Sociopath by Victor Methos

classified as mental disorders and what are not, votes and argues. It’s at the whim of personal prejudices. That’s not science. Look at childhood bipolar disorder. Every reputable study done outside the United States has found that it does not, cannot, exist in young children. We’re the only country that recognizes it and prescribes medication to three year olds for it.”
    “Why?”
    “Because the pharmaceutical companies pushed for it. They don’t even need to push that hard. A few grants here and there, some stipends, a few executive positions, and they have whatever they want from the psychiatric community. They tell us something’s wrong with us and then offer the cure. That’s exactly what snake-oil salesmen did a hundred years ago, though they didn’t couch their deception as pure science.”
    “You and my dad should hang out.”
    I grinned. “Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not after you.”
    The waitress came over and we ordered dessert and I asked for a refill of Diet Coke. My head was throbbing and sending waves of pain down my neck and shoulders. I took out a small bottle of Advil from my pocket and popped two of them and then drank down half the drink.
    “This guy we’re after,” she said, “you think he’s going to kill again, right?”
    “Yes.”
    “How do you know?”
    “This was his first time. He got a taste for it. After the first kill, when they see how easy it was and that the earth doesn’t open up and swallow them whole, they don’t think about anything else. It’s like they’ve discovered a new toy. He’s thinking about all the things he did wrong, everything he could’ve done better. He’ll improve next time.”
    “When’s next time?”
    “At the beginning of their cycles they can wait long periods without having to kill. Later on, he won’t be able to go more than a few weeks without it.”
    “What do you mean cycles?”
    “Most serial murderers kill in cycles. I think they have a pattern they repeat, certain spacings in time between victims that ends after a certain number and there’s a long dormant period before they take it up again.”
    “How long do you think before he does it again?”
    I shrugged. “I don’t know. Right now, it’s probably all he can think about.”

3
     
     
     
     
     
     
    On Friday morning I woke as the sunlight hit my face. I’d gotten maybe three hours of sleep. At around one in the morning I woke and couldn’t go back down so I’d gone for a walk.
    The streets had been wet from a light rain that I hadn’t noticed. They shimmered and appeared like the lip of some black hole that I could just fall into at any moment and be lost forever.
    Small towns at one in the morning always looked the same to me. An eeriness that couldn’t be explained or described the next day always descended over them. Like a funeral on a stormy day. It gave you a dark, thick feeling in your gut.
    I walked out of town and was on the road alone in the forest. The animals were quiet, sheltering themselves from the drizzle that was still falling out of a dark sky. No cars were on the road this late and the farther I went from town, the more alone I felt. Like I’d been dropped off in the wilderness.
    I kept going until I hit a patch of road that was a steep incline. I was sweating and my legs began to burn from the acid build-up and I turned and headed back. In the darkness, with the ground reflecting any small glimmer of light, it didn’t even appear like the same place I had just walked through.
    Now , at nine A.M., I wished I had taken something to help me sleep. My muscles felt weak and my mind was a blurry smear of thoughts. I took a cold shower in a futile attempt to wake up. I dressed and got into the rental car and headed for Café Molisse.
    Parking near the front, I went inside and found a table near the window in the back. I ordered a muffin and Diet Coke and sat quietly, watching customers come and go , ordering large