Magazine, website & books written by teens since 1989

Jane Wolfe This work is considered exceptional by our editorial staff.

Custom User Avatar
More by this author
It was a cold morning in Boston on December 12, 1983 when I walked into a small white room where she was sitting. I turned on the camera. Her short pitch-black hair covered half her face as she was looking down, silently laughing. She looked nothing like everyone described her. Her face was pale as snow, rosy cheeks, and big black seducing eyes. Her hair was perfectly cut. If you saw her walking down the street, she would just blend into the crowd. She looked just like any other normal person. If you saw her, you would think nothing of it. But you would be wrong.

I sat down, “Good morning, I’m Detective Michael,”
She looked up at me with her big eyes.
“How has your day been so far?” I asked.

“Other than not being able to feel my hands or feet anymore, it’s been fine,” she answered with her raspy tired voice.

“Tell me about yourself,” I changed the subject.

“Hitting on me?” she looked up smiling as if she was tired.

“I just want to know more about you,” I looked her dead in the eye.

She chuckled, “Yeah, whatever.”
“I want to get to know you, Jane,” I pulled out a pen.

“I’m just like any other girl,” she chuckled.

“Except you’re not,” I interrupted, “I know you’re different, tell me how,”

“I’m not different,” she rolled her head.

“Jane, cooperate with me here,” I was getting frustrated.

She just looked at me like I was stupid.

“Where did you grow up?” I was curious.

“I grew up in Ellwood City, Pennsylvania,”

“Small town girl I see. Tell me about your childhood,” I put my pen down.

“I was just like any other girl. I liked to rip Barbie heads off and stuff makeup down mean boys’ throats,” she started laughing.

“What about your mom?” I asked.

“What about her?” she got serious.

“What happened to her?” I asked.

“She died when I was thirteen,” she smirked.

“How did she die?” I leaned closer to the table.

“She got sick,” she chuckled.

“She got sick? What kind of sick? I don’t think that’s true, Jane. Just tell me what happened,” I hoped for an answer.

I asked her the same question for what seemed like forever with no success in an answer. I decided to take a break and leave the room.

“Are you alright?” asked Adam, my secretary.

“I’m fine, but she’s difficult,” I answered, “It’s going to take a lot to get an answer,”

After twenty-five minutes I decided to go back.

“Would you like some water, Jane?” I asked pouring water into a glass.

No answer. She just threw her head back as if she was sick of me.

“Tired?” I took a drink of the water.

“Very,” she sighed.

“Maybe you should just answer my questions from now on,” I was tired as well.

I was in that room for another three hours with no success. Every question I asked, I got a sarcastic answer. Even the simplest questions like, what’s your favorite color, TV show, simple things.

“Alright, Jane, you yourself plead guilty. Just tell me how you did what you did,” I was tired of her.

She rolled her eyes, “Fine,”

I got my pen ready.

“If you know what I did, why are you asking me all these questions?” she smirked.

“I just need to know how and why you did it,”

After ten minutes of complete silence she says, “They hurt me.”

“Who hurt you?” I was curious.

“Everyone, especially my mother, emotionally and physically,”

“How did she hurt you? Your mom was a well-respected lady in the community. She was a teacher. Her students loved her, the parents loved her,”

“Not everything is what it seems on the outside, detective,”

“How so?” I asked.

“She wasn’t who everyone thought she was. She was a very religious person,” she sighs, “She made me be her perfect child, the trophy child. Since my brother was too young to understand anything, she chose me. I had the perfect grades, I was the fastest runner in the track team, everything. I didn’t want to be like that. I hate running. She made me be like that. If I wasn’t, she would lock me in the basement until I apologized to god and said fifty prayers and then hit me with the first thing she grabbed,” she laughed as if it was funny.

“What else?” I was interested more in her story.
“I was bullied too. I was bullied because my mother was our teacher, for having good grades, having glasses. Anything I did, I was bullied for it,” her eyes got big, ”I eventually got my revenge. One at a time. You know where all those people are now, detective?” she whispered.

“Where?” I was scared of her answer.

“They’re all dead,” she laughed hysterically.


“How are they all dead? Why?” I squinted my eyes.

“I-,” she burst out laughing, “I killed them all!” she shouted loudly laughing.

I became uncomfortable so I took a drink of my water.

“You know who else I killed, detective?” she leaned towards me softly laughing.

“Who?” I replied.

“Every single sick man that tried to make a move on me, looked at me wrong, called me like I was some kind of dog, I killed them all,” she laughed.

“Would you mind telling me how you killed those five truckers just two weeks ago?” my voice deepened and became more serious.

“Well, I was hitchhiking trying to get to Canada before I got caught. They saw me and offered me a ride to wherever their next stop was. Two of them tried to make a move on me so I slit their throat.” She smiled sweetly like she had done nothing wrong.

“And the other three?”

“I took their money and watches,” she smiled, “They tried to fight back but I stabbed them ten times before they could ever lay one finger on me,”

“Why do you kill, Jane?” I asked.

“Because it’s fun,” she laughed.

“They all had families. You destroyed those families,” I tried to keep calm.

“I had a family too!” she interrupted shouting, “You know what happened to that family? My father ran out on us before I could even walk. My mother treated me like a slave. My grandfather, he died of old age. The only person that ever showed me love, died. He left me here all by myself to take care of myself,” she was shouting.

“Why do you leave lip stick marks on their cheeks like you kissed them?” I asked.

“I was taught to always honor the fallen,” she smiled.

Tears were running down her face and I was holding back mine.

“I kill for the thrill of it,” she calmly smiled, “I love having blood drip down my hands. I love watching it come out of someone,” she laughed hysterically.

The thought of blood made me nocuous. Two minutes later, three men from the insane asylum entered the room to take her away. As she was passing by me I saw the red marks on her wrists and ankles from her trying to free herself from the straps on the wheelchair.

“I’d just like to say I’m sailing with the rock, and I’ll be back like Independence Day, with Jesus June 6. Like the movie, big mother ship and all, I’ll be back,” she singed and laughed.
I had trouble sleeping that night. I was in a room with Jane Wolfe. The women version of the Zodiac Killer. The women that’s only five foot four but killed over a hundred men in ten years. The most notorious killer of our time. I was alone with her in one small room.

I went into work the next day and the whole office was a mess and there were policemen running in and out. Every phone was ringing, people were shouting.

“What’s going on here?” I asked Adam who ran to me at the entrance with coffee.

“She’s escaped,” he said out of breath.

I walked into my office and there was large white envelope sitting on my desk waiting for me. I walk to my desk and take a sip of my coffee before I open it. I put down my coffee and slowly take out what’s inside the envelope and I freeze. I just stare at the ripped up paper.

“What is it?” Adam walks towards me.

He stands there frozen like me.

It read, “Just like Independence Day,” at the bottom of the paper it had a lipstick mark as if someone had kissed the paper.



Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!




Site Feedback