Adler ran the terry towel over his massive construction worker arms and hairy chest. He rinsed the cloth out prior to cleaning his calloused hands, and scrubbed his fingernails with a wire brush until the skin at the tips bled. He flushed the liquid down the drain, then thought of the priceless picture of his blood mingled with that of his victim.

For most of the act, Adler had kept gloves on, but for an instant removed them. He'd never resisted the slippery, warm feel of blood, or its crimson tone. For enjoyment, Adler always allowed a slight barehanded touch as the dissection occurred.

It had been a busy evening at the Iron Cougar. Adler had been well pleased and excited as he rattled the gates of Hell. Reliving some of the best parts, he closed his eyes and would have enjoyed a piping hot shower. Instead, Adler washed down the sink with Clorox and reminded himself to leave no traces behind Luminol could detect.

Much more remained to be accomplished. By his watch, Adler had plenty of time. Of that he was sure. Adler wanted to be ready in the unlikely event the unexpected happened. The philosophy had kept him alive through many encounters with his slaughtered victims?

Gathering the clothing he'd stripped out of to clean up, Adler stuffed the items into a wicker basket. He grabbed a robe and his trusty .45. Perpetually ticked off all the time, Adler turned on the morning news though he despised all the newscasters on tv. The report of Sondra Schmidt's execution would cheer him up and arouse his spirits. Everything had gone the way he'd planned. Adler yearned to be anywhere else in the unknown universe. He noticed Sondra's diamond necklace on the counter.

"What do I want with some bimbo's voodoo crap?" Adler asked himself with glee, "Because as the old saying goes you just don't put new patches on old garments."

Adler scratched his long black locks of stringy hair. Snow-white dandruff settled onto his shoulders. His mind drifted back to fond memories before his disdain for humanity manifested and his future dimmed. Once again, the preciousness of life evaporated. That was his reality.

Knowing the outrage his reign of terror spawned, Adler was the depravity everyone dreaded. More vicious than Bundy, and funnier than the Killer Clown he envied as a young boy, Jason Voorhees could only wish he compared to Karl Adler. But, he did not. Not even close. The nightmare that came true enjoyed inflicting powerful waves of excruciating pain on his helpless martyrs.

Adler thought about the detective who hounded him. What was his name? Oh yeah, John Dutton. Adler understood Dutton intended to ruin all his best laid plans.

A revengeful voice inside Adler cried out, "Gotta kill him!"

The thought pleased Adler. He knew Dutton's death highlighted his line of revulsion. Adler had come to know Dutton well. His reputation preceded him. The excitement of other cops pursuing him, especially for the cold-blooded murder of one of their own, thrilled Adler.

A long sixty seconds of silence passed. Adler's vague sense of prognostication did not lead him to any specific misgivings. Sondra Schmidt. What a luxurious find she turned out to be. Adler was glad he plucked the necklace from around her slender neck. He prided himself for his forethought to collect evidence trinkets from corpses.

(TO BE CONTINUED:)