Ryan joined me at the scoreboard, but instead of correcting my score, he picked up the eraser and rubbed out all the scores.
“How about we start with a clean slate and play just for fun?” he suggested.
“You keep saying that F-word, friend. See if it makes it happen.”
Now the news showed visuals of an excited-looking reporter who, judging by the yellow police tape and number of law enforcement officers in the background, was at the site of a crime scene. From the sparse information on the scrolling news ticker, I gleaned that the breaking story was the discovery of a mass burial site where the remains of at least six bodies had been found buried in the Nash Stream Forest area in western New Hampshire, not far from the Vermont border.
“Look at that,” I said. “Reckon it’s from a spree killing or maybe a family murder?”
“I doubt it. If so many people disappeared in the woods at one time, we’d have heard about it,” my favorite cop said. “It’s probably a serial killer’s dumpsite.”
I sipped my beer, frowning up at the TV. “It sometimes feels like the world is full of them.”
“Serial killers? Not really. I know Hollywood makes it seem like the country’s swarming with them, but they’re actually quite rare.”
I shot him a skeptical glance.
“It’s true. Murders by serial killers make up less than one percent of the US homicide rate. And the overall number is in decline.” Ryan tossed his darts, making it look easy.
“Why are the numbers going down?”
“For one thing, they’re getting caught sooner due to improvements in forensic science, especially in DNA evidence, and better inter-agency cooperation. Plus, we’ve got access to national databases, now. That’s been a game-changer.”
“Like the fingerprint one?”
“Yeah, IAFIS. But also the FBI’s national crime database, the NCIC, and ViCAP, which is for violent crimes. And, of course, these days convicted serial killers are getting longer prison sentences.”
I threw my darts; one of them actually clattered sideways against the board. “I’m getting worse. How is that even possible?”
“Your problem is you’re too tense. C’mon. Let me see if I can help.” He coaxed me back to the line and, standing close behind me, showed me how to stand with my right foot forward. “Now plant your left foot behind, like so, for balance.” When I leaned forward to throw, he placed a hand on either side of my hips, holding me steady. “Keep your body still and relaxed. Just let your arm do all the work.”
The warmth of his chest against my back and his hands on my hips made me feel the opposite of relaxed. No surprise, then, that my dart missed the board entirely.
“Breathe,” he said, massaging my shoulders. “You need to loosen up.”
I sagged into his kneading hands. If I were to spin around in his arms and kiss him, would that distract him from the wretched game? Probably not — he was a persistent man. But maybe I should do it anyway, just because I wanted to.
He held my hand and guided my next throw. That time, I hit the board.
“Stop overthinking it,” he whispered into my ear, sending goosebumps up my arms. “The more you think, the worse you perform.”
A lot like my life then.
“Just trust your instincts.”
Trust my instincts? Was he mad?
I threw my last dart and scored a double nineteen.
Ryan hugged me from behind. “There you go. That’s better! A legit thirty-eight.”
I snuggled back into his chest but gasped in disbelief as the dart sagged, wiggled loose, and dropped to the floor.
“What the …? Did you see that?” I demanded, pointing at the board.
Ryan, who’d been nuzzling my neck, glanced up. “See what? Oh, that.”
“Yes, that. It was my best throw so far!”
“Sometimes they don’t stick. It’s called a bounce-out,” he said.
But I was certain the dart hadn’t fallen out of its own accord, a conviction which grew when a sudden coldness surrounded me like my own icy cloud.
Jealous, Colby? I thought.
My high school sweetheart, Colby Beaumont, had died in our senior year, plunging me into a deep pool of grief. But since my near-death experience, I sometimes heard his voice in my head or felt his presence, as I did now. Not being into threesomes, I pulled away from Ryan, grabbed my beer, and perched on a stool.
“Quitting?” Ryan challenged.
“It’s your turn. They can all be your turns from now on. And I hope you can multitask because I want you to tell me about serial killers.”
He retrieved my darts from the board. “I don’t know that much, to be honest; I’ve never investigated a murder by a serial killer.”
“Never?”
“I see I’ve gone down in your estimation.”
“Utterly,” I teased.
He threw my darts at the board, piercing the narrow green circle that surrounded the bullseye and congratulating me for getting my highest score of the evening.
“I reckon you know more about serial killers than I do,” I said.
“Didn’t you learn about them in your studies?”
“I studied psychology not criminology. I could tell you about psychopaths but killers?” I shrugged. “So dish. Like, what drives serial killers?”
Ryan flung the last darts into the board and came to sit with me. “Generally speaking, people kill for the sake of love, lust, loathing, and loot. Or any combination of those.”
“And is that true for serial killers too?”
“Pretty much. I think they especially like the thrill of the power. I mean, some of them are plain insane, like they think God told them to kill red-haired women, who are demons in disguise. But a lot just use other people as a way to get their kicks, especially sexually. Then you have the sadists who like to torture, and the men who are filled with violent rage and when that spills over from time to time, they kill. Some killers believe they’re special, that they have a mission to rid the world of some kind of ‘bad’ person, like sex workers or interracial couples, or—”
“Or gay men?” All the Button Man’s victims had been gay or were thought to be so. “Is that why he targets them, do you think?”
“Maybe. But they’re generally a vulnerable target. They’re presumed to be easier to take down and less likely to put up a fight.”
I thought about a guy I’d been at school with, Andy something. He’d had a slim build and an effete manner, and the guys were always picking on him, calling him names, tripping him up, and trashing his locker. I’d been too immersed in my love for Colby, and then too lost in my grief, to be much aware of his pain, but now I felt a pang of shame. I should’ve done something. I should’ve stood up for him.
“Fun fact,” Ryan said, recalling me from my thoughts, “a surprising number of serial murders are committed for profit or gain.”
“Like for money?”
“Yup. Especially by female killers.” Ryan finished his beer. “It’s probably fair to say that for the most part, serial killers are opportunists who strike when the chance presents itself.”
I picked at the damp label on my beer bottle, digging scallops into its edges with my thumb nail. “And their victims?”