Chapter 11
T HE BUTCHER FOUND IT EASY to blend in with the hot-shit college students on the campus of George Washington University. He was dressed in jeans and a gray, rumpled tee that said “Athletic Department,” and he carried around a beat-up Isaac Asimov novel. He spent the morning reading Foundation on various benches, checking out the coeds, but mostly tracking Marianne, Marianne. Okay, he was a little obsessive. Least of his problems.
He did like the girl and had been watching her for twenty-four hours now, which was how she came to break his heart. She’d gone and shot her mouth off. He knew it for sure because he’d heard her talking to her best friend, Cindi, about a “counselor” she’d spoken to a few days before. Then she’d gone back for a second “counseling” session, against his explicit order and warning.
Mistake, Marianne.
After her noon class in hoity-toity eighteenth-century British literature, Marianne, Marianne left the campus, and he followed her in a group of at least twenty students. He could tell right away that she was headed to her apartment. Good deal.
Maybe she was done for the day, or maybe she had a long break between classes. Didn’t matter either way. She’d broken the rules, and she had to be dealt with.
Once he knew where she was going, he decided to beat her there. As a senior, she was allowed to live off campus, and she shared a small two-bedroom off of Thirty-ninth Street on Davis with young Cindi. The place was a fourth-floor walk-up, and he had no trouble getting inside. The front door had a key lock. What a joke that was.
He decided to get comfortable while he waited, so he stripped down, took off his shoes and all his clothes. Truth was, he didn’t want to get blood on his duds.
Then he waited for the girl, read some more of his book, hung out. As soon as Marianne walked inside her bedroom, the Butcher wrapped both arms around her and placed the scalpel under her chin.
“Hello, Marianne, Marianne,” he whispered. “Didn’t I tell you not to talk?”
“I didn’t tell anyone,” she said. “Please.”
“You’re lying. I told you what was going to happen. Hell, I even showed you.”
“I didn’t tell. I promise.”
“I made a promise too, Marianne. Made it on my mother’s eyes.”
Suddenly he sliced left to right across the college girl’s throat. Then he cut her again, going the other way.
While she writhed on the floor, choking to death, he took some photos.
Prizewinners, no doubt about it. He didn’t ever want to forget Marianne, Marianne.