990_03.pdf, printed page(s) 8; PDF page(s) 8.
