March 10, 2002
I don't know if you remember me telling you or not, but that's how your great-great grandfather always began his letters when writing home from the Civil War. A minor grammatical error on his part, but it brought so much character to each and every letter. I can remember as a child, reading through the box of letters at my father's house. His views of the horrors of the war were an interesting read.
West Chapel Federal Penitentiary, West Chapel Connecticut
E Block, Cell 148
I now take my pen in hand and write to let you no.
Today I'm writing to you about my own horrors - horrors that haunt not only me, but the rest of the world as well.
"Guilty by reason of insanity", that's what the judge said. "More gruesome than Gacey", "A Modern Manson", and "The Real Life Lecter" screamed the headlines in every newsstand across the country. After ninety-nine victims, you'll have that.
I'm writing you today so you don't become the one hundredth. Not that I would harm you, you know that I never would. Besides, I'm surrounded by eighteen inches of steel reinforced concrete on all sides. One wall consists of a steel door with a small slot for my food tray. Outside the door is a guard, I don't think he's there to keep me from getting out though; the cement and steel do a pretty good job of that. He's there to keep the others from getting in. Pay a prison guard enough and a victim's family member could easily slip something into my food tray, or gain access to my cell and work me over with a pipe wrench just like victim forty-three, Sir John Stephens.
Inside my cell there are three video cameras recording my every move. I'm sure that there's at least one microphone as well, I guess someone's betting that I'll start talking to myself; I hear that insane people are great at that. I imagine that there's a lab rat somewhere analyzing my snoring patterns to try and find out what makes a serial killer tick. I'm also sure that they'll read this letter forwards and backwards looking for answers and I'm sure that they'll find some within these pages; as will you. I'm confident that they'll get this letter to you though, whether or not they censor every word of it with a black marker
- now that's another story.
I don't want you to become a victim of society, I've made a deal with the judge to enter you into the Federal Witness protection program; it's the least that I could do. By the time that you receive this letter, your name will be changed - unknown to even myself. You'll have new friends in a new school, living in a new town with a new life. Please take this opportunity to move on. I'm not proud of the life that I have created for you, but I wanted to give you a chance in the world. Don't live your life in the shadow that I have created. Go out and make something of yourself and do something positive for the world; because I, more than anyone, know of the horrors that live in it.
Before you begin your new life, I want you to know the truth.
Before the books hit the shelves
-- because I know that there will be some.
Before Hollywood writes their own version of my story
-- I hope they don't cast Hopkins as myself; he's been there, done that.
Before the long and enduring
Before the raid on our house--
Before the last victim, and well
before the first--
Before your mother left us, and
before the day that you were born--
There was a night that changed
my life and the world forever...
Segment Two--contributed by an
anonymous story contributor
I always knew that it was something that I was capable of
killing, that is. I knew from an early age. Death seems
to linger above a youngster, sometimes tapping them on the shoulder and
delivering a broken leg or chipped tooth. A reminder of their mortality.
Me and my friends would spend our summers jumping from
garage roofs, running in front of automobiles on Highway 21, swimming in the
deep and violent waters of the River. The newspapers always said that Timmy's
drowning that day was accidental. That's what I told them. I can tell you now
that he put up a good fight.
To Be Continued....
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