Odomurderer

The first time his truck’s odometer, the one registering the distance traveled between fuelings, read 187.3 miles. That was also the first time he heard the vehicle call to him.

“Kill three pedophiles,” it silently burned into his mind over and over.

The command became engrained in his brain, and he knew he had to act, as it was the only way to stop the voice. So, during his spare time, he worked out a plan to murder three child predators.

They were easy to find. Their names, pictures, and addresses were all online.

He selected three and printed out the needed information. With his 22-caliber pistol tucked into his waistband, he stalked target one to a truck stop, where he walked up behind the criminal and, without saying a word, leveled his handgun at the back of the man’s head and squeezed the trigger.

The pop made by the gun, the man dropping suddenly and spraying of blood from the wound, frightened him, and he nearly panicked. Instead, he forced himself to walk as he hurried to his truck and drove away.

The second and third targets died in much the same way. The murders left the police stumped, and their assassin had to fight off the urge not to feel emboldened.

Four years, two months, and six days later, it happened again. The odometer stopped at 187.7 miles.

This time he knew what needed doing without prompting. He decided it would be best to visit other towns to find his targets.

All seven murders were flawless, and he watched the local news and searched the Internet for information about the deaths. With the murders happening in eight different towns, law enforcement had not made the connection between the crimes.

As he pulled into his driveway, he looked down at the odometer and saw it read 187.2 miles. Because it had been nineteen years since his last killing, the voice returned, stinging his brain as if being electrocuted.

Again he researched, planned, retrieved his pistol from its hiding spot, and set about looking for his next target. It took a week, but finally, he knew where the man was and that he was alone.

The target walked into the casino and took a seat in his usual spot in between several noisy banks of slot machines. He watched his target playing, getting comfortable, lighting a cigarette, and ordering a drink from the slot hostess.

He decided that as soon as the hostess returned with the drink, he would act. Three minutes later, that time had come, and he cooly walked behind the man, drew out his pistol, quickly placed it against his head, and fired.

Wearing a dark hoody and keeping his head down, he escaped through the same door he had entered and disappeared into the night. He had to walk half a mile to his truck, parked where he knew there were no surveillance cameras.

He fired up his truck and started from the driveway. As he did, a cement mixer came speeding around the corner and slammed into the driverside of the pickup, destroying the vehicle and killing him.