I've been moved around for the fifteen years of my young life. One year here, six months there. Analyzed and assigned to places supposed to help me overcome the circumstances of my birth. My "jacket", the dossier containing my profile, contains choice phrases such as, "amoral", "lacking in empathy", "manipulative", and my personal favorite, "classic loner". A yellow post-it note stuck to my file during my last transit advises that, should I become a serial killer, I would probably break Gacy's record long before I was caught. High praise indeed, although such sentiments should be reduced to writing and not appended to the my file in such a temporary manner.

I'm not a serial killer and I probably will never be one. I'm simply a victim of the system. Yes, I do lack empathy, I am amoral, manipulative and I am somewhat of a loner. So what? I get by. Actually, the "serial killer" tag was placed by a in-residence psychologist shocked by my displays of friendly gregariousness which I followed with almost autistic withdrawals. I was just playing with her mind. I didn't like the way she needed to stereotype and codify me for her professional and personal comfort.

I tend to test off the charts for intelligence just as I land outside the norm of the psychological tests I've submitted to.

I'm five foot ten; weigh 155 pounds, and I have blonde hair and blue eyes. I look Aryan. I am the loner described above, although I can get along just dandy with my housemates, thank-you.

The story of my beautiful teacher, Cindy Van Horn, begins when I was transferred to a foster home in a suburb of Detroit, Michigan. The home contained 10 misfit boys, shepherded by a harried, middle-aged couple named Bill and Cathy McGwire. By now they were only in the game for the money they got each month from the state, and a tax break on their large ranch home. They tended to trust me from the start as I quickly showed them how helpful and trouble-free I could be relative to the other miscreants they housed.

I started my senior year of high-school at Clinton High. I was a senior because some well-meaning administrator at one of the elementary schools had seen fit to promote me ahead two grades years ago--they don't do much of that anymore.

For whatever reason; and I can't always supply my reasoning--it defies my analysis--I took a shine to one of my teachers, Mrs. Cindy Van Horn, a late-twenties Humanities teacher in her fifth year of teaching. She stood five foot two, and weighed about 105 pounds soaking wet, which is how I wanted to see her. She had short blonde hair with a fresh, pretty face. Her breasts, almost always hidden under a sweater, were delightfully heavy. The chick was a full-blood thoroughbred with impeccable lines. She had cheerleader/prom queen/college newspaper/graduation/marriage to "Mr. right" written all over her. Her manner of teaching was impersonal at best. She lectured in an almost uncaring monotone, never once getting sidetracked from the material at hand. She graded hard, and most honor students avoided her classes religiously for fear that their hard-won grade point averages would suffer should they land in one of her classes. It didn't bother me, I had a free-ride scholarship coming anyway, as a ward of the state. And I never got hung up on grades or homework for that matter

I believe I fell for Mrs. Van Horn for one simple reason. She appeared to dismiss me. I imagine she knew that I was living in the group home. I seemed to bring out her natural disdain. My essay answers were "superficial", my hand was ignored when raised to answer a question. It was interesting. It didn't hurt my feelings, mind you. It was just interesting. I had never been judged such an inferior human being, and it was the first thing that had really caught my attention in a few years. She had classified me and found me far beneath the need for notice.

I don't like stereotypes. I didn't like being dismissed out of hand. I did like Mrs. Van Horn though. I felt the need to make her notice me. To make her respect me.

I began by following her home and finding that she lived less than 2 miles from my own crowded house. A far nicer subdivision than the one I lived in. Don't let anyone tell you teachers don't make good money because they do. And two teachers make twice as much. Mrs. Van Horn was married to an older guidance counselor in his late-thirties, Edwin Van Horn. He was apparently not working because of an alleged back injury incurred when he slipped on an icy walk at the school two years prior.

Their home was a large ranch-style on a heavily treed double lot. The house wasn't even visible from the street. Perfect for me to hide in and watch them. So I did. Every evening for a week. Stalking you say? Sure.

I found out some surprising things during that week. First and foremost, they argued every night. What they argued about, I didn't know. Ed would disappear down into their basement and, as often as not, return a while later with a pipe full of weed, and they would smoke it, relaxing as they smoked the peace pipe.

Ed was a short, stocky individual, about 5'7" and 190 pounds. He had brown hair, silver glasses and the beard high school teachers grow to look like college professors. I noticed that he didn't seem very injured at all, unless his pot belly was straining his back.

On Saturday, when I took up my post on their property, I saw Ed Van Horn slip on a neck brace and grab his cane and limp out to the garage. First time I'd seen him limp all week. Cindy followed and shortly the garage door slid open and off they went, in her black Dodge Viper.

I didn't know where they were going, but I knew where they weren't. I walked into their back yard. The doorwall was closed, but not locked. I walked in like I owned the place.

I did a meticulous search of the premises, prepared at any time to dart out the front door in case they came back. They were gone over two hours, giving me the time I needed to seal their fate.

I went into the basement to find Ed's stash. I found more than I thought I would. What I found shocked me. His stash wasn't immediately visible until I looked up at the suspended ceiling. One tile showed repeated signs of having been moved. I reached up and located a garbage bag. I pulled it down. Far too heavy for drugs, I figured. I was wrong. Ed had two bricks of dope in there along with some loose weed. About five pounds, I guessed. And an open leather bank bag with a huge amount of money and a small notebook. And a loaded semi-auto handgun. I made an appropriation right then and there. I left the gun after making a modification to it.

I searched the upstairs of the home. I located Ed's lawsuit files and added then to my garbage bag. Looking through their videotapes, I noticed several unmarked videos. I ran them through the v.c.r., finding one nice tape of them fucking. My teacher did have a beautiful body. The tape went with me.

I rechecked the home, making sure everything was pretty much as they'd left it. I slipped out the back door to start a plan. The funniest thing was, as I walked home with the garbage bag folded under my arm so that it would look less like a garbage bag, the Van Horn's drove by. As they passed, I could see Cindy saying something to Ed as they glanced at me. They both laughed. I grinned and waved.

After renting a locker at the bus garage, I spent the rest of the day at the public library, putting a plan into motion. When you live with ten other boys in one house, the bathroom or a public library is the only place you can act in privacy.

I was forty-three thousand dollars richer.

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Chapter Two: I love it when a good plan cums together...
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On Sunday night, the day after my daring daylight burglary, I cut the phone line at the side of their home prior to ringing the doorbell. My ground work was done and it was time for the show. I had Ed's lawsuit files with me.

Edwin Van Horn opened the front door and stared at me. He looked worried and distraught.

"Yes?" he demanded impatiently.

"I'm Damien North," I stated. "I'm here to talk to you and Mrs. Van Horn."......(cont)