Diary of a Predator is now available in the Kindle, Nook and Google stores. Please enjoy this excerpt.
I could easily be Bundy i think he had the same fucked up brain the release was never Achievable. What realy hurts me deep is that there are a few things and people I can sincerely care for and love and would never hurt but the rest of Gods Green earth is fair Game. I am truly a fucked up dangerous person and were the opportunities to present themselves I would act. It hurts me to admit this. I am sorry for hurting all those other people, Truly but how can i be any kind of Good or decent if i cant stop my mind from Working Like it does. I look back to when i was a kid and i realy think i went crazy. Death is the only solution to this.
—From Brent’s journal
Going to work again every day was still feeling awkward and oddly formal, as though the newspaper and I were weary exes now embarrassed by the intimate secrets we had once whispered to each other.
I had worried that my editors would tiptoe around me, hesitant to assign me any more tough crime stories for fear I wasn’t ready. After all, it had been four months. Yet that wasn’t the case. They didn’t assign me anything at all. So during those first few weeks, I would go through the motions of putting on a suit, makeup and some jewelry, show up, dial a few perfunctory phone calls at my desk, take a long walk around the dirty Gotham City that is downtown Denver and leave early.
It was at the start of one of those uneventful days that I stepped into the crowded elevator on the ground floor of the twenty-two-story, mud-brownDenver Post building at 16th and Broadway in the heart of downtown. The newsroom for the Post was on the fourth floor, and as the elevator groaned to a stop at each level for people to trundle out and begin their day, I had the distinct feeling someone was watching me. Glancing over my left shoulder, I was taken aback by a man staring at me with the intensity of a cobra.
He was about my height but muscle-thick, with military-short hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and dark, penetrating eyes. He wore a cheap, rumpled gray suit that fit like it belonged to someone else.
And he wasn’t just glancing at me curiously, as if he somehow knew I didn’t quite belong there. Nor did he casually drop his eyes, as most people do when busted for ogling. Instead, he held my questioning look with a flinty stare both unabashed and unwavering, almost as if he were . . . calculatedly appraising me. Like a wolf assessing its next meal.
Human beings are living, breathing Rorschach tests I read for a living. This one said “Darkness! Danger!” Although I pride myself on never dropping my eyes first during a confrontation, I did so now, quickly turning to face front again as my gut alarm tripped and my heart started to pound.
Instinctively deciding I didn’t want him to know which floor was mine, I tensed my muscles and tightened my grip on the heavy black bag at my shoulder. When the elevator thudded to a halt at the next level, one floor below mine, I waited as two men shouldered their way out. Then just as the doors began to whine close, I darted after them, feeling the stranger’s disconcerting stare continue from inside the elevator after the doors slid shut behind me. I felt like a laser had burned holes in my back.
I ran around the corner and up the stairs, taking them two at a time, adrenaline-fueled fear making my feet fly.
For the rest of the day, I couldn’t help but search the newsroom for the frightening, heavyset man in the wire-rimmed glasses. As the hours passed and I didn’t spot him, I began to relax, thinking, It was a random encounter. He’s gone, and you’ll probably never see him again.
I was so very wrong.