Well Steemit, here is the first chapter of my book! Love any comments or feedback on it. Also still doing a contest for the cover which you can read about here https://steemit.com/steemit/@diezeldiddy/steemit-will-design-the-cover-of-my-book-art-contest

Enjoy, and let me know what you think below!

# 1

There’s an unsettled nervousness before committing an act you know is wrong. A type of adrenaline that keeps you sharp and focused.

I enjoy that sensation, and welcomed it as I sat patiently on the park bench. It was time.

Image credit Alarm Stock

She emerged from behind the hedges, jogging from the south side of the park. A couple minutes late, perhaps her Frappuccino took longer this morning. I gazed down at the rumpled newspaper by my side. September 21st, 1995. A glance at the article title had me cursing under my breath. OPEC RAISES PRICES. My daily commute was already taking a chunk out of my wallet, but apparently the turban wearing extremists, wanted a little more.

She took a sharp turn by the fountain, the center of the park. Perfect, she was on her normal route. Sweat began to bead at my fingertips, my chest tightened, now or never. I pulled up the hood of my black Nike sweatshirt, departed the bench, and began trailing. The sweatshirt was a gift from my father when I made the high school baseball team. Two sizes two small now, it actually gave me a slimmed runner look allowing me to blend seamlessly into quaint Cyrus Park. The park was my favorite in the area and with good reason. Located just a short walk from my apartment in Trenton, it was a generous amount of land for such an urban area. It had wooded trails for runs, a large open greenspace, and housed a playground. It had plenty of area for whatever kind of activities the community could cook up. It held picnics under the pavilion, birthday parties, field trips, the works. Unbelievably, the woods had been preserved throughout the years even though developers had tried unsuccessfully to chip away at its edges. The community, along with the weekly crews who maintained the park fought hard to preserve it. I took a moment to admire thesurroundings, even for as focused as I was on my pursuit, the time and energy it took to retain the parks beauty was something to appreciate.

Swinging past the playground my anticipation built, an anger buried deep began to emerge. Images of myself buckled over on the baseball field caroselled in my head. 50 feet behind her, I was gaining. As planned, the park was nearly empty with only a few morning walkers passing by the pavilion near the opposite side of the park. The dawn housed a calm silence that only was interrupted by the occasional rustling of the leaves or chirp of a bird. It was a perfect park, but after today it would be forever tarnished. A burden I was willing to bear.

Keeping my eyes open for anyone not in their usual routine, I closed the distance between us and when she rounded the corner toward the forest trail I knew we were alone. Her pace was rather quick and I forced myself nearly to a sprint to shorten the gap.

As we entered the grass cushioning, the trail began to narrow until great oaks hugged the path. The branches arched high above only letting shimmers of light illuminate patches of the route. Fallen leaves in the many stages of decay scoured the trail and the noise made from their trampling interrupted the quiet of the jog and left colorful crumbs in the wake. With her headphones in, my movement behind her was silent and unsuspected.

She ran rather sporty; a skin tight white Adidas vest with matching sweats and running shoes. A small plastic water bottle accompanied her left hand. Half empty now, the contents sloshed violently inside. She had terrible running form, especially for someone as experienced as herself; her arms flailed wildly instead of purposed and in sync. Her choppy motion held no rhythm, no balance. Her blond hair was tied in a bun and sprung from her head with every stride, only to bounce back like a slinky. I focused chiefly on its movement for within a few steps I would be able to reach out and grab it.

I was ready to strike. I steadied myself, like a lion before the pounce……..

“Now”! My mind screamed and I lunged for her. I dove, her running stroke kept me at a distance. While I catapulted myself onto her, I swiftly covered her mouth with my right hand. She lost her balance from the weight of my body pressing against her. Her legs caught themselves, tripping her, and forcing us to the gravel. We landed hard and skidded for a few feet. The small rocks and dirt embedded in my arms and knees. The pain from the abrasion was masked by adrenaline. The brunt of the fall was absorbed by her; through mainly, her face. The dirt smeared on her cheeks, turning crimson as the wounds beneath began to bleed. As she struggled against my grip to break free my hand was dislodged from the muzzling and she got in a short piercing scream before I was able to recover. The echo of which seemed to carry into the ensuing fight. Luckily for me her 5’4’’ 110 lbs frame was an easy matchup.

I soon established myself on top and used the weight of my frame to subdue her. With my knee pressed against her back I quickly reached into my backpack for the duct tape. I started the tape on the left side of her mouth, extending it across. As I did so, she became more frantic.

I couldn’t tear the tape.

Her movements were so violent, she was now trying desperately to throw me off her and I needed at least one hand to keep her secure. After an desperate unsuccessful struggle to severe the roll I became panicked that someone would appear behind us on the trail at any moment. My hands were perspiring at a faster rate than I could wipe them off on my shirt; what was I to do.

Every neural impulse was fixated on finding a quick answer. I couldn’t not tape her mouth in fear of more screaming, but I couldn’t risk her squirming free for even second. To my relief my frantic neurons recovered and I wrapped the duct tape rapidly around her head; allowing the roll to simply hang after the fourth rotation.

Within a minute, I had escorted her struggling body out of sight of the trail, and tied her to a tree. Other than a few scrapes, on my arms and legs, It couldn’t have been scripted better. Deep breath...now the hard part….

I watched her struggling against the restraints, yearning to break free. There was slim to no chance of that. Those knots were sailor knots, a type my father taught me back in boy scouts, and not easily undone. Nonetheless she fought; her efforts fruitless, and her mumbled screams through the duct tape, futile.

There was a calm feel to the forest, the leaves bristled in the slight breeze and for the time being it felt as though we were the only two on earth. I eyed her as I started my monologue.

“Why did you do it Nancy”?

She shot to attention but didn't respond. There was no use playing dumb now.

“How do you go home to your family at night? What’s the dinner conversation? Hey Adrian could you pass the potatoes? Oh let me tell you about the elderly women I murdered today.” Her eyes darted towards me. I couldn’t tell if it was because I knew her son's name, or the crimes she committed, either way the stare was deadly.

“You must be surprised I know so much,” I continued. “I mean you couldn’t possibly believe that you could keep this up forever..." She was still silent.

"Moreover, how’s the husband? Ever thought about offing him?... C'mon Nancy, don’t tell me you never considered cashing in that life insurance policy of his….” Now I was reaching, but her eyes told me I was probably right. They possessed such an unremorseful cruelty that it sent a small shiver down my spine.

She was mumbling now, and I was due to hear her last words. Everyone deserves to have that final say, no matter the crime. I handed her a small pen fitting it between her hands, and tossed a pad of paper on her lap; immediately she started writing.

Meanwhile, I put on a couple thick gloves, always orange because it was my favorite color. Then I pulled out the syringe, a 60 gauge needle to be exact and when she laid eyes upon it, a fearful dread overcame them. She squirmed as if she could retreat into a safe haven. Odd, she was a nurse that worked with needles all day, they were even her weapon of choice, but yet recoils at their sight. Although I guess I can’t say I wouldn’t be doing the same given her situation.

While I waited for her to draft her parting words I took seat against a sturdy oak facing her. I cleared away the shriveled leaves that had fallen to forge a spot on the dirt floor. I took in a deep breath, letting the cool fall air prickle the inside of my chest. Releasing the excess, I watched my breath dance away into an invisible mist. How we took such gift for granted and how quickly it could be taken away brought a sobering calm . I felt the anxious anger momentarily drift away.

A short grunt indicated she was finished. I lofted from my resting spot and took the pen and pad from her; examining it. Short…..very short for a last confession, and shallow, unapologetic, not a hint of remorse. I scoffed at the last words of “do you know who my husband is? He’ll have your head for this”.

“This is the best you can do?” I was chuckling now, “C’mon needle Nancy”. I fancied my nicknames, “You murder six patients of yours and have no remorse, expect no consequences. Whatever sick fantasy you were fulfilling, I hope it was worth it.”

I then took a moment to examine the scene. It was secure, I had gloves and a needle…..all as planned. I grabbed my tourniquet and wrapped it tightly around her frail bicep making sure in the process to softly explain the procedure, which I suspected she knew all too well herself.

“Now Nancy, you know what this wonderful drug is?” I flashed her the syringe as I located a large vein on her arm. “In about 5 to 10 minutes your heart will stop beating and well….you’ll die. Now I’m not sure if you're religious but I suggest making peace with god or whatever entity you believe in”.

I rolled up her sleeve. I had to tug firmly to get the skin tight material up. She resisted when I tried to locate a vein, but relented once I became more forceful. She squirmed as the potassium chloride was injected into her arm. It was also combined with painkiller to neutralize the pain. No need to be barbaric. As I withdrew she relaxed, staring ahead as if in another world. Maybe she was making last plea with her maker, perhaps her thoughts were with her family.

I always was curious what a person's last thoughts were before death. Perchance there was a great secret to life that can only be realized in its’ last moments. I would know one day, but not today. No, today Nancy Papperman knew. Wife of Steve Papperman, an enormously successful banker, mother of seven year old Adrian. She was a stay at home mother who only recently started back in the workforce, though barely. She had daily spa appointments, an addiction to shopping, and ran the neighborhood gossip like a talk show. I doubt that she would be missed by many outside her family. Through my investigation I had failed to come up with many redeeming qualities, and I wondered if anything I said even registered with her. I turned.

“Nancy…., you know this would have never happened had you not euthanized those people. Unfortunately you did, and the law may not have caught you, but I have”. Her gaze didn't avert from the distance she was staring into.

I may have gotten in the last words, but they fell flat, sounding like foul boasting as they left my mouth; I cringed.

We sat there in silence. It was a silence similar to that of a graveyard. Whenever I visited my father's gravestone, the quietness of the cemetery was different than anywhere else.

Suddenly, her body motion changed. It started slow as her head began to drop and her face reached a ghostly pale. The spark in her eyes dimmed out like the filament in an old lightbulb, flickering every few seconds like a revival was imminent. Her body seemed to recede into its hollow self. Life had left her.

Her passing left me with an uncomfortable lack of satisfaction. I did not expect to feel empowered killing her, but rather for avenging those she had killed. I simply had to. Had I not caught her, my own mother might been her next victim.

When I admitted my mother to Saint Christopher nursing home two months ago, I had my best friend Chris, who worked for the NYPD, run a background check on the home. He found a recent rise in deaths. Not unusual or suspect at all, but after more digging discovered that most of the deaths were first reported by Nancy Papperman.

Coincidentally she had begun working at the establishment 6 months prior, about the time that the death rise started. I told him I was just curious and I wouldn’t worry as it was almost certainly a fluke, but I knew. Oh I had an inkling that there was something more occurring. I refused to let my mother reside there without knowing all the facts. I began a little detective work of my own by following her during my “sick” days. I learned her schedule fairly easily; she was a creature of habit. At night, I would sift through her garbage looking for anything that could aid my efforts. You can discover a lot about someone through what they throw away. It took me quite a while to connect the dots, but I noticed an unusual amount of bleach being thrown away and after some research at the library discovered it was the main component used in the production of Potassium Chloride. She would just slip that drug into a patient's veins and within a few minutes they’re dead. Quiet, clean, and unsuspecting. A tiny part of me was impressed by the ease of her operation. She could have killed many more without anyone suspecting a thing.

Despite the evidence I was initially skeptical that someone of her apparent intellect was capable of synthesizing such a compound. Though upon shirring up my bio of her, I reneged my assumption. Schools records indicated that she was one of the top in class and even applied for medical school but was rejected. She was plenty capable.

Other than her killing “hobby”, she also appeared to be cheating on her husband, with a teacher at her child’s school named Selvin. Definitely could’ve picked a man with a better name.

None of the investigation would have been possible though without my longtime best friend, practically a brother to me, Chris Stanky. Back in high school people had a field day with his name. See, he was not so much unlike myself. We
attended the same schools growing up, and his father died of a stroke a month before mine was murdered in a robbery. The tragedies were the cornerstone of our bond.

I struggled as a teen to find purpose and happiness grappling with major depression. We leaned on each other for support, and were inseparable. All problems, hardships, successes, we shared together and it made life bearable. Nothing could replace our fathers but some of the void could be filled by each other. I never experienced another connection with a person as I do with Chris. My father was God in my eyes, he did no wrong. He worked hard as a carpenter for a local business, but always had extra time to spend with me. He was the one who developed my baseball skills throughout my childhood. He was the most loyal Mets fan I knew and made me promise if I ever made it big, the only team I could play for would be the Mets. He loved baseball, and at least twice a month we would head to catch a Mets game.

Arriving an hour before we would settle into our seats, section 327 row 6 seat 10 &11. One hot dog with brown mustard, a Dr.Pepper, and a bag of peanuts was all we needed. It was our little slice of heaven. During the game, in which the Mets normally lost, my dad would usually share some wisdom, or joke about some funny looking patrons. His favorite though was exploiting my gullibleness. One time he had me believing that every sip of Dr.Pepper gave the taste of a different flavor. Subsequently, every gulp the whole game was followed by, “You're right! That one tasted different!”

See, it didn’t matter if the Mets won or lost, which they did a lot of losing back in the day; my father and I always managed to have a great time throughout. I cherish those times, things were so much simpler, blissful.

“Snap!” a twig broke nearby, and I was jolted back into reality. My head spun as I scanned the woods, squinting for any hint of intrusion. A squirrel bolted up the bark of nearby tree. “Phew". Seeing the innocent trespasser my heart returned to my chest. I needed to get moving.

I turned my attention to Nancy who lay in front of me. Pale, cold, not so powerful anymore, but her eyes held an eerie unyielding gaze. I quietly cleaned up my supplies, removed the rope and duct tape, and undressed her to remove trace evidence. I felt guilty leaving her naked and adding an element of humiliation, but the risk of getting caught superseded her dignity. I hesitated removing her diamond earrings. Her family deserved to have something of hers to remember. I stuffed everything into my backpack and made sure to comb the area one last time for any trace left. Once satisfied, I quietly slipped back onto the path from which I came