{click}

Seems like a long time, that I've been happy. But then again, long is a relative term.

So is happy.

I can't seem to get the right words out. Well, how can anyone really be expected to get the right words out while writing a letter like this? I mean, the fact that I plan to kill you should not come as a revelation to you. You should expect it after what you did. I know, I know, I heard what you said at the trial. I've heard the TV reports and read the papers -- you were distracted by a bicycle messenger who nearly sideswiped your Jag. In swerving, you just happened to lose control, jump the curb, and run my babies down while they giggled over ice cream cones, while they daydreamed of Mickey and Minnie and Space Mountain, thinking that in twenty-four hours they would be on their way to Disneyland for the very first time.

Do you know how excited they were?

Do you know how excited I was?

Probably not. You're a high-priced lawyer too busy helping the tobacco companies blow smoke up America's ass to notice anything but your dyed beard, capped teeth, and money market balance.

Just for men. Silver Chic.

JJ Spanders has you in their back pocket. Even when they lose you win. After all, they pay their bills, don't they?

Vehicular Manslaughter, three counts.

Plea-bargained down to a slap on the wrist. Oh sure, you lost your license. What limo company are you using this week? Oh, but let's not forget, you're on probation; one slip up and you could face jail.

Could. But doubtless the closest you'll ever get to prison is the courthouse.

Right?

Three counts...

My Laura, and my precious twin sweethearts Amy and Angie.

You killed them. I don't care what the judge told you, you and I both know you killed them. Ran them down in your eighty thousand dollar toy. Ran them down while they ate ice cream cones and hopped over cracks on the sidewalk.

God help you.

I haven't slept much since. Eighteen months and twelve days.

Enough rambling. I have it all planned, all timed out. Go ahead, look at your watch. It should say 5:34. Give or take a few seconds.

Right?

Now, click that designer-colored mouse on your fancy computer and go to this address:

http://members.bipod.com/babykillinglawyer.html

Go ahead.

{click}

Hello again. Well, you obviously made it to my website. Good.

Right now you should be pretty paranoid. Questions swimming through your mind. Questions like, "Where did he get my picture?"

Listen pal, this is just beginning.

I know it can be kind of freaky seeing your picture on the Internet. Especially one like this. I mean, if I saw myself on a website like this, grinning like the Cheshire Cat with that bottle of vodka in my hand and the flames of hell dancing about me as I ran down innocent pedestrians, well, let's just say I'd be pissed. Don't you just love the modern miracle of computer-generated images?

So what, right?

Fucking Photoshop.

Click on the link at the bottom of the page. The one that says "My House!"

{click}

Yes, that's your living room, and there's your bathroom. Really, you could hire a maid with all the money you have. More questions, right? Like, "How did he get in?" You're probably really angry and really scared right now and wondering if you should call the police.

Hold on. You'll get your chance.

Click on the link at the bottom, the one that says "See the Murder Weapon!"

{click}

Yes. That is the inside of your precious Jag. Don't worry, it's still sitting out in your garage. I took those pictures while you were at the office the other day. In case you're wondering whether or not your alarm went off, it did. But like anybody really takes notice when those things go off anymore, right?

Click on the link at the bottom that says "Debbie." Yes, Debbie your sweet little blonde secretary who brings you just a little bit more than coffee and donuts each morning. Does her husband know what you two have been up to?

{click}

That's her. Isn't she sweet? It was a struggle to tie her up like that. If you think she looks scared, you're right. She was. She fought like a mother bear.

Now you're remembering: She didn't come in today, did she? A friend called in for her, right? Now click on the link at the bottom that says, "Aloha, Debbie!"

{click}

Sorry. Had to do it. Permanent vacation for the old Debster! Don't you think red is her color? No loose ends! That's what my Mama used to say! Click on the link at the bottom that says "Good Night!"

{click}

Hey! How did I get that shot? You, sound asleep on your Serta Perfect Sleeper mattress, snuggled between your soft satin sheets.

Some coffins are lined with satin. Did you know that?

The flash didn't seem to bother you when I snapped this picture. My, my, do you always sleep in the buff? And so soundly too! It's a wonder.

There's one more link. The one on the bottom that says, "Live Feed."

{click}

See that? That's the back of your head right this second. I hid the little camera, but I'll tell you now that it's right behind you on top of your microwave. You know, by the open window. It was easily placed. Go ahead, grab it.

By the way, don't forget to lock the window next to the microwave. I mean, it isn't safe these days, you know? Not like when we were kids. Hell, back in our day nobody locked their doors.

And people could walk safely down the sidewalk.

Remember to look outside when you lock your window. Just to be safe.

NOTE FOUND ON DECEASED:

Got him, guys! I'll let you in on some evidence: It was a .44 magnum, you know! Dirty Harry! I'm sure you guys could appreciate that. Not sure how it all looks from where you guys are as I had to write this thing in advance, but I'm sure it did a fine job! By the way, did I tell you that I hate cops? Now go over to his computer and click on the little link there at the bottom of that web page. The one that says "Peek-a-Boo!"

{click}

The headlines read:

Copyright © 2001, 2003 by Marc Sanchez