It took her two weeks to write the story. Every single detail of the Babysitter’s letter was tweaked, rehashed and reworded to make absolutely sure no one would recognize that it came from the killer himself. Carol constructed fake sources, fake events and even recorded a fake anonymous interview with herself, her voice synthesized beyond recognition.

The public loved it. In the two weeks she spent working, another body had turned up with the iconic pacifier clenched in its teeth. Fueled by the collective fear of a city, people gobbled up newspapers faster than ever. Carol’s article was solely responsible for driving sales of The Beacon up three hundred percent past its previous record. Carol was a hero to the editors; a star reporter the likes of which the little paper had never seen. Every reporter on staff gave her praise, encouragement and all the free booze she could stomach. Even though a notorious killer stalked the city streets by night, Carol had no regrets about joining her friends for nightly celebrations at Donovan’s tavern.

It was on the way home from one of these celebrations that Carol began to ponder what was next for her. It had been weeks since her article had been published and the success was starting to wear off. Even her inebriated brain understood that one popular article would hardly constitute a career, especially not if she wanted to become an editor some day. She needed a good follow up story, and fast.

These thoughts still ate away at her head as she unlocked her apartment door and stepped inside. Rather than stumbling off to bed, she trudged resolutely to her writing desk and fished the Babysitter’s letter out from the bottom drawer. She was still slightly drunk and the words on the paper seemed blurrier than before, but one line close to the bottom appeared in perfect clarity. "If you want to know anything else, I will be glad to answer almost any questions you have."

“This story’s not over.” Carol thought as she reached for a pen and paper.

The response came quickly. He seemed quite pleased that she had chosen to write back. As she read the letter, she was astounded by just how normal a serial killer could sound. He complained about corruption in politics, mentioned some of his favorite T.V shows and posed the question of which was better: Starbucks coffee or Seattle’s Best? Starbucks, of course, she wrote back.

It was now months since she had written that first letter in The Beacon. She now knew that his favorite movie was Young Frankenstein, his favorite breakfast was eggs Benedict and that he preferred to bike rather than drive. She couldn't remember how long she had been exchanging letters with him. It just seemed like they had always been doing it. He seemed so appealing, like her in almost every way. Still, as hard as she tried to accept their friendship, every month when the headlines screamed at her about a new Babysitter murder, her faith in her new friend was shaken. Finally, she found the courage to ask him.

"Why do you do it", she wrote, "why do you kill all those people?"

"I’m a protector of the innocent." he wrote back. "It cannot defend itself from evil, so I have to act. The people I kill violated the innocent. Pedophiles, child abusers, infant murderers, all of them guilty! And yet, because of their status and the money in their pockets, they would never see the inside of a jail cell or feel the prick of a lethal injection. I’m carrying out justice that cannot serve itself. I’m not a monster, I’m an angel."

Carol sat alone, having read the letter three times over. No matter how many times she thought, no matter how many perspectives she tried to see, she could not disagree with him. He was right, the law was wrong and that’s all there was to it. The letter brought back memories. Memories she had never told anyone, memories she had tried to forget her entire life. Her parents leaving her at the neighbor’s house for the day when she was six years old. Hearing the door close behind her at the top of the stairs. A hand on her shoulder.

"You’re right!" she wrote back. "They’d call me insane if they heard me say this! They’d lock me up if they knew what I thought, but I don’t care! You’re right! They deserved death! Every one of them! Tell me you made it painful for them! Tell me they died screaming! I want to know every detail!"

"I knew you’d understand. I saw that article you did for The Beacon five years ago. The one exposing pedophilia in the local church. I knew you’d understand me, that’s why I answered your first letter.

Don’t worry. They felt it."

Years had passed since she had first written that letter in the editorials section. She now knew that he grew up on a farm in rural Oregon, that his father had committed suicide when he was ten years old, and that he had killed thirteen people before coming to the city. The boundaries between the two were almost nonexistent and intimate details flowed between them without check. In one letter, he told her that he had only kissed a girl once, at a school dance when he was sixteen. As she read, she found herself wishing that she had been that girl.

Her life now revolved around the hours she spent at home, reading and rereading the letters he sent to her. Her dreams of becoming an editor at The Beacon were gone and she spent her time at work rewriting the same, tired article week after week, ignoring the steadily growing pile of potential stories on her desk. However, she could not ignore the headline that awaited her that one morning as she sat down at her desk.
BABYSITTER CAUGHT! REIGN OF TERROR AT AN END!

Carol’s face remained stoic as her head reeled. He couldn't be caught, he just couldn't be! He had become too big a part of her life to just abandon it! She read the article twice over, frantically searching for any detail that could save him, any fact that could help his case. At the bottom of the page, she noticed the line Trial to begin in two weeks. Resolutely, she picked up the paper and strode into the editors office.

“Chief! I want to cover the trial.”

He made no effort to defend himself. He confessed calmly to every one of the forty-one murders he was accused of committing in the past thirty-five months. The hunting knives that matched the stab wounds, the rubber gloves with traces of DNA, the boxes upon boxes of pacifiers; he admitted to owning them all, describing exactly how each item was used in the killings. As Carol watched his testimony and cross-examination, she knew that there was no hope for a happy ending. Even so, she felt her eyes well up and softly whispered “no” as the Judge slammed down his gavel and pronounced “Guilty!”

As the bailiff seized him by the arm and began to escort him from the chamber, the press erupted in excitement. A wall of reporters surged forward, snapping photographs, thrusting microphones and bombarding questions. Carol pushed and elbowed herself to the front of the crowd. As she watched him walk by, she simply stood, staring at the man whom she had never seen before, but felt a deeper connection to than any other human being she had met. As he passed by, he turned, looked her dead in the eye and gave a quick wink before being pulled out the door.

*BEEP* Hi! You’ve reached Carol Greene! Leave a message or try calling me at work. Thanks!

“Hi Carol! It’s Leslie, from work. You didn’t come in today, so we all just wanted to make sure you were feeling okay. So, uh . . . call me!”
*BEEP* Hi! You’ve reached Carol Greene! Leave a message or try calling me at work. Thanks!

“Carol? It’s Josh. It’s been a couple days since we’ve heard from you. You’re not answering your phone, you’re not opening your door and . . . I’m- . . . We’re worried about you. Look, call me when you get this message. Please.”
*BEEP* Hi! You’ve reached Carol Greene! Leave a message or try calling me at work. Thanks!

“Carol, this is Marvin. Now, I know you must be going through some tough times right now, but it’s been over a week since you last showed up to work. I’m sorry to have to be like this, but I’m not just your friend, I’m your boss. The fact is, Carol, if you don’t start showing up, I’m going to have to replace you. Look, I’m sorry but that’s just how it is. I can give you one more day to work this out before I have to start looking for a replacement . . . For the love of God kid, please just give me a call.”
The messages continued to flood her voicemail for days and days, but she gave them no answer. She simply sat alone in her darkened apartment, blinds closed as a smoldering rage slowly built up inside her chest, one word repeating again and again in her mind.

“MURDERERS! Perverted, degenerate MURDERERS! To just take him away and put him down like some wounded pet! To put an end to all the justice he administered while they wallowed in their own impotence! They’re all nothing but MURDERERS!”

Weeks later, she wandered the city streets alone, unemployment check folded hastily in her pocket. The fall weather had begun to grow cold, yet she wore no jacket. She liked being cold. Physical sensation was the only thing she could feel anymore. As she passed a newsstand, headlines of a dozen different papers screamed in unison.
BABYSITTER EXECUTED. Lethal injection administered last midnight.

She stopped by the post office for the first time in a month. Finding her P.O. Box, she fished out her key from its ring and opened it up. An enormous stack of mail greeted her. She grabbed the heap and began to absentmindedly flip through it. But amongst all the late bills and credit card offers, she found a blank envelope with a strange lump inside. She ripped it open, fishing out a small sheet of paper. Two lines of text were written in thin, precise handwriting.

2311 Kinnamin Rd.

You’ll know what to do.

Inside the envelope, was a baby’s pacifier.