Of course Rose couldn’t study every serial killer since the beginning of the world. She limited her research to sixteen. There was the one known as the Chimney Butcher for example. He (for it was a he) always left a lighted cigarette burning on the victim. It was the rising smoke that gave rise to the designation. Another one was known as Madam Stiletto. It wasn’t known for certain but it was thought these murders were the work of a woman. The victim had always been stabbed in the heart with what seemed like a sharp stiletto heel. Nothing was absolutely certain about the stiletto, but on one victim a fragment of a red stiletto had remained inside the heart. Madam Stiletto had been the most elusive of all the serial killers Rose studied, and Madam Stiletto was very much still alive and active.
Rose pondered and studied; studied and pondered. She could discover no common motivation. There were weapons and dark alleys in common between some of them, but motivation was an elusive quality. What would drive a serial killer to go out and kill? Rose had spent weeks, months even, pondering. It was now ten in the evening. Her doctoral dissertation was meant to be in three weeks. Rose looked out the window. She was getting desperate. There was a full moon. What drove a murderer? What? What?
Rose donned her regular hoodie, slipped into her red stilettos, and left the building.
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