The Art of Killing
By
M. Lee Goodson
What I like the most about serial killers is they know about the art of killing. For instance, take the so called “crime of passion,” a guy comes home to find his wife banging the neighbor. He grabs his nine-millimeter from the bedside table and blows them both away consumed with passion and rage. Then, he claims temporary insanity, saying he’s not responsible for his actions; his emotions overtook his reason. That schmuck doesn’t give a damn about the art of murder. He only wants to get revenge on a spouse who dared to think that some other guy could give it to her better than him.
Then, there’s the run of the mill murder. Turn on the TV. Watch any true crime channel. I’ve seen tons of shows where one person or more decides to kill somebody else. The motive is usually sex, drugs, money, or a combination of the three. Invariably, no matter how ill or well-planned, mistakes happen, the police find evidence, and the whole thing unravels. Once again, these dumbasses don’t give a shit about true artistry. They care about getting a good payoff, leaving a bad marriage, or whatever else they have on their wish list. They have no appreciation for the art of killing.
But, serial killers, now those guys have the artistic touch. They’re the Picassos of murder. They know how to plan, take time, and study the victim. They know that you never ever kill anyone you know. Why would you? Don’t give away the motive. Why kill except for the joy of killing? Serial killers know to experiment with how to kill the victim. When they get it right, that moment when the victim dies in utter terror releases the greatest amount of sheer ecstasy. That’s what I’m talking about.
I started my study at a young age. My father took me out in the woods hunting since I could walk. By the time I reached my twenties, I knew how to hunt and kill just about every type of living creature out in the woods and not just with a rifle. I learned how to hunt with a crossbow. I knew how to use my knife to gut an animal and dissect it in every way possible. With every hunting trip, I explored the art of killing. I found so much joy in taking apart a living thing bit by bit and knowing that I had power over whether it lived or died. That control is better than sex.
Of course, my next obvious step from animals was human beings. I knew if I wanted to join the ranks of the true artists in my field, I needed to develop my craft, with care. You know, not make mistakes and have law enforcement stop me. I traveled to a different state. I kidnapped a child playing alone on a deserted street. I drove her to an isolated section of woods late at night, slit her throat, and gutted her just the same way I would one of my deer. Afterward, I disposed of the body in a deep grave not far away. I kept no souvenirs. I buried the evidence. To this day, that murder remains still unsolved. No motive. No connection. Just art.
Next, I chose another state. I found myself a bigger challenge this time. I bagged myself a teenage girl. Easier than I thought. I used a rock to hit her head and pull her into my van. I drove her out to the woods, undressed her and hung her upside down. She woke up, screamed like a cut pig, and struggled like her life depended on it. I shoved one of her socks into her mouth to muffle her screams. No one was around for miles to hear her anyway. Hearing her muffled cries and pleas for mercy and feeling her body squirm as the knife dug into the skin while I gutted her, made me reach new heights in my craft. As I dug her grave, I thanked her for showing me that I still had so much more to learn about killing.
Over the next few years, I must say, I got better and better. My art continued to improve with each new kill. By my twenty-eighth birthday, I reached double-digit kills. While my work had caught the attention of the authorities, none of the cases had any leads. Well, not really. The police had leads, just none that led to me.
Growing restless and wanting a challenge, I chose a double homicide. First, I traveled to a neighboring state. I found a young couple and stalked them for a few days, learning their routines and habits. One Friday night, I invaded the household. As they were sleeping, I snuck into the house and duct taped their mouths so that they couldn’t scream. I woke them up and held them in bed at gun point. I approached the man and shot right through his head. Part of his brain and skull flew out of his head and landed on his wife’s face. The terror in her eyes was like nothing that I have ever experienced before. I felt my heart beating fast with excitement and I could no longer restrain myself. I cut her up right there in the bed.
For the first time ever, I didn’t follow my own rules and take the victim to a different location. I spent hours gathering all the evidence and transporting it in my van to a distant secluded location before I buried it. As long as I decided to break one rule, I figured I could break another, I kept a souvenir this time: the wife’s terrified eyes in a jar inside the glove box of my van. I couldn’t help myself; I just got caught up with the passion of my art.
Over the next few weeks, I felt depressed. I hadn’t felt the same high as I did when the wife saw me kill her husband. Then, it dawned on me. Art just isn’t art unless it can be appreciated by an audience. That’s when I decided to write that letter to the press, like the Zodiac.
Big mistake. I’m a great serial killer, but a writer not so much. Maybe writing letters to the press isn’t possible these days with DNA profiling and everything else. I don’t know. I never learned anything about science. I purchased regular paper and envelopes from Walmart. I used rubber gloves when I wrote the damn letter, too.
I drove to Arizona and meticulously picked out my victim. After I kidnapped little Kaitlin Miller, I drove to New Mexico to have my fun with her. After I finished, I buried the remains in the mountains in Colorado. Finally, I went to Las Vegas for a vacation. From there, I wrote my note and mailed it to Los Angeles, thinking there’d be no way anyone could find me after all I had done to create an untraceable trail.
I guess I just left too many clues in the note. I didn’t bother covering my trail; I never do. Why should I? I always travel so far away, and I bury the bodies so deep. Don’t want any woodland creatures to destroy my artwork. After all, none of my other work has ever surfaced.
I have to commend the officers who traced the letters back to me. Oh well, at least, I have an audience now. I can finally say I rank among the killers who truly appreciate the art of the kill, and my name will go down in history books as one of the best in history.
Sincerely,
Matthew Maxwell McKinley
Matt looked up at the police detective in the interrogation room.
“Is this okay?”
“That’ll do fine for your confession, Matt.”
M. Lee Goodson began her professional career as an elementary school teacher where she used her passion for storytelling to educate young minds. She has since obtained her master’s degree in creative writing from Southern New Hampshire University. Her lifelong passion for learning and storytelling has inspired her to study urban legends and psychological horror. She feels our stories reveal who we are as part of humanity.
By
M. Lee Goodson
What I like the most about serial killers is they know about the art of killing. For instance, take the so called “crime of passion,” a guy comes home to find his wife banging the neighbor. He grabs his nine-millimeter from the bedside table and blows them both away consumed with passion and rage. Then, he claims temporary insanity, saying he’s not responsible for his actions; his emotions overtook his reason. That schmuck doesn’t give a damn about the art of murder. He only wants to get revenge on a spouse who dared to think that some other guy could give it to her better than him.
Then, there’s the run of the mill murder. Turn on the TV. Watch any true crime channel. I’ve seen tons of shows where one person or more decides to kill somebody else. The motive is usually sex, drugs, money, or a combination of the three. Invariably, no matter how ill or well-planned, mistakes happen, the police find evidence, and the whole thing unravels. Once again, these dumbasses don’t give a shit about true artistry. They care about getting a good payoff, leaving a bad marriage, or whatever else they have on their wish list. They have no appreciation for the art of killing.
But, serial killers, now those guys have the artistic touch. They’re the Picassos of murder. They know how to plan, take time, and study the victim. They know that you never ever kill anyone you know. Why would you? Don’t give away the motive. Why kill except for the joy of killing? Serial killers know to experiment with how to kill the victim. When they get it right, that moment when the victim dies in utter terror releases the greatest amount of sheer ecstasy. That’s what I’m talking about.
I started my study at a young age. My father took me out in the woods hunting since I could walk. By the time I reached my twenties, I knew how to hunt and kill just about every type of living creature out in the woods and not just with a rifle. I learned how to hunt with a crossbow. I knew how to use my knife to gut an animal and dissect it in every way possible. With every hunting trip, I explored the art of killing. I found so much joy in taking apart a living thing bit by bit and knowing that I had power over whether it lived or died. That control is better than sex.
Of course, my next obvious step from animals was human beings. I knew if I wanted to join the ranks of the true artists in my field, I needed to develop my craft, with care. You know, not make mistakes and have law enforcement stop me. I traveled to a different state. I kidnapped a child playing alone on a deserted street. I drove her to an isolated section of woods late at night, slit her throat, and gutted her just the same way I would one of my deer. Afterward, I disposed of the body in a deep grave not far away. I kept no souvenirs. I buried the evidence. To this day, that murder remains still unsolved. No motive. No connection. Just art.
Next, I chose another state. I found myself a bigger challenge this time. I bagged myself a teenage girl. Easier than I thought. I used a rock to hit her head and pull her into my van. I drove her out to the woods, undressed her and hung her upside down. She woke up, screamed like a cut pig, and struggled like her life depended on it. I shoved one of her socks into her mouth to muffle her screams. No one was around for miles to hear her anyway. Hearing her muffled cries and pleas for mercy and feeling her body squirm as the knife dug into the skin while I gutted her, made me reach new heights in my craft. As I dug her grave, I thanked her for showing me that I still had so much more to learn about killing.
Over the next few years, I must say, I got better and better. My art continued to improve with each new kill. By my twenty-eighth birthday, I reached double-digit kills. While my work had caught the attention of the authorities, none of the cases had any leads. Well, not really. The police had leads, just none that led to me.
Growing restless and wanting a challenge, I chose a double homicide. First, I traveled to a neighboring state. I found a young couple and stalked them for a few days, learning their routines and habits. One Friday night, I invaded the household. As they were sleeping, I snuck into the house and duct taped their mouths so that they couldn’t scream. I woke them up and held them in bed at gun point. I approached the man and shot right through his head. Part of his brain and skull flew out of his head and landed on his wife’s face. The terror in her eyes was like nothing that I have ever experienced before. I felt my heart beating fast with excitement and I could no longer restrain myself. I cut her up right there in the bed.
For the first time ever, I didn’t follow my own rules and take the victim to a different location. I spent hours gathering all the evidence and transporting it in my van to a distant secluded location before I buried it. As long as I decided to break one rule, I figured I could break another, I kept a souvenir this time: the wife’s terrified eyes in a jar inside the glove box of my van. I couldn’t help myself; I just got caught up with the passion of my art.
Over the next few weeks, I felt depressed. I hadn’t felt the same high as I did when the wife saw me kill her husband. Then, it dawned on me. Art just isn’t art unless it can be appreciated by an audience. That’s when I decided to write that letter to the press, like the Zodiac.
Big mistake. I’m a great serial killer, but a writer not so much. Maybe writing letters to the press isn’t possible these days with DNA profiling and everything else. I don’t know. I never learned anything about science. I purchased regular paper and envelopes from Walmart. I used rubber gloves when I wrote the damn letter, too.
I drove to Arizona and meticulously picked out my victim. After I kidnapped little Kaitlin Miller, I drove to New Mexico to have my fun with her. After I finished, I buried the remains in the mountains in Colorado. Finally, I went to Las Vegas for a vacation. From there, I wrote my note and mailed it to Los Angeles, thinking there’d be no way anyone could find me after all I had done to create an untraceable trail.
I guess I just left too many clues in the note. I didn’t bother covering my trail; I never do. Why should I? I always travel so far away, and I bury the bodies so deep. Don’t want any woodland creatures to destroy my artwork. After all, none of my other work has ever surfaced.
I have to commend the officers who traced the letters back to me. Oh well, at least, I have an audience now. I can finally say I rank among the killers who truly appreciate the art of the kill, and my name will go down in history books as one of the best in history.
Sincerely,
Matthew Maxwell McKinley
Matt looked up at the police detective in the interrogation room.
“Is this okay?”
“That’ll do fine for your confession, Matt.”
M. Lee Goodson began her professional career as an elementary school teacher where she used her passion for storytelling to educate young minds. She has since obtained her master’s degree in creative writing from Southern New Hampshire University. Her lifelong passion for learning and storytelling has inspired her to study urban legends and psychological horror. She feels our stories reveal who we are as part of humanity.
