In a very few cases, there has been overlap, and I actually did two stories for the same icon…This, then, is another story for the emoticon “shocked”

#16

He seemed like such a nice boy. His hair was trimmed, his clothing was clean. He took his trash out without fail on the evening before the trucks came, and he smiled and waved when he saw her on her porch, rocking and watching the streets. She always nodded at him … she never let on what she knew.

He bought too many garbage bags. He carried odd-sized packages in and out of his home at odd hours. There were never any girls - or for that matter, boys - visiting. He had no pets. If she sat on her porch at night, she saw the glow from his computer monitor winking through his curtains deep into the night. She saw shadows against the curtains.

She watched CSI, and Criminal Minds. She never missed the biography of a serial killer on A&E or the History Channel. For years she’d been “profiling” the neighborhood, and she knew things. It wasn’t her fault - she picked up on them. Time and observation planted seeds that couldn’t help but grow.

So she knew. Just like the others. The mousy little man down the street. The good husband and father across the way with the three AM extra-curricular schedule. The long-haired boy down the street who listened to Death Metal and painted his face white. She’s sniffed them out - and she’d taken them off the streets.

In the oven, a batch of cookies was baking. They were laced with just the right amount of poison. She knew how to get it - where to get it - the TV and the Internet told her. There were ways to do things and not get caught. TV killers always made mistakes, but the writers were good enough to point them out, and she was careful.

The bell on the oven rang, and she rose. She pulled the cookies from the oven and laid them carefully on a plate. She covered them with tinfoil, wrapping the edges down carefully to keep them warm and fresh. Then she set out across the street and over to his house. She knew she’d have to be careful not to meet his eyes. He would know.

She rang the bell, and he answered. He smiled. She smiled and handed him the plate. Isn’t it a nice day, she said and just thought you might be hungry, she added, and haven’t had anyone to bake for in so long. He smiled again, and she turned away, heading back toward her porch.

Moments later sirens wailed. Three, no, four cars pulled up in front of his house. Officers moved in, and she smiled. He had been faster than any of her others. She rocked, and she watched as they entered his home. When they returned, she frowned.

He was with them. He stood, holding a large plastic bag. The bag glinted in the sunlight, like foil. They turned, all of them, to look at her, rocking on her porch and watching them. Then they fanned out and began to approach cautiously.

She waited, certain she could explain, and that when she did, they would haul him away. After all, without her looking out for the neighborhood, what would become of it? All those killers. And wouldn’t her neighbors be shocked to find what she’d done for them. She smiled.

She hoped they’d have her home in time for CSI