Time let me play and be

Bill and the Killer

Bill and the Killer

Jason Garth Rankling regarded the man sitting opposite him with distaste. This was not the first time he’d been interviewed by some tweed-jacketed psychologist eager to make his name by writing the definitive study of Rankling’s complicated psyche. The one thing they all overlooked was that they would need Jason’s cooperation to achieve their ambition. And cooperation was not high on Jason’s list of skills.

He sat, cross-armed and silent, waiting for this latest applicant to make his pitch. The other side of the table, Dr William T Perkin tapped his chin with a pen and considered the famous serial killer in front of him. He too was silent for a while and the two seemed locked in unspoken contest, both waiting to assess the task before them.

In the end, it was Jason who spoke first.

“You wanted to speak to me.”

It was a statement, not a question. It set out clearly the facts as Jason knew them and contained more than a hint that there was no guarantee that he would speak in his turn. While it was true that he was indeed speaking, this was entirely because Jason was aware how his time was ticking away, that every moment spent with this visitor was wasted if it offered no better entertainment than the paltry amusements of the prison. He might as well force the meeting to a conclusion as quickly as possible.

“I know you’ve granted interviews to other psychologists in the past,” said Perkin.

“They didn’t get what they came for,” replied Jason.

“I know. Are you going to answer my questions?”

Jason sat back in the chair and raised an eyebrow. “Depends,” he said.

“On what?”

“On whether you ask the right ones.”

Perkin smiled. “And I have to guess which ones are right?”

Jason nodded.

Perkin stopped tapping his chin and placed the pen in the middle of the table. It formed an incomplete line like a barrier between them.

“No questions then,” he said.

There was a suspicion of interest that passed across Jason’s face. Then it was gone and he settled back into his defensive position, arms crossed.

“What then?” he asked.

“You talk, I listen.”

“You wouldn’t like what I have to say.”

“I’ll risk it.”

Jason was silent for a few moments, then seemed to make a decision, for he uncrossed his arms, leaned forward and stared intensely at Perkin. He uttered one word.

“Okay.”

Then he began a monologue that lasted more than two hours. He spoke of his first murder, with every detail of the offence, each cut and jab until the victim was bloodied and unconscious, and the slow despatch of her at last with a savage slash of the knife to the throat. And he spoke of his feelings and thoughts at each ghastly moment, his exultation and joy as the blood flowed and the cries weakened into submission.

He detailed each murder thereafter, even including the one that got away, until the room was dark and writhing with the evil of his crimes and any sane person would have demanded that he stop. And Perkin sat there and listened, motionless, apparently unmoved and unsurprised.

Jason continued to the point of exhaustion and, as the details of his final crime dribbled from his lips, he slowed and his voice drained away into silence. Still, Perkin sat unmoving, just watching.

The killer’s head had dropped as he finished his tirade but now he lifted it again to look at the psychologist.

“Is that what you wanted?” he asked.

Perkin straightened and answered, “I wanted to hear what you had to say.”

“And are you satisfied?”

“I have the beginnings of what I came for,” replied Perkin.

“You’re not disgusted and horrified?”

“Not really,” said Perkin. “We all go a little mad sometimes.”

Jason’s mouth dropped open. “Little?” He stood up. “Little?” His fists were bunched into sledgehammers at his side. “I’m the worst serial killer this country’s ever known and you call it little? What more do you want?”

Perkins looked up at him, apparently unfazed. “Ah, now you’re asking the questions.”

He picked up the pen and readied his notebook.


Word count: 697
For “13,” 10.20.24
Prompt: “We all go a little mad sometimes.” — Norman Bates, Psycho.