I bought a puppy, one who was incredibly friendly and just wanted to meet everyone. Bait doesn't work very well if it runs away, does it? I outfitted him with a GPS tracking collar, and let him run around the neighborhood that had been mentioned on the news. The name given to him at the pet shop was "Almond," which I thought was an odd name for a dog. I'd had them engrave it on the collar in the hopes that this might entice my target even more; I had no way of knowing how he selected his victims. I'd also had them engrave an address on the back. If I was right about this new candidate, he would have to make a stop there at some point.
Then, I waited, for weeks. Night after night, I watched the dot on the monitor race around the neighborhood as the dog darted to and fro, sniffing everything and greeting anyone he might see at this time of night, which was rare. There were a few false alarms: sometimes Almond would just get tired and lay in one spot for too long. I had to remind myself to be patient; if this new candidate was as good as I thought, then this needed to be done carefully. There were three more pets disemboweled during this time, so I knew that he was still active.
It was pouring rain the night that it finally happened. Perhaps that was just a coincidence, or maybe the killer was just smart enough to only work when there was cover. When no one else would be outside.
I was in my car listening to the drumbeat on the metal roof when I noticed that the GPS dot was still. I turned on the car and kept an eye on it as I drove closer. Still no movement. It's possible that Almond is just taking cover from the rain, I told myself as I drove slowly through the dark streets. Don't get your hopes up. I traced the signal to an empty park, rimmed with tall leafy trees. There was a sandbox in one corner with brightly-colored playground equipment and some rusted swings, but otherwise seemed empty. I waited nearby for at least half an hour. Almond didn't move the entire time, and my eagerness rose with each passing minute.
A dark shadow slipped out of the trees and moved quickly into the street. He was smaller than I'd expected. Maybe not even a teenager yet. I was briefly disappointed; children were so impressionable. Where's the challenge in that? Half of me wanted to give up on this target altogether and find someone new, but deep down I knew that this was still my best chance. I waited until he had disappeared around the corner, then started the car and drove over to the house: a dark, two-story red-brick colonial where the Linden family was probably asleep in their beds. This was address that I had picked to have engraved into Almond's collar. I climbed out of my car, and I waited in the rain.
It only took a few minutes for him to appear around the collar. The shadow moved across the lawn, and I noticed that there was a bundle in his arms. It wasn't hard to figure out what it was. He placed Almond's remains on the doorstep with almost reverent gentleness and scampered away into the night. And I followed.
Had I been less confident in my abilities, I may have suspected that he knew he was being followed. But I'd been doing this for years, and had grown quite adept at not being seen by my prey. We went through backyards and over fences and across a creek and through a small patch of woods. Had I tried using the car, I would have lost him easily. But finally, he slowed down. In front of a simple, white, ranch-style home, he removed his hoodie and pulled keys from his pocket.
Sorry, not his pocket: her pocket. As she passed under a streetlight, I finally got a clear glimpse of her tightly braided hair and soft features. A girl, no more than 16. She had been the one who had torn Almond apart and left his pelt and bleeding remains on the Linden's porch. I was a bit surprised, but why not? Mental illness doesn't discriminate based on gender. She would be just as good of a candidate as any young man.
I silently took a photo and wrote down the address. Time to go home and do some research about this seemingly nice family at 214 Acacia Rd.