Jerry looked at his watch—two minutes to go.  He wiggled his toes and tried to get some relief from the pinch of the ill-fitting wingtips that matched his murder suit.  In all honesty, he could probably slip them off and no one would notice.  Everyone’s attention was focused on the guy strapped to the table, not the guy in the unremarkable, off-the-rack brown two-piece standing quietly in the corner.  Jerry left them on, though.  It would be unprofessional to take them off.  Besides, suffering a pair of uncomfortable shoes for two hours was a small price to pay to satisfy his craving.

He looked across the room at the faces behind the glass and wondered if anyone would catch him this time.

He doubted it.  To them, Jerry wasn’t one of the most successful serial killers on the planet: he was just a cog in the machinery of state, a finger on a button.  He stood and stared at the two dozen witnesses, daring one of them to see the effort required to keep the grin off his face as he waited for the Warden’s permission to kill a man.

No one did, of course.  Jerry’s cover was flawless.


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