The Librarian

I created my first killer thirty years ago, in a vibrant mustard colored Tennessee elementary school. Some nouveau crap they tried to pass off as an educational experiment left me in care of some 10 to 20 aftercare students. Each of whom preferred an open tarred playground to a cramped children's library. But that was my life's work then. I thought I was inspiring young minds, constructively channeling youthful energy, and feebly countering the ultimate depletion of creativity.

Jackson was a solitary delight in a crowd of otherwise ordinary children. Smaller than most of his classmates, he often kept me company absorbing the Dewey decimal system faster than any of the faculty. I don't think I would've admitted it at the time, but I suppose I played favorites. No that's not true, not entirely. I would have paid that much attention to any student who showed a genuine desire to learn.

You see, I've mulled this over time and time again, and I think he was my fault. He was so well adjusted so I don't understand what happened. I just know he was my fault. He came to me full of curiosity and exuberance.

I could see him still, propped up on two dictionaries and a ratty copy of, "Spanish for Beginners." He crossed his legs at the ankles and swung them to the beat of a brilliantly written novel.

"I will not eat them..." he recited proudly.

Initially I knew it was a mistake. I could tell by the low quality ink that rubbed off the newspaper and the bold font decorating it's front page. No reputable news source would be so gauche.

I read the story anyway, recounting the gruesome murders of two dozen Tennessee residents. I could hear the drawling 'a' in Jackson's name as the arresting officer recounted the movie quality bust. The writer managed to pump mounds of vile hatred into the grey-black paragraphs, making their ordered sections bulge with public outrage. Fair and balanced reporting my ass.

"You're a peach," I used to tell him while we waited for his parents to arrive. Now some two-cent reporter was calling him a fruit and delving into some Freudian need to grope his mother. It had all the earmarks of a Hollywood markup.

A few paragraphs into the article there was a school teacher, Laura Moore, who said Jackson used to draw dark pictures in her class. I remember that twit as Jackson's art teacher. The woman couldn't tell Van Gogh from a six year old's finger-painting. I know it's true, because the paper posted Jackson's "Starry Night" reproduction as evidence of a disturbed mind. They're right of course, God knows Van Gogh had issues.

I argued with the experts in the article until the end, disputing evidence and eyewitness testimonies.

"It was uh, pretty late but I saw a man in jeans run outta the house. Clear as day." said one woman who had the audacity to wear a shirt that read, Fry 'em with a little electric chair for her interview picture.

I countered them like a seasoned lawyer until the end. That was until the writer said Jackson had confessed to all counts. I told myself at the time he was a unique case. Every killer has a teacher. Mostly I'd forgotten about it until that package arrived. The one with snippets from two other papers about two other murderers. Both students of mine. Maybe I have a way about me, one that tells children that they have a future in killing. In a morbid daydream I wonder if I could market it to the military.

Three killers are much harder to reason away and I think the anonymous sender agrees. The note accompanying the articles has an address and a time. It says I should come if I want answers. I'm a Librarian, I always want answers.