Estimated reading time — 21 minutes
I am a retired Private Investigator turned Real Crime Blogger. I have been receiving anonymous manuscripts in the mail detailing heinous acts of appalling psychopathy.
For reasons concerning my work and this situation, I don’t want to give you my true identity. You can refer to me as Mr. S. I started in my early years as a detective. Not to toot my own horn, but I was highly effective at my job, and before too long I started taking much higher paying jobs as a freelance Private Investigator. Over the years, I have solved several high profile cold murder cases.
Unfortunately, in a work-related attack, I was seriously injured and retired from my job as a Private Investigator 5 years ago. Since then, I have started a well known Real Crime blog and podcast.
Recently, I started to receive the handwritten manuscripts from an anonymous source in the mail detailing heinous acts of dark psychopathy. No return address. On the outside of the second envelope there was the following note:
“My work is an art that has gone unnoticed for far too long. Although few would understand, it is time that my art is presented to the world.”
Below is the second manuscript I received. This manuscript was titled, “University.”
If you have not yet read the first manuscript, you can read that first here:
Be warned, I believe that what you are about to read is the Journal of a Psychopath.
I was in my Sophomore year at the university. The past two years had gone exactly as planned. My status as a Foster Child ensured that my tuition would be covered. Dean and Sarah had followed through with their offer of adoption and accepted me as their son. As such, they provided me with a modest allowance ensuring that my pantry remained filled, and my needs were met. I had a nice computer, a new cell phone, and all of the school supplies I would need. I also always had a place to stay during the summer or holidays. Although I preferred to spend my time alone, I provided Dean and Sarah with just enough interaction and gratification to keep them bending over backward for me. Life was good, until Dustin, that is.
In my previous year, I had the fortune of being assigned a roommate that rarely spoke. He minded his own business, we never even had a real conversation. As a matter of fact, I don’t even remember the kid’s name. It was perfect.
This year, I had been assigned a very different roommate, Dustin. Dustin was a special kind of fool who felt the need to be the center of attention. My apartment was always crammed with similar idiots, who can’t quite seem to manage 5 seconds without speaking. They were always talking, shouting, and blaring pathetic pop music written by “musicians” who had the vocabulary skill of dirty-minded first graders. Dustin and his group of retards replicated the essence of their favorite songs by getting sloppy drunk and bragging about, “Baggin’ Hoes,” and such. I was disgusted that my generation could succumb to such ludicrous culture.
At first, I thought that they were just drinking. I shut myself in my room or the library as much as possible, ignoring the idiots. It didn’t take me long to realize, however, that they were consuming a little more than just booze. Every time Dustin walked near, a waft of burnt marijuana would insult my nose, and soon my apartment reeked of it every evening.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, one Saturday morning I woke up to find the remnants of their Friday night festivities. People I did not recognize lay on the couch and even on the floors, snoring like hibernating pests. Their mess of crunched aluminum beer cans and burnt joints, along with the aroma of stale cigarettes, gave the appearance as if a herd of homeless addicts had spent the night in my apartment. On the coffee table were smears of fine white powder, fingerprints whooshing about. a small white straw from a fast-food establishment lay on the ground. It wasn’t hard to determine that these snoring idiots had done plenty of cocaine.
Now, I don’t care if you smoke weed or do cocaine, as long as it poses no threat to my well being. Naturally, if Dustin were to get caught with drugs, it could come down on me as well. Guilty by association, as they say. Obviously, I couldn’t accept such a risk to my life, to my goals. I would need to confront Dustin about this.
I walked into his room, kicking away beer cans that clanged across the floor. In the midst of his room, which resembled a landfill, was his bed. The scattered bed sheets and comforter gave way to a cluster of tangled limbs, I pulled the sheets off to find Dustin in his underwear, his girlfriend beside him nearly naked. Ripping off his smelly sheets did nothing to stir the kid from his drug-induced hibernation, so gave him a nudge. Nothing.
“Dustin, wake up and clean this shit up,” I said, but Dustin barely stirred. My patience was already thin, but each and every second that I had to exist inside this pigsty made me more agitated. I grabbed him by his foot and ripped him out of his bed.
The first thing to hit the floor was his face, which practically bounced off of the cheap grey carpet.
“What the hell?” Said Dustin, finally somewhat conscious. His hands clutched his head, in obvious pain from the hangover, only made worse from the hit to the head. His palms worked their way to his eyes, as he rubbed them and tried opening his eyelids.
“Get up, Dustin. Get these idiots out of my apartment and clean up your pigsty. If I wanted to live in a trailer park filled with trashy idiots, I would.”
“Get the hell out of here, asshole. Quit being a little bitch.” He told me, looking up with squinty eyes as if someone was shining a flashlight directly at his face. I could see the headache in his eyes, showing clear signs of a huge hangover. I knew how to handle a guy with a huge hangover.
I headed to the kitchen. With a squeak, I opened one of the faded brown kitchen cabinets and grabbed the old, discolored pot and its matching frying pan. Holding them by their black plastic handles, I headed back into Dustin’s room, where he was already back to snoring in his bed.
I flipped the light on and strolled across the room taking care to step on the dirty laundry. As I pulled the frayed white cord of the crooked blinds, the sunshine penetrated the dark room. Both Dustin and his girlfriend reactively pulled blankets over their faces to shield their eyes from the penetrating rays. Two major symptoms characterize a heavy hangover: Severe headache and extreme sensitivity to bright lights and loud sounds.
I walked over to Dustin’s side of the bed, holding the pot and pan over his head, and started banging them together as loud as I could. Dustin reacted to the obnoxious clangs as if he were a vampire being attacked by the sun, showing that the sound caused him pain. I found myself enjoying his reactions as he grabbed his head with both hands, as if that would do anything to subside the pain now pounding in his dehydrated and intoxicated brain. He rolled around like an epileptic animal, shouting curse words that were barely audible over my continuous clangs of the pot and pan.
Finally, the sound and pain became too much. Dustin threw off the covers and jumped to his feet. He made one small stumble with his back foot, demonstrating that he was still drunk. He behaved like a wounded animal, with one goal: To make the pain stop.
The inevitable physical violence now came from Dustin, as he threw a joke of a punch at me. I smacked his hand away with the pan. Dustin swore in pain as his knuckles collided with metal resulting in a dull clang. He didn’t learn his lesson the first time, so he threw a second punch at me with the same result. This time he lost his balance and fell over his drunk self, his face landing on his bleeding knuckles.
I once again started clanging the pot and the pan over his head, only angering him further. As he tried to scramble back to his feet, I kicked him with a push-kick, knocking him backwards into his cheap black nightstand. Now, I knew Dustin was a wannabe gangster, but even with that I did not expect what he did next.
Dustin quickly rose back to his feet and opened the sliding drawer of his nightstand, from which he pulled out a compact size pistol and pointed it directly at my head. Needless to say, I stopped clanging the pot and pan immediately. Dustin stood there, his face bright red from anger and pain, holding the gun in his shaky hand with his finger on the trigger. There was no doubt in my mind that a kid as irresponsible as Dustin would keep a gun chambered, so I knew that a trigger pull would mean a bullet in my head.
We stood there in silence for a moment, as I stared at the silver circle of the barrel, surrounded by the matte black slide. Dustin’s expression softened some, as he realized the gravity of the situation. A fool like him wouldn’t be able to pull off a clean murder, I could see in his eyes that he understood that pulling the trigger would mean a life in prison. By now, everyone in the apartment was awake and aware of the situation. They stood awkwardly outside the bedroom door not sure what to do now that the ringleader of their circus had pulled out a gun.
Every part of me wanted to rip the gun from his hands and kill him right then and there. It’s actually a fairly simple maneuver if you know what you’re doing. I may have even been within my legal rights to do so, but I didn’t need my name on that police record nor time spent in court. The last thing I wanted to do was bring any unnecessary attention to myself, particularly not with law enforcement. So I chose a more tactful way out.
“I’m not okay with you bringing these drugs into my apartment,” I told him, calmly but assertive, as to not stir an irrational reaction from the idiot with a gun, “I don’t care what you do with your own life, but It’s not okay for you to risk my future.”
“What are you gonna do, go snitchin’ to the police?” He spat at me, still pointing the gun at my forehead.
The answer was yes, I would go to the police if I needed to, but right now I needed to de-escalate the situation, not give him a reason to shoot me.
“No,” I told him, remaining calm, “As long as you keep the drugs out of my apartment, I’ll never speak of this again.”
“Well guess what, you don’t get to tell me what to do, Bitch. If you go snitch me out, I’ll make sure to tell them that you’re a part of this operation,” Dustin said, gesturing with his gun hand. I couldn’t help but notice the way that he had to act tough in front of his friends. It was almost comical, to see that happening. “Matter of fact, I already have drugs hidden somewhere in your stuff to make sure that If I go down, you do too.”
I really didn’t believe that Dustin had the intelligence, nor the foresight, to hide drugs away just in case, but I couldn’t be certain. In the meantime, I had to let Dustin believe that he won.
“Alright, Dustin,” I said, making sure to look scared. That’s what he wants, to think that people fear him. “I promise, I won’t say a word. You win, Dustin.”
“Good,” he said, finally removing his finger from the trigger. Instead of lowering the gun, however, he hit me with it. I felt the cold hard metal of the gun slide slam into my face, just to the side of my left eye. I fell to the ground, allowing Dustin to feel superior in the moment. It took everything I had to hide my anger, and keep my scared expression on, but I managed.
“Next time, I’ll kill you,” Dustin said, before telling me to get out.
I retreated to my room, locking the door behind me. As I held a paper towel to my bleeding face, I couldn’t help but smile in excitement. It had been far too long since I had a legitimate reason, an excuse if you will, to feel that rush and enjoyment from two long years ago. Little did Dustin understand the war he had just started. I would never allow a simple-minded fool to risk my future with his drugs. He most definitely didn’t understand that he could not win. I always win.
I kept to myself, mostly in my room, for the remainder of the weekend. It seemed that the events of Saturday morning had at least put the clowns off enough that they took their Saturday night substance-circus elsewhere. Meanwhile, I thought back to that brief conversation with Dustin, and there was one particular statement that he had made that stood out.
“I’ll make sure to tell them that you’re a part of this operation,” Is what he had told me.
Operation was the one word that gave it all away. This told me that he wasn’t just an idiot on drugs. No, he was the dealer. While I admire entrepreneurship, no matter how stupid, I couldn’t let his “operation” tarnish my future. I knew what I had to do.
Monday morning, I left my apartment for class at the normal time. Instead of going to class, however, I waited for Dustin to leave from a stone park bench across the road. We had class at the same time, but he was almost always late getting out of bed and undoubtedly showed up to class late. Finally, about 15 minutes after class should have begun, I watched his greasy brown head walk away from our apartment building. This meant that I had several hours before he would be home.
I reentered my apartment, where I went to my bathroom and retrieved my pair of teal latex cleaning gloves, the very same ones I wore when I killed Brian. I put those on carefully, ensuring that I didn’t touch the hands nor the fingers of the gloves. After wiggling my fingers into their respective positions, I was ready to investigate.
I slowly entered Dustin’s room, careful not to accidentally move anything out of place. Not that it would have been noticed, Dustin was a pig. Stepping over a heap of dirty laundry, I made my way to his nightstand first. As I softly pulled on the faded gold knob, the squeaky drawer slid out revealing the gun. At least he wasn’t stupid enough to take it to classes with him, but I’d make him regret it nonetheless. He had one extra magazine in the drawer, along with a black spring-loaded knife. Also in the drawer was a picture of him and his girlfriend. I guess even wannabe gangsters have a soft spot. I think I’m one of the few lucky people who don’t have soft spots. Soft spots are weak spots.
Next, I made my way around his unkempt bed to the closet, which had one of the sliding doors already opened revealing haphazardly hung clothing. I could see in the corner, a stack of shoe boxes lay covered by a few jackets and hoodies in a feeble attempt to appear discreet. I knew that those boxes probably had what I was looking for. I carefully moved the smelly jackets out of the way, taking note of the exact order in which the jackets were placed.
Inside the top orange shoe box was just some papers, nothing important to me. In the second box, I found a multicolored glass pipe atop three large bags of Marijuana, quite a bit if you ask me, but I’m no expert. I set the marijuana box aside and opened up the third box. Jackpot.
In this box, I found a large bag of white powder. The bag was marked with a B, undoubtedly referring to “blow,” the street name for Cocaine. This seemed like an awful lot of cocaine. It wouldn’t take an expert to realize that the bag had to be worth thousands alone. Next to the large white bag were a dozen or so pocket-sized zip bags sitting on top of a small scale, filled with carefully pre-portioned doses of the drug.
This confirmed the suspicion I had ever since Dustin had accidentally used the word, “Operation.” Dustin was certainly selling. By the looks of it, Dustin was dealing quite a bit of marijuana and cocaine. This was something I definitely couldn’t be okay with in my apartment. I moved the large bag to the side to find what else might be lurking.
Underneath the cocaine was a transparent zip-up bag of small white tablet-shaped pills, probably 40-50 in count, labeled. The bag was labeled, “CPT CODY,” with a sharpie. The tablets had the letter M on one side, and the number 30 embedded on the other side. I didn’t know what those were, as I’ve never been savvy with drugs, but I would definitely do research to figure it out. For now, I had everything that I needed to make a tentative plan. After putting everything back precisely how I had found it, I left.
I went to the library and searched through dozens of thick hardcover textbooks, sifting through pages still stained with highlighter and crusty coffee spills from previous students. Sure, a simple internet search would have been easier, but I couldn’t risk any chance of being traced. After hours of straining my eyes on the tiny print from textbook indices, I found what I was looking for.
I knew that Dustin was getting involved with some serious drugs when I found the cocaine, but this information showed an even darker truth. M30 pills are prescription Oxycodone opiates, but the name Captain Cody reveals that the pills are something else entirely. Thanks to a Criminal Justice and Drug Enforcement textbook, I found that the small unidentified tablets that I had found were likely not Oxycodone, but Fentanyl, a synthetic opioid over 50 times stronger than Morphine. According to this textbook, it’s common for dealers to mask them as Oxycodone, for one reason or another. The lethal dose of Fentanyl is only 2-3mg.
A smile crept across my face from my quiet corner in the huge library. It was time to try something new. I had a plan.
I spent the next week going about business as usual, quietly staying out of Dustin’s way but watching intently. Every day after classes, Dustin would come to the apartment and disappear into his room for only a few short minutes before reemerging with his dirty forest-green backpack. He would return anywhere between 90 minutes to 2 hours later, and disappear into his room again. It wasn’t hard to tell that this time frame was when Dustin was doing his deliveries.
His weird girlfriend would now show up while he was gone, apparently he gave her a key. I wondered, though, If Dustin knew that she was sneaking into his stash. As soon as she got to the apartment, she would duck inside his room for a few minutes and come back out to get a soda. Almost every time I noted a smear of white underneath her left nostril. Although she was coke-head, at least she was smart enough to use Dustin to get what she wanted.
Wednesday night would be the night, the night to finally put my problems behind me. Again, I skipped out on my morning class. The class was Humanities, the single most drab class one could take. Spend hours reading worthless poetry then listen to some idiots try to sound sophisticated about it? I hated it, but I only needed a C to get credit. Instead, I waited for Dustin to leave.
As soon as he had left for the day, I entered his room and went for the drug box. I was surprised to find just how much business the kid had been doing. The drug shoe boxes had been drained quite a bit but the cash box was definitely more full. His operation was going successfully, but he was sloppy and would most definitely get caught if he were allowed to continue. I wasn’t willing to be caught up in that.
Sarah had given me a mortar and pestle before I moved out, and this was the first time that I would be using it. After covering my nose and mouth with a thick cloth, I dropped several of the little pills into the thick granite bowl and used the sturdy stone pestle to crush them. The grinding sound wasn’t pleasant, it reminded me of nails on a chalkboard only less high pitched. Still, I continued to crush and grind, adding a few pills at a time as the contents of the bowl slowly turned into a chalky powder.
After about 20 minutes of consistent grinding, I felt as though I had the right amount. With gloved hands, I compared the consistency of the chalky fentanyl with that of the cocaine. The fentanyl was a bit thicker, and more of an off-white comparatively, but I knew that if I mixed them well enough it would go unnoticed.
I removed the small, portioned bags of cocaine from the box. Carefully, I emptied the contents into a small cup where I mixed the cocaine with fentanyl, calculating about the correct amount of Fentanyl for one lethal dose. After I was satisfied with the mix, I put the now laced cocaine back into each baggy. After mixing more fentanyl with the remaining large bag of cocaine, keeping to the same ratio, everything was ready to go. I put everything back into Dustin’s closet and sanitized my gloves and equipment with bleach and dish soap. Now, all I had to do was wait.
Dustin arrived back to the apartment on schedule, quickly ducking into his room and leaving 5 minutes later with his ugly backpack to go sell his drugs. Soon after, his girlfriend came in, as planned, and went into Dustin’s room. I watched from the crack in my door as she emerged a few minutes later to retrieve a soda. She was smiling awkwardly and did a weird sort of twirl toward the sofa before plopping herself onto a plump cushion.
I watched her head would drop slightly, and whip back upward as she tried to keep herself awake. The nods became more pronounced, and finally she lay her head back and closed her eyes, giving in to the deep relaxation effect of the powerful opiate. I emerged from my room to analyze her condition. Her head lay back with her mouth open and arms sprawled toward the side as if she had merged with the sofa. She was completely out. I poked at her a few times to make sure that she would not easily wake before positioning her in such a way to keep her airway open. I needed her to stay alive, unfortunately.
I got the rest of my preparations ready quickly, but carefully, as I waited for Dustin’s arrival. I paced the room while lightly snapping my fingers in a mixture of excitement and nervousness. I couldn’t wait to execute the remainder of my plan, but I started to feel anxious about it. I felt as though I didn’t know enough about drugs, they could be unpredictable. I had an easy backup plan for if the girl died, but it would be messy if she woke up too early.
Finally, I heard the jingle of keys outside of the apartment, and the subsequent click of the deadbolt sliding into the unlocked position. After the front door was closed, Dustin turned on the lights and froze at the sight in front of him. I had his gun pointed at him from behind his couch, just behind his unconscious girlfriend. In my other hand, I held Dustin’s knife to her neck.
“I wouldn’t advise doing anything stupid, Dustin,” I told him calmly.
His eyes widened as he grasped the situation, and worry tainted his usually smug face exposing one of his greatest weaknesses; Love. He most definitely loved this girl.
“What did you do to her?” Dustin asked through clenched jaws, frightened and slowly putting his hands up as if I was arresting him.
“I knocked her out, after she threatened to frame me the same way you threatened me,” I lied, gesturing with the gun. “I’m not going to hurt either of you, as long as we can both agree to part ways peacefully and neither of us will go to the police. I think it’s clear that if either of us gets turned in, we’ll rat each other out. Now please, take a seat.” I pointed with the gun to the chair on the opposite side of the coffee table to his girlfriend and myself.
Per my request, he walked over and sat down begrudgingly. “If you hurt her, I’ll kill you,” Dustin said with a clenched jaw.
“Don’t worry, I fully intend for her to be unharmed,” I told Dustin, being honest for the first time since his arrival. “Now, help yourself to a line, I want you to be relaxed.” Keeping the knife at the girl’s throat, I pointed to the three lines of tainted cocaine that I had prepared for him.
“Why the hell would I take the line at a time like this?” Dustin spat.
“Just to make sure that if you call the police, you have to tell them that you were on drugs. I’m trying to draw a truce, Dustin, so nobody gets screwed.”
Dustin grabbed the rolled-up bill that I had prepared, leaned over the first line, and with his nose over his free nostril he snorted. The white powder sucked through the dollar bill straw like a vacuum sucking up flower. He took a deep breath looking more relaxed and looked back up at me.
“I’m going to need you to tell me what drugs you hid in my room and where,” I told him.
Dustin comprehended the demand, revealing that he had indeed hidden drugs somewhere in my stuff. I was impressed that he was smart enough to actually have done that. “I taped weed in your floor vent,” Dustin admitted, deciding to tell me the truth.
“Excellent, thank you for telling me that,” I told Dustin with a gentle smile, “Now please, take another line so we can talk about what’s going to happen.”
I smiled as Dustin bent over to snort the second line. The first line had only a small amount of fentanyl, but the second line was half cocaine and half fentanyl. There was just over a lethal dose, by my calculations. Dustin closed his eyes and shook his head after snorting the second line. I’m not sure how much resistance he had to the drug, but it seemed to hit him hard.
“Now here’s the plan,” I said, keeping Dustin’s mind distracted from the drug. As he looked up to me, I could see the black pupils narrowing within his brown eyes, signaling that the drug taking rapid effect, “I’m going to move out, and you are going to take over the full lease willingly. I won’t say anything about the drugs, and you won’t say anything about this little, well, incident. Sound good?”
“Whatever man, just take the knife off of her,” Dustin said as he rubbed his eyes. I could see that he was already fighting the urge to let his head drop.
“Perfect, take that last line and we’ll shake on it.”
“I don’t want to man, something feels weird with this blow,” Dustin said, as he started to sway ever so slightly.
“Take the line, Dustin, so I can let her go,” I demanded, sternly.
Shaking his head, Dustin bent down and snorted the final line. This line was pure fentanyl, probably enough to kill two people. Dustin put one hand to his head and grabbed the table with the other hand in an attempt to steady himself. His chest moved angrily as his breathing quickly became labored and loud.
I removed the knife from the girl’s neck and stood up fully to watch Dustin be completely taken over by his own drugs. He leaned on the table as his diaphragm now contracted heavily and violently as each breath now rasped like a snoring bulldog. He made an effort to look up at me, but his arm gave out under his weight and his face slammed into the table with a thud.
His butt still sat on the chair, but his face now rested on the coffee table. I felt a surge of euphoria come over me as I watched Dustin struggle a few more times to pick his head up. He only made it a few inches each time before his head thudded back onto the table. I couldn’t help but laugh out loud as I thought back to when he had told me, “Next time, I’ll kill you.” If only he knew just what type of person he had said that to. The fool thought himself a superior man who could stomp all over me, but I proved him to be not but a pawn in my way.
Bubbly white foam now appeared from his open mouth, slowly drifting onto the table. The raspy breath had now turned to inconsistent choking and gurgling sounds, signaling respiratory failure. I took a seat and watched eagerly as Dustin’s body made involuntary seizure-like jerks. I wasn’t sure if he had any consciousness remaining, but I sure hoped that it hurt, and that he could feel the pain.
Finally, his breathing and seizing stopped altogether, and Dustin was completely motionless. His head was on the table, as was his left arm, but his right arm dangled down with his fingers touching the grey carpet. I checked his pulse to verify that he was dead. There was nothing.
I looked over at the girl, having completely forgotten about her in the moment. Her breathing had steadied, which was good. If she had died I would have had to be the one to discover the bodies. I retrieved the marijuana that Dustin had placed in my floor vent and checked the rest of the vents just to be sure. After replacing the gun and knife in Dustin’s former nightstand, I took off my latex cleaning gloves and sanitized them one more time, to make sure that there would be no drug residue left. Finally, I crashed onto my bed and quickly fell asleep. Murder is hard work.
I awoke to loud screaming coming from the living room, Dustin’s girlfriend had finally woke up. I checked the clock to see that it was 12:23 AM, which meant Dustin had been dead for hours now. I took one deep breath before bursting out of the room to appear as if I were panicked.
I saw Dustin’s girlfriend leaning over him, trying to shake him awake, begging him through her obnoxious sobbing.
“Oh my god! What happened?” I said loudly, acting shocked and scared.
“I- I don’t know,” She said sobbing desperately, “I think- he took too much.” She said sobbing. I’m sure at this point she knew deep down that he was long dead, but perhaps in denial, I couldn’t imagine that his body was still warm.
“Did you call 911?” I asked her, trying my best to remain panic stricken. She shook her head as tears streamed down her face. I realized she was in no state to call, so I figured I would have to.
“911 what’s your emergency.”
“Please, help! I think my roommate overdosed or something, he’s not moving!” I half yelled over the phone, acting as though I was terrified and surprised.
I gave the operator the address. After ensuring that help was on the way, she asked me to check for vitals. I went along with the situation, in character of a scared young man, and looked for a pulse pretending like I was hoping to find one. Dustin was cold and obviously dead. The stiff muscles in his neck told me that rigor mortis had already started.
Dustin’s girlfriend now sat on his side, clutching his cold dead hand trying to grasp that her lover was dead. I couldn’t understand why she was so shaken up. What did she expect, a happily ever after with 3 cute kids and a white picket fence? Nonetheless, I gently pulled her away from the body as first responders arrived. The girl who I had never even talked to pulled me into an unexpected embrace, burying her face into my shoulder. I hated every disgusting second of her crying on me, but I fought off my impulse to push her away. I needed to act like a normal person who had just found a dead body.
The paramedics hadn’t even tried to revive him, he was far too dead for that. I gave my statement to the police making sure to appear as if I had been badly shaken up by the event. I admitted that I had witnessed drugs being used by Dustin and his girlfriend, and told the story of how when I confronted Dustin about it he had pointed a loaded gun on me. I even let fake tears escape as I told the police how I was scared Dustin might have killed me if I had reported it.
In distress, Dustin’s girlfriend (Ironically her name was Sarah) completely backed my story as she was there when the gun was pulled. She was obviously unconscious while I forced Dustin to overdose, so she thought he did it to himself. She spilled the beans about the drug use as well as the drug dealing. She admitted to everything, completely incriminating herself and her friends.
The investigation didn’t last long, but over the next few days 5 more students had fentanyl overdoses after buying some of Dustin’s cocaine, but unfortunately only 2 of them were fatal. The blame for the deaths went straight to Dustin. It was determined that he had been the one to lace the cocaine with the fentanyl, in order to have the best product on campus.
In some deep reflection to my previous murder, I made some notes. Killing Dustin with the drugs was ultimately much cleaner, with far fewer forensics issues to worry about. All the blood from the stabbing was messy, you don’t realize how much blood a person has until you’ve stabbed them several times. That being said, stabbing Bryan just felt so much more satisfying. Something about looking into his eyes as I pushed the knife into his heart has left me with an itch that I just can’t quite scratch
The only negative consequence for me is that the university sent me to trauma counseling, which meant that I had to keep up the charade of having been traumatized for a while. As expected, Dean and Sarah gave me massive amounts of sympathy over the ordeal, offering to pay for expensive counseling to which I politely refused. Instead, they quickly purchased me a lease for a different, one-bedroom apartment where I would no longer need to have roommates. This was perfect, as I hated roommates, and couldn’t risk killing them all. Sarah and Dean were too easy to manipulate.
Once again, I always win.
This was the end of the second manuscript I received from the alleged serial killer, Rich. If true, at the end of this story Rich would officially be classified as a serial killer. According to the first and second manuscript, Rich had murdered 5 people by the end of his Sophomore year of college.
Once again, I have found archived real news coverage of the events of a series of Fentanyl overdoses at a University. One student, Dustin Anderson, was found to be responsible for laced drugs after being the first fatality in the string of overdoses. This university is only 35 miles from the high school where Bryan Jones was stabbed to death.
Although my initial suspicions were that these were fake, I can’t help but note the detail from the first-person perspective.
Let’s assume that these manuscripts are real. Most Serial Killers collect some type of trophy. I believe these manuscripts could be trophies for this serial killer.
What do you think?
Credit : R. M. Staniforth
Reddit : https://www.reddit.com/r/HorrorsOfStaniforth
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