Ah, Paris, City of Light (and dark). With over 2 million people—12 million with the suburbs—you can always count on her to produce at least one psycho, and this one just showed his hand in my jurisdiction. The hunt is on and I'm in my element again. Damn, I love this town.
People ask me what it's like to stalk a killer. All I can say is that it's like becoming one with him, making peace with that same darkness in me—a handshake with the side of myself that would otherwise have no place in decent society. I surrender to the killer mind completely. Does this horrify you? It shouldn't. You have a killer inside, too. We all do. We're animals, after all. Maybe I have fewer filters in place between me and my animal instincts, given my background, but we all have the same primal urges built into us. Don't kid yourself you're different.
It's only when you understand the killer without judgment that you can begin to anticipate him. The sooner you strike an accord with him and the way he thinks, the sooner you'll catch him. You can't hide behind your badge; you have to get right up in there, up to your elbows in it. It's no time to be squeamish, no time for righteousness. This isn't about you vs. him; this isn't a war. You can't make it personal because the moment you do, you lose the advantage. I like to think of it as a football match—each side thinks he is right, each is poised to win, but only one can: the one who is relentless in his focus, who keeps his emotions out of the game. And that's going to be me.
