Number 27

Number 27

You sweated profusely, the wool suit was getting hot. The room was small, only about ten feet wide with a double sided mirror. Next time it wouldn’t get so far you told yourself. You were starting to get claustrophobic, the man next to you baggy pants and a torn t-shirt was invading your space. The man on your right was a construction worker who reeked. Idiots, but it wasn’t as if everyone had a Ph.D., you reminded yourself. This wouldn’t take long. But then they called your number.

An hour later you were in an even smaller room with another double sided mirror. An interrogation room. “Do you know Miss Carlota Solana?” the detective asked. How could you forget Carlota Solana? She was a spicy gay Latino that always had to put on a show: glamorous clothes, eye shadow to the very tip of her brow, and bright red lips. Lips you could kiss for hours.

“I have many students,” You calmly replied. “I teach four classes and two labs this semester. I hardly know any of my students.” But you knew Carlota. She was in your sophomore biology class. You tried to ignore her, relations between students and professors were frowned upon. But those voluptuous curves were hard to ignore, even if she was gay.

“Where were you on the night of November the twelfth?”

“I was with my mother. She had been having major complications from her last surgery.” Lying was second nature to you. You were at the club on the twelfth. The club music was so loud, it slowly pounded out your eardrums. The people there gyrated in a group. You weren’t surprised when you saw her. You came there looking for her. You had overheard her friends pleading with her to come earlier that week.

“Can your mother provide you an alibi?”

“No, She is suffering from severe dementia from Alzheimer’s. She cannot remember what she had for dinner let alone what happened on the twelfth.” So much preparation went into that evening. Clothes, hair, body shapers, even the cup size of the bra you would be wearing was taken into account. No detail was too small. That day you spent hours pruning, desperate to attract her.

“Can we get some DNA evidence?”

“If it will help clear me.” The detective gave a small chuckle. You opened your mouth, feeling the cotton swab rub your inner cheek. They couldn’t catch you. No detail or possible outcome was too remote for you to take account for. You had thought ahead. A week before you ventured out to the club, you had stayed late in your office. That night you met the janitor and asked him for a DNA sample in the name of science in exchange for a hundred dollars. The janitor quickly agreed. They couldn’t catch me for a crime when it was the janitor‘s DNA left behind, not my own.

“I hope you find the monster who did this.” You told the detective as they opened the door to let you leave. Rape was no small matter, you thought to yourself as you left for your apartment. But this was just another diary entry, the twenty-seventh to be exact. And quite frankly, you were surprised to even get called down to the station this time. Must be more careful next time, you thought, already going over prospects for number twenty eight. I am the perfect predator.

Word count: 575