Harry: Portrait of a Serial Killer (part one - Murder Your Darlings)

Chapter 1

Old mister Bitterman enjoyed nothing more in life than the peace and quiet of the park on a mild summer's morning. Here, far enough removed from the vexations of the city, only the diminutive squalling of an occasional police siren, rising up from the rush hour traffic, would detract momentarily from his quietude. He might break a little bread with the pigeons there, tossing piece hither, piece thither to the ever hungry throng at his feet, and luring this one or that one, with the promise of a crust, up onto the bench beside him. Or he would read his morning paper, though Lord knows why he bothered; there was rarely anything in it worth reading nowadays. Tub thumping and muck raking for the most part. Or celebrity this, celebrity that. Pandering to the lowest common denominator.
"Septuagenarian serial killer slips through police net," read the headline in this morning's edition. "Public advised to be vigilant." Out and out scaremongering! Bitterman felt his blood begin to boil and had to set the paper aside. No. He was better off with his pigeons. And so he sat, absently tossing his pieces of bread and petulantly pondering the point of it all.
Serial killer, indeed. Blatant misrepresentation. Too pat. It was high time he set the record straight. Mind you, if the parks these days were by and large deserted, affording him the very peace and quiet he was currently enjoying, it was doubtless because these so-called newspapers had led the gullible public to believe that they were solely populated by just such serial killers, or rapists or paedophiles and the like, all with nothing better to do than lie in wait for their next hapless victim.

"...twenty percent at the top end with a three to four day turnaround. Cap it at twenty-five net but keep the deal going forward..."
Bitterman cast a sideways glance along the tree-lined avenue. A businessman, dressed like every other, was confidently strolling in this direction, clutching stiffly the briefcase by his side and talking all the while on the telephone.
"...Put the feelers out, see what comes back. Broadbrush figures at this stage, but I want the ball rolling before I touch base..."
Everybody was a businessman nowadays. So where were all the real jobs? China, Bitterman supposed, or some such place. Children slaving away for a pittance in some sweatshop somewhere while half of us here are jobless and the other half play golf. Golf! Eighteen holes and a nice lunch. The very pinnacle of existence.
Neither slowing his pace nor watching his step this particular businessman waded into the pigeons, scattering them in as many different directions. And then he stopped. His phone call was seemingly over and he was now staring intently at his telephone, swiping his thumb back and across it or sliding it upwards and downwards. Without so much as a by your leave he took a seat on the bench beside Bitterman.
Slide, swipe, slide, slide, swipe.
Bitterman carefully wrapped what remained of the bread and slipped it into his overcoat pocket. Turning himself to face the gentleman he tipped the brim of his trilby and bid him a pleasant...
"Good morning."
Swipe, slide, swipe, swipe, slide.
Bitterman persevered.
"Good morning," he said again, in exactly the same tone.
The businessman regarded him briefly as though he were half mad (he was half right) and without a word went back to his telephone.
Bitterman persevered.
"That's quite a gadget you have there," he said.
The thumb stopped. Just who on earth was this individual, elder or not, who had the audacity to address such a high ranking member of the business community in the middle of an important transaction; who had the audacity to address such a high ranking member of the business community with anything other than the god-like reverence he was accustomed to; who, furthermore, had the audacity to address such a high ranking member of the business community without first being invited to speak?
"It's a simple iPhone," scoffed the high ranking member of the business community, drawing Bitterman an impatient look.
"How apt," countered Bitterman brightly, "I'm a man with a simple eye. May I see it?"
He held out an expectant hand.
The businessman could scarcely believe it. Was this old guy for real?
The expectant hand remained held out.
It would seem so. Astonishing! All but shaking his head, the businessman relented.
"All right," he said. "All right. You win."
And reluctantly he held out the telephone, then drew it sharply back, just out of Bitterman's reach.
"But promise, now," he said, wryly noting the walking stick that was all the while leaning on the bench beside Bitterman, "promise, now, you won't run away with it?"
Bitterman laughed politely at the joke and took the re-proffered telephone. He first inspected it front and back then weighed it in the palm of his hand.
"Well I never," he said. "Technology has certainly come a long way since I was young. And just how important is a gadget like this to businessman such as yourself?"
"Couldn't live without it," answered the businessman, not even bothering to look Bitterman's way. He had since flipped open the lid of his briefcase and was perusing importantly the important documents therein.
"You needn't worry," mumbled Bitterman. "You won't have to for long."
And he let the phone slip through his fingers. It fell to the ground at his feet, startling the remainder of the pigeons there, and purposefully taking up his walking stick he cracked, crushed and ground it beneath the hard rubber sole of its foot.
"HEY!" screamed the businessman, spilling the briefcase as he lunged, too late, for the walking stick. But a sharp, stinging sensation on the right side of his neck caused him to jump wide eyed up from the bench. Had this crazy old bastard just slapped him?
Now, he might well have been, this businessman, for all Bitterman knew, ahead of the game when it came to bi-lateral offshore investiture in compound stocks and bonds; or the first to see the potential for rapid-fire expansionism in scalable high-impact marketry, but he seemed to be taking a considerably longer time to realise that this benignly smiling old nobody, armed with only a common stationery knife, of the kind found in most modern offices, had just deftly severed his jugular vein, leaving him with about four minutes to live.
And then he realised.
The colour drained from his face. He began gasping for air. He clutched vainly at his neck to stem the flow of blood, first with one hand then with both. He tried shouting for help. He spun around and back around looking for help. He collapsed, suddenly, onto the ground, twitched awhile and was still. The blood continued to drain from his neck, forming an ever enlarging puddle by his shoulder.
Bitterman remained seated. Glancing first this way, then that, he fingered thoughtfully the stem cutters in his coat pocket. No. Too risky, he concluded. And he readied himself to leave the scene. Leaning heavily on his walking stick he eased himself upstanding. He brushed the breadcrumbs from his overcoat and posted the morning paper into the bin beside the bench.
"Serial killer, indeed!" he muttered to himself as he ambled along the avenue. "Out and out scaremongering."
It was high time he set the record straight.