One of you has taken human life, brutally and, I must say, efficiently. If the facts were known you would be prosecuted with the full force of the law. I will not say if that prosecution and inevitable conviction (for the evidence I have in my possession is conclusive) would result in the death penalty or merely in life imprisonment without the remotest chance of parole. That would come too near identifying the murderer because it might suggest where the crime took place. I reserve that information for myself -- and the murderer. It is my aim to let the murderer know that I know, but to leave others wondering but yearning to know.
You think I am bluffing, blindly casting about? Know what I know. I will suggest a time, the summer of 1993. I will suggest a blunt instrument, heavy and slick with blood. I will suggest an initial, K.
Remember K? You remember K.
Now, you know that I know. And what are you to do? I have observed a certain coldness toward me in recent social situations. I find that off-putting. I suggest renewed warmth -- though not so great a warmth that others who read this might notice and wonder. It is now a very fine line you must walk, isn't it, satisfying me while not betraying yourself to others. As the merriment dances in my eyes, you do not want to see fear and doubt in the eyes of others.
Now, you see why I have chosen this way of informing you of what I know and what I require so that I keep that knowledge to myself. Certain documents have been hidden -- hidden in plain sight! I tease you with this hint! -- that will be revealed if something should happen to me.
When I next see you I expect a smile.
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I reply anonymously, as I must.
Yes, I remember the summer of '93. It was then that I spotted you - impersonating a Jesuit, as I recall. Hearing confessions and earning a nice penny from a blackmail scam on the side.
And K? "Dr K." The K-meister. What else is to be said but that you're wrong. I did my brutal best, but he survived. Though I hate him now as much as I did when he ran State for N.
Simpering fake foreign-intellectual. That voice and accent that all the women loved. All counterfeit. You and I know that he and the soon-to-be Werner Ehrhard started as partners in a used car lot in Tulsa. Both had different names then, selling tired Packards and Studebakers to Oakies down on their luck. Jerks deserved each other.
As for you, you and I probably deserve each other, too. Pair of shadow twins with pasts deeply buried. But I've forgotten all about you, and so it will stay.
You need more warmth, toss a log on the fire, priest impersonator!
Anon.
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