Free The Killer Inside by Will Carver

Eames
    July 2007
    Hampstead, London
    When a criminal meets his eventual captor and knows his time is up, when he uses this opportunity to divulge his inner workings, his motives, his reasons for the terrible things he has done, when he puts up a struggle and tries to get away: that’s not me.
    That’s not what we agreed.
    Just think what an anti-climax it will be for Detective Inspector January David that I don’t fight back; think how irritated he will be that I am the one who chooses when I get caught.
    He won’t have to kick the door down, because I have left it open.
    He won’t have to draw a weapon, because I will not retaliate.
    He won’t need to question me, because I will confess, to all of it.
    I wait on a bar stool in the hallway, so that he doesn’t have to waste time looking around my house. I’ll go easily. I will make it as simple as possible for him, so that he doesn’t ask any questions. So I don’t have to tell a lie. So I don’t give myself the chance to have a second thought that buries her in culpability.
    His muscular, tired frame fills the doorway with shadow, and he pushes the door open gently to meet me face-to-face for the first time. I know what he looks like, but this is the first time he has seen me.
    He bends his knees slightly, widening his stance, prepared in case I attack. He holds his right arm out stiffly in front of him to prop the door open and act as a barrier should I charge in his direction.
    ‘Eames?’ he says, still unsure, still one step behind.
    I nod at him to inform him he has something right.
    ‘Don’t you fucking move.’ He spits as he curses, unable to contain his wrath towards me.
    I shake my head at him as if to say, ‘I won’t.’ Then I lift my hands slowly out in front of me and turn my palms so they face upwards. As if I am fake-pleading but inviting him to place the handcuffs on me.
    ‘You’re just going to sit there?’ he asks suspiciously.
    I leave my hands where they are and nod slowly, smiling broadly.
    Still, he is cautious, wondering whether this is another trick, some kind of Houdini escape act.
    I’m giving myself up. For her.
    For Audrey. My captor’s wife.
    My work is done.
    I’ve reached the top.
    When the squad cars arrive as backup and screech into the street with their lights rotating, it’s me they are afraid of. When the hero emerges from the doorway with the perpetrator’s hands cuffed behind his back, and neighbours stare through the gaps in their curtains, those are my neighbours, that is my doorway.
    Detective Inspector January David manhandles me down the pathway to his car. I know he wants to hurt me, I know he wants to kill me. He was hoping for a struggle, something to give him an excuse, but I don’t allow him the pleasure.
    He presses heavily on my shoulder to lower me into the back seat then walks around to the driver’s side, opens the door, gets in and starts the engine.
    We wait in silence for a minute while the car warms up.
    He has so many questions in his head to which he still needs answers. I can see him deliberating. And I feel happy that he hasn’t come out of this ordeal unscathed.
    ‘You want to know why I didn’t kill her. Why I didn’t kill her when I killed all the others,’ I tell him, like I know exactly which one of the hundreds of questions he really wants to ask.
    He adjusts his mirror so that he can see my eyes.
    ‘This isn’t just about your whore wife, Detective,’ I lie. He doesn’t even blink. ‘Isn’t it obvious? It was love.’ I lean forward in my seat so that I can speak closer to his ear. ‘I did this all for love.’ Then I rest back into my seat, looking out the window as people begin to emerge on their doorsteps, camera crews already arriving, police tape starting to isolate my house.
    And he thinks he has won.
    The idiot thinks he has actually won.

Eames
    July 2007
    Holloway, London
    He wants to kill me.
    I know that look.
    Detective Inspector January David wants to pull