The Killing League - By Dani Amore Page 0,3

all reported to be male prostitutes, have been found in various locations along the freeway, mostly in Georgia and Florida.”

He thumbed the control again.

“Chicago. So far, eleven females, all in the age range of seventeen to twenty-three, all blonde, missing.”

Another map.

“Fort Walton Beach, Florida. Seven men dead, all middle-aged, all known to frequent prostitutes. All drugged first, then shot, stabbed or beaten. In each case, the sedative was the same, unique cocktail of chemicals.”

Mack took a sip of water from a water bottle he’d placed on the podium.

“Now, let’s talk specifics.”

•

Seated near the back row, a man could barely contain his laughter.

The man watched and listened as Mack went over his detailed notes on the crimes he had listed. The man couldn’t help but be amused. He’d hacked into Mack’s computer over two years ago, installed a shadow desktop program that sent him any new notes or changes to the computer’s files. The security software the FBI had put on Mack’s laptop was obsolete within three months, and he had easily broken through.

As he listened, to Mack’s lecture, the man noted the items Mack left out. They always did that to prevent anything getting to the media or nutjobs who loved to phone in and claim to be the killer.

As he listened the man had to admit that Mack was actually pretty close to solving three of the crimes. The murders along the I-75 corridor, for instance. Mack had sent in a request to the national trucking bureau for information about any truck drivers with criminal histories, especially of a sexual nature who frequently drove that stretch of freeway.

The man had hacked into that organization’s computer system, and replied to Mack’s message that they would look into their files and send him a response. Then he deleted Mack’s message and searched through their records himself.

He came up with three drivers. The man compared known times of death for the victims, and compared the locations of the three drivers. Only one driver was in the same general vicinity as the victims at the time of their murders. A little more digging, all of it the illegal kind, and he had his man.

The man nearly let out a laugh when Mack moved on to another set of mysterious killings.

He was really enjoying this.

3.

Truck Drivin’ Man

The custom Peterbilt semi truck sat in its space, among the other giant long haulers, at a packed truck stop off I-75 in Florida.

Inside the cab with its extra large sleeping compartment, Roger Dawson sat behind the wheel, a joint between his thick, stubby fingers. He had the window down.

A boy in his late teens, wearing a short leather mini skirt and a tight black T-shirt, approached Dawson.

“You lookin’ for a date?” the boy said. His voice was high and girlish. Dawson looked down at him from his perch. The boy’s face was oily and dotted with pimples.

“You think I need one?” Dawson said. He had a pug nose, and his dark eyes revealed nothing.

“Doesn’t everyone?” the boy said.

Dawson handed the joint out the window to the boy. The boy had to step on the truck’s running board to reach it. He took a deep hit and handed it back to Dawson.

“You new here?” Dawson said. “Never seen you around before.”

The boy shrugged his thin shoulders. “Just got in from L.A.,” he said. “Where you headed?”

Dawson examined him.

“Turn around.”

The boy was momentarily caught off guard by Dawson’s sudden change in conversation. He did a pirouette, working to put his goods in the best light.

Dawson took another deep drag of the joint. The two remained silent for several moments.

“Well?” the boy said.

“Kinda skinny,” Dawson said.

“Not where it counts,” the boy said.

A small smile crept across Dawson’s face. He nodded toward the passenger side of the rig.

“Door’s unlocked,” he said.

•

Less than an hour later the young prostitute was on his belly, his head turned to the side. His eyes were wide and lifeless. His tongue was sticking out.

Dawson pulled the big rig over to the shoulder of the highway. He was on State Highway 75 - known locally in Florida as “Alligator Alley.” Just off the shoulder were deep canals, covered with vegetation.

Dawson got out of the truck, put the hood of his Peterbilt up and he stood in front of it, smoking a cigarette.

A car drove by, the only other vehicle on the highway, and Dawson moved to the other side of the truck, blocking any view of him.

After the car disappeared up ahead, Dawson opened the passenger door