As he walked into the master bathroom, Christopher could see the blood spatter on his gray polo shirt reflecting off of the pale yellow vanity lights. Christopher washed the dried blood off of his hands and face, as he stared at himself in the cracked mirror. He searched for the hand towels through the cluttered linen closet and when he was finished he could see a pink-shaded silhouette of his hands. The house was much cleaner than Christopher had expected, most would think that after two weeks of watching her every move, he would know almost everything about Mrs. Benson. Mrs. Benson was a widower, whose children never visited, so she lived alone, in a three-story townhouse, outside of the city. As he walked out of the master bedroom and walked to the second-floor hall, he could see the family photos lined along the walls. Each time that Christopher would look at one, he would turn it downwards, so they would be facing the ground. Then he made his way to the staircase. The dark brown mahogany had been turned to an almost black color of crimson. There was a trail of handprints going down the railing with a similar shade. Once he reached the end of the staircase, he had to watch his steps, in order to not dirty his shoes.
“Why??” Mrs. Benson gasped.
“It has nothing to do with you. It’s me. ” Christopher knelt down to the edge of the staircase and tenderly held her hand as he watched the life fade out of her eyes.
To make sure she was dead, he shot six grams of potassium chloride into the back of her neck. He could feel the raised goosebumps trembling at first then fading away. It wasn’t the first time that he had done this, it had actually become a hobby of his. There was a sort enjoyment that he got out of the secrecy. He turned Mrs. Benson over. She had died with her bright green eyes open, so he gently closed them. He went to the front door to get the black duffel bag that he had brought with him. He then pulled out a canister of bleach mixed with lime, which he would then pour all over the staircase and over Mrs. Benson’s body. He put all of his things in the duffel bag and turned off the lights. He reached into the widower’s pocket and pulled out her set of keys. Then he went through the front door and locked the door from the outside. He had a work van parked on the side of the house with William’s Plumbing titled in blue, on the side. He threw the duffel bag into the back of the van and got into the driver’s seat. He took one last glance at the last house on the cul-de-sac. He drove about five blocks away before he called 911 anonymously to report the murder.
Christopher was on his way home, driving on Highway 485, when he turned on the radio to hear the melodious voice Rupert Holmes singing “Piña Colada”. Two minutes later, the song was interrupted by a loud hum followed by:
“This is Breaking News with Judy Goldberg. The police have just reported that seventy-four year old Eleanor Benson, widow of millionaire CEO Henry Benson, has just been found dead in her Lexington Estate. There were no witnesses but, ‘The police will continue to investigate until justice is found.’ Chief of police Larry Henderson states. We will have more on WLXI4 tonight at 5:30.”
Christopher had not paid much attention to the announcement. He had thought about how he had taken the lives of five other people before hand and the police were still too dense to find him. Considering it was still 11:34 at night, the main streetlights brightened to their orange tinge. The headlights on the passing cars reminded him of the pearls that she would wear everyday. He took the pearls with him, but not as a trophy like the police might think. He took them as evidence. Evidence of all of the injustices that the rich undertake to stay rich, he thought. All the money that they used for expensive clothing could be used ten times over to clothe regular people. But no, they have to hole it all up for themselves. He began to think about all of the good deeds that he was doing to society by taking the wealthy and putting them in their place. Christopher had began to think that he had become the modern-day Robin Hood. But still after every incident he would come to the same contemplation, “Is it worth it?”
The news had been bashing him for being a sadistic lunatic, but “How are things ever supposed to change, if someone doesn’t take action? The past has shown things aren’t ever given to you peacefully, you have to take it, right?” he thought. Plus, there was the enjoyment that he got out of it. Yes, there could be prison time if someone ever found out, but nothing else gave him more of a rush then watching those people who had ‘everything’ beg for their lives.
All the cars had vanished off of the road and the radio station had begun to slow down the upbeat pop music, to more soft, melancholic music, as the late night faded off into the early morning. Christopher could hear “Careless Whisper” playing in the background, as he turned off of the highway and onto his exit. His house was forty-five minutes away from Mrs. Benson’s house in Lincoln Heights, so the drive had made him weary. After getting off of the exit, he turned into an alley and took off his dirtied shirt and replaced it with one of the standard issue “William’s Plumbing” shirts with “Chris” monogrammed onto the left pocket. Then, he began the three minute drive to his home. He turned into the driveway of the green shotgun house and turned the key only slightly as he liked to listen the mulling roar of the diesel engine. He got out of the car and closed the door ever so slightly, as not to disturb the neighbors. He walked onto the front patio, listening to the light squishing of his shoes on top of the damp soil. He unlocked and opened the door and could hear light footsteps running towards him in the darkness.
“MOMMY, Wake up!! Daddy’s here!”