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you’re going to tell me?”
    â€œThat’s my understanding of what off-the-record means.”
    â€œI’d rather not.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œGoing off-the-record makes things too complicated.”
    â€œI know what you mean.”
    â€œIt’s kind of a cop-out for a journalist.”
    â€œDefinitely.”
    â€œI really hate going off-the-record.”
    â€œMe too.”
    â€œAnd yet here we are talking about doing it.”
    â€œDo we have a deal?”
    I didn’t really have much of a choice. I knew the only way Abbie was going to talk to me was if I agreed not to print it. If I went off-the-record, I’d at least find out what was on her mind, even if I couldn’t do anything about it. If I didn’t go off-the-record, I wouldn’t know anything. Life is a series of imperfect choices.
    I told her we were off-the-record.
    Abbie picked up the remote again and clicked another shot on the screen. This one was a montage of four different faces. All four were women.
    â€œDo you know any of them?” she asked.
    I looked at the pictures. A couple of them looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place them. The only one I knew for sure was Cheryl Carson. She was a country singer. She’d died a while back from a drug overdose during a concert tour somewhere out West.
    â€œCheryl Carson,” I said.
    â€œNo one else?”
    â€œI don’t think so.”
    Abbie nodded.
    â€œI did some checking up on you,” she said. “It was very interesting. You were pretty famous there for a while.”
    â€œFame is fleeting,” I said.
    â€œYou’ve covered a lot of crime stories.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œDo you know much about serial killers?”
    â€œSerial killers?”
    I wasn’t sure where she was headed with this.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œA little, I suppose. Why?”
    â€œI’m working on a story about a possible serial killer.”
    â€œAre we talking about a different story now?”
    â€œHow much do you know about serial killers?” Abbie said, ignoring my question.
    â€œI’m not an expert or anything. But I guess I do have some knowledge from stories I’ve covered in the past.”
    â€œIs there always a pattern that links all of the murders?”
    â€œSure, that’s why they call them serial killings.”
    â€œTell me more . . .”
    I still wasn’t sure where she was going, but I was curious enough to play along until I could find out.
    â€œLook, they’re all different,” I said. “Every case has unique characteristics. A lot of people have spent a lot of time trying to figure out why serial killers do the terrible things they do. No one has come up with any astounding conclusions yet. But there are common threads that seem to run through most of them.”
    â€œSuch as?”
    â€œThe character flaws or moral aberrations that turn a person into a serial killer usually seem to start in childhood. They come from dysfunctional parents. Or families with histories of drug or alcohol or sexual abuse. They’ve never known happiness, so they have a compulsion to lash out and make the world around them as unhappy as they are.”
    â€œWhat about the sexual aspect?”
    â€œYes, sex is a big factor. For most serial killers, the thrill of the kill seems to be the only way they can achieve sexual satisfaction. That’s why many of them spend so much time stalking their victims, so they can maximize their pleasure out of the event. The killing itself becomes the equivalent of the sexual orgasm. But there’s other factors too besides sex. Some serial killers think of themselves as missionaries—they believe they’re doing God’s will by ridding society of undesirable elements like prostitutes or homosexuals. Others get off on the power it gives them over their victims. And some are pure thrill killers—who get a high from the