She tapped some keys. The screen came to life. “It was all encrypted, but this is as far as I went,” she said. On the screen, I saw:
Your ID accepted. Dialogue will now commence. A file is attached. *Warning!* If any attempt is made to copy this file, to print it, or to enter it in any way, it will vanish. Further, be advised that it will appear in chroma- blue, rendering it impossible to photograph. Further, understand that, once opened, it will remain on screen only long enough to be read at an appropriate speed. It will then vanish. When it disappears, you will be required to furnish certain information in order to see the next transmission. I estimate approximately twelve (12) transmissions before you have viewed the total. The transmissions were originally not intended for publication until my death. However, I am now prepared for that death, metaphorically speaking. And I expect you to aid therein. All will become clear as you read. I am certain whoever sent the original contact messages on your behalf will tell you that there is no technological means to determine if other individuals view the screen along with you. This same individual will tell you that my own expertise in this area far exceeds their own. View the following *alone*. It is for your eyes only. When the screen clears, you may summon your confederate(s), as some cyber-communication will be required. When ready, open the attached file.
“You want me to open it?” Xyla asked.
“If I understand him right, something’s going to show up then? Something I can read?”
“Yeah. But not copy. Or even take a picture of. You have to scroll down, like this,” she showed me, tapping an arrow key, “to read it. Better do it pretty quick—I don’t know what ‘appropriate’ reading speed means to someone like him, but I can guarantee, if you try and scroll backward, you’re gonna lose it all, understand?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. When you’re ready, just hit this key,” she said, pointing. Then she got up and left the room, leaving me alone.
I took a deep breath. Lit a cigarette, grateful for the empty ashtray someone had placed right next to Xyla’s machine table. Then I hit the key. The screen danced for a good long minute, then it turned white. Words popped up—in some shade of blue I’d never seen before.
Any moderately discerning individual could deconstruct the failures of Leopold and Loeb simply through perusal of the tabloids of that era. Yellow journalism notwithstanding, there *was* no “Leopold and Loeb.” There was a “Leopold,” and there was a “Loeb.” The media created the illusion of “oneness.” Ironically, that illusion originated in a delusion of the participants. A shared delusion. Folie a deux, the psychiatrists call it.
[Of course, these are the self-same psychiatrists who call child molestation “pedophilia.” That same flock of politically driven sheep who change their own bible—the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. . . or, as they term it so worshipfully, the “DSM”—as the dictates of grantsmanship command. At one time, they characterized homosexuality as a “mental disorder,” subject to the profession’s varied and sundry “treatments,” all of which were doomed to fail. Today, homosexuality is viewed as a “life-style,” an equally stupid misunderstanding of reality. In truth, homosexuality is genetic. Its manifestations may be more or less syntonic with the individual so marked, but that is internal. Only the behavior is external.]
Forgive the digression. A mind such as mine multi-tasks constantly—insights simply fly off the diamond- faceted surface of my intellect. And because insights have value only in proportion to their dissemination. . . this journal.
A brief word about the journal itself. My art demands egolessness. Hubris has ruined many aspirants to greatness. And as I aspire even higher—to nothing less than uniqueness—egotism is not permitted to intrude upon my work. No “Please catch me before I kill again!” notes to the police; no bombastic letters to newspapers; no “unconscious” clues left at the scene of my crimes.
To the world, I am a criminal. A professional. And in my specialty, anonymity and success are inextricably intertwined.
But I am, above all else, an artist. Where is the ego in art? That has long concerned me. Should the true artist be satisfied with his art? Or must he share it with others, subject it to their critical appraisal, and await trepidatiously their biased and agenda’ed response?
The answer continues to elude me. So I compromise. This journal is a meticulous record of my art. As matters now stand, it will be released, automatically, upon my death. Should I change my thinking on the subject, it could be released sooner. For now, it shall remain covert.
Am I replicating the mistake of so many others who have walked this road before me unsuccessfully? Am I creating evidence to be used against me in some future trial, as though I were a demented mail-bomber or religious fanatic? No. Rest assured, access to this journal will occur only upon my express consent. The encryption codes are known only to me, locked in my perfect memory, never put to paper. Any attempt to access this computer will crash the hard drive. Any “recovery” software will yield only gibberish. And a random program designed to reveal the password would require a mainframe running at capacity for approximately 7.44 years to locate its target.
Of course, all of that is secondary to the vial of sulfuric acid inside this very computer, its trigger set to discharge the contents should any unauthorized intrusion be attempted.
Further, I vary from the garden-variety psychopath in one fundamental way. No matter how insane the act, no matter how horrific the consequences, the actor will always find those who approve—even worship—his conduct. Incarcerated serial killers receive fan mail and marriage proposals. Murderers of those who work in abortion clinics are admired by those who claim to be “pro-life” (ignoring, of course, the unintended irony which so often accompanies the activities of the terminally stupid: i.e., some of the victims are *pregnant* women who would have given birth until “aborted” by the heroic killers). The homicidal arsonist of black churches is a “freedom fighter” to his fellow race-haters. The list is endless.
But I am not of that undistinguished (and indistinguishable) ilk. I am no herd animal—I stand alone. Should I be captured, I would be alone as well. What I do is done by no other. And I do not cloak my art in the pretensions of politicians or the alibi of insanity.
I have no politics. And I am the sanest, most rational person any of you will ever encounter.
But to return to my theme: Leopold and Loeb were not “one.” Therefore, each divisible half could betray the other. And so they did.
Although they thought of (and referred to) themselves as Nietzschean “supermen,” they were, in fact, a pair of pathetic little sociopaths, cringing together in the wet darkness of their fears. The kidnapping they engineered was beyond incompetence: Their cover story was tissue paper; they actually *rented* the vehicle in which the victim was transported; the ransom note was typed on a machine stolen from their fraternity house. . . . The list is endless. One of the blunderers even left his eyeglasses at the scene of the disposal.
And once apprehended, they tripped over each other in their eagerness to shift the blame.
Money, and perhaps Darrow’s brilliant dispositional arguments, saved them from the rope. But it was their sexuality that caused their eventual doom. Although it quickly became known that their relationship was homosexual—indeed, rather pedestrian master-slave homosexual—what was ignored was the fact that the
