[ WP ] A genius serial killer who has been killing successfully for a decade . With one weakness . He can never ever lie . He 's finally gets caught and is facing trial for a murder in court . Yet , he walks , acquitted of all charges .

The key to my success has always been planning. I choose my victims months in advance, and work around the clock. Maps of their common haunts, and schedules showing where the victim will be at any given time. Charts of friends and family. Details of her job and boss and coworkers. Even her dirty secrets, discovered through keyloggers and blackmailing friends. And once I know her better than her own husband ( I always choose married women ), then I begin to plot the kill. I begin to get close to the victim, worming my way into her life. Making *her* obsessed with *me*. 
 
 And it works, every time. The box on my shelf rattles with twenty three wedding rings. A monument to planning for every possible contingency. And most importantly, planning to get caught. Most serial killers never expect it to happen. They're consumed by their hubris. They think they're special. *They* are the ones who will get away with it. Fools. 
 
 March 14, 2014: the day I was found. I was waiting in bed, unable to sleep. I heard the light patter of footsteps on my deck from tip-toeing black boots. I could barely contain my glee. The windows exploded inward, spraying shards of glass all over my perfectly clean apartment. The door to my bedroom splintered and buckled under the force of the battering ram. I was calmly sitting against my headboard with a pleasant smile and my hands clasped behind my head. The SWAT members looked a bit unnerved, and slapped the cuffs on me. They roughed me up a bit, and I squealed in pain as they expected. Not that I actually care; this will only help my defense. 
 
 I sat in court, watching the forensics investigators explain all of the evidence gathered from my home. The books that I'd published, full of eerily similar details that correspond to the killings. The maps and charts that I had prepared with facts that only the killer would know. The long unexplained travel absences. My journal, full of confessions about the thrill of the chase and the satisfaction that comes with a successful kill. The knives, stained with dried human blood. They called me to the stand, of course, but I pleaded the Fifth. 
 
 And then... the case began to fall apart. It's all part of being a fiction writer, my defense attorney explained. All research for my next work, which is entered into evidence. A first person perspective of a serial killer. Completely fictionalized, of course. The charts and maps were found to have grievous errors that the *actual* killer would not have made, including where the victim might be on the night of the murders. The charts had similar inaccurate details. My defense attorney explained that I did my best to piece the crimes together from news stories and a friend within the police department. Poor Jacob... his name was dragged through the mud and his career ruined, but he ended up corroborating my story. He was a necessary sacrifice. The journals were simply fictional, and contained no details about the actual cases. 
 
 The knives were my coup de grâce. What a *sloppy* killer I was, to leave physical evidence on the blades! If only I'd scrubbed harder! It's what the prosecutor called a `` smoking gun.'' She took great pleasure in waving the weapon around the courtroom, detailing how I had sliced open the victim mercilessly. Then it was my turn. My attorney brought in the key surprise witness: a morgue employee that I had bribed. He let me in late one night to practice on an unnamed Jane Doe. I'd told him I was an author, and that I was interested in being able to vividly describe the sound and feel of a knife cutting into flesh. And it was the truth. I never lie. It's not quite the same when they're dead, but I enjoyed this bit of alibi building nonetheless. 
 
 I still remember the prosecutor's face after his testimony. She had nothing on cross-examination, and she could see her career going down the tubes. This was the most publicized trial the city had had in years, and she was completely blowing it. I wondered if she'd get fired for this. If not, I'd have to pull a few more strings. I gave her a sympathetic head nod and a barely-concealed smirk, and she could n't hide the smoldering anger. 
 
 After the acquittal, we shook hands in front of a hundred flashing cameras. She put on her fakest smile and declared that justice had been served. She clenched my hand tighter and for a brief moment let the mask drop; she looked like she wanted to gag. With a wave to the reporters, she whispered into my ear: `` I know you did it. And I'm going to stop you.'' 
 
 I continued shaking her right hand, eying the soft gold wedding ring on the other and picturing it in my collection. `` You'll try,'' I told her. `` Looking forward to seeing you again soon.'' I *really, really* was.
