More James Handen Letters
Okay, so I put what I have so far in the best order I have for now. I've decided that Annabelle is not a fully-fledged journalist. Instead, she's an advice columnist. The first three letters in this entry are in exact order, and the rest of them are chronological but with a lot of space in between them.
Dear Annabelle:
I have a problem with a public opinion of me. There are nasty things being said about me, but it's simply impossible to tell the culprits about how I feel to their faces. I'm sure they'll be reading this, though, once they hear about it. It will have to do.
On the news, they are calling me the Bipolar Killer. I'd suppose it's because of how my M.O. has two kill methods that are almost opposites of each other. However, this title distresses me. There's nothing wrong with me. Well, no, I'm sure there is. "Normal" people don't do what I do after all.
Regardless, I am not bipolar or anything of the sort. I am just a psychopath, just like any other psychopath. Just like all of them. We are an Us. That's how they profile Us. They are profiling me right now.
I'll bet you they are saying, "He wrote to the press - he needs the attention, he's egotistical and neglected." This is also not true. I just wanted to let the public know that there is nothing wrong with me. I am not crazy, there is no imbalance, there is no medication that I forgot to take those nights. I am just a normal guy.
Though I suppose that is even more frightening, isn't it? Perhaps that is what I wanted.
Sincerley Yours,
Dear Bipolar Killer:
What should they call you instead?
Annabelle
Dear Annabelle:
That's it? I was expecting a firestorm of cliched journalist questions ("Why do you kill?" "Are you going to kill again?"). I can't decide if I like this scenario better. Maybe I do; it makes you unique. But there is always that layer of disappointment when something you expected did not happen, even if the expected event was not the desired one. Does that ever happen to you with movies? That happens to me with movies all the time.
As for what they should call me... I don't know. Something interesting I suppose. Just as long as it's true. They could use something from the way I treat my victims (yes, I know they are just victims; I told you I wasn't crazy) but that doesn't really leave much room for creativity.
The next body will be found on 12th Street. Sorry to make you the middleman.
Sincerley Yours,
And from here the letters are spaced out widely on a vague timeline...
Once upon a time, Ms. Bailey, there was a lonely little teenager who lived in a lonely little town where everyone thought everyone else's business was their own, and when something scandalous went around they would all gasp and say, "Surely not!" They never did anything though; it was always whispers in the supermarket, all, "Do you think she really...?" and "That poor child, it's such a shame." The lonely little teenager didn't like the whispers so he left, and the whispers were gone and everything was fine. He went to college and took Criminology, because he wanted to hurt people but he wanted more to know why. The book didn't tell him why, but it did tell him how. It was grotesquely detailed, and he read it for fun. Soon, he wasn't a little teenager anymore. Where teenagers think and learn, adults do and experience. So the lonely little adult went out and he did - did it all, and did not feel very much remorse about it. You asked where I came from, Ms. Bailey. This is it. You asked for an explanation. There is none. Believe me, I've searched for it. It's not so strange I couldn't find one, though. Can you explain yourself? Sincerely yours,
I visited you last night. You didn't notice. I suppose that makes me good at my job. The picture they have for you in the paper doesn't do you justice (don't worry, you're not my type). I saw you and you made something strange happen to me.
It happened like that when I was first coming into myself. Well, this thing that might be me and might not. I saw a woman and I felt something strange, like she had something of mine that I wanted. I suppose it must've been like how "normal" people feel attraction, but also not. I wouldn't know. I've never felt it.
So, I looked at you and I felt something strange. I want something from you, but I don't know what or why.
That is the most persistent question, you know. Why? You can never answer it all the way. Not ever.
I hope they don't put you in protective custody for this. I would feel bad for that. I'm sure any kind of custody must be awful.
I'm not a danger to you, Annabelle, I just wanted to see you. I could never harm you. I haven't lied yet.
Sincerley Yours,
Dear Annabelle:
I have a problem with a public opinion of me. There are nasty things being said about me, but it's simply impossible to tell the culprits about how I feel to their faces. I'm sure they'll be reading this, though, once they hear about it. It will have to do.
On the news, they are calling me the Bipolar Killer. I'd suppose it's because of how my M.O. has two kill methods that are almost opposites of each other. However, this title distresses me. There's nothing wrong with me. Well, no, I'm sure there is. "Normal" people don't do what I do after all.
Regardless, I am not bipolar or anything of the sort. I am just a psychopath, just like any other psychopath. Just like all of them. We are an Us. That's how they profile Us. They are profiling me right now.
I'll bet you they are saying, "He wrote to the press - he needs the attention, he's egotistical and neglected." This is also not true. I just wanted to let the public know that there is nothing wrong with me. I am not crazy, there is no imbalance, there is no medication that I forgot to take those nights. I am just a normal guy.
Though I suppose that is even more frightening, isn't it? Perhaps that is what I wanted.
Sincerley Yours,
Dear Bipolar Killer:
What should they call you instead?
Annabelle
Dear Annabelle:
That's it? I was expecting a firestorm of cliched journalist questions ("Why do you kill?" "Are you going to kill again?"). I can't decide if I like this scenario better. Maybe I do; it makes you unique. But there is always that layer of disappointment when something you expected did not happen, even if the expected event was not the desired one. Does that ever happen to you with movies? That happens to me with movies all the time.
As for what they should call me... I don't know. Something interesting I suppose. Just as long as it's true. They could use something from the way I treat my victims (yes, I know they are just victims; I told you I wasn't crazy) but that doesn't really leave much room for creativity.
The next body will be found on 12th Street. Sorry to make you the middleman.
Sincerley Yours,
And from here the letters are spaced out widely on a vague timeline...
Once upon a time, Ms. Bailey, there was a lonely little teenager who lived in a lonely little town where everyone thought everyone else's business was their own, and when something scandalous went around they would all gasp and say, "Surely not!" They never did anything though; it was always whispers in the supermarket, all, "Do you think she really...?" and "That poor child, it's such a shame." The lonely little teenager didn't like the whispers so he left, and the whispers were gone and everything was fine. He went to college and took Criminology, because he wanted to hurt people but he wanted more to know why. The book didn't tell him why, but it did tell him how. It was grotesquely detailed, and he read it for fun. Soon, he wasn't a little teenager anymore. Where teenagers think and learn, adults do and experience. So the lonely little adult went out and he did - did it all, and did not feel very much remorse about it. You asked where I came from, Ms. Bailey. This is it. You asked for an explanation. There is none. Believe me, I've searched for it. It's not so strange I couldn't find one, though. Can you explain yourself? Sincerely yours,
I visited you last night. You didn't notice. I suppose that makes me good at my job. The picture they have for you in the paper doesn't do you justice (don't worry, you're not my type). I saw you and you made something strange happen to me.
It happened like that when I was first coming into myself. Well, this thing that might be me and might not. I saw a woman and I felt something strange, like she had something of mine that I wanted. I suppose it must've been like how "normal" people feel attraction, but also not. I wouldn't know. I've never felt it.
So, I looked at you and I felt something strange. I want something from you, but I don't know what or why.
That is the most persistent question, you know. Why? You can never answer it all the way. Not ever.
I hope they don't put you in protective custody for this. I would feel bad for that. I'm sure any kind of custody must be awful.
I'm not a danger to you, Annabelle, I just wanted to see you. I could never harm you. I haven't lied yet.
Sincerley Yours,