My Name Is Denver Brady, and I Am a Serial Killer
I am currentlythe most successful active serial killer in the Western world. I don’t say this to impress you—it’s a simple fact.
There are approximately one hundred and fifty serial killers in operation at any given moment. The accepted definition of a serial killer is a person who makes three or more kills with more than five days in between them. I became a serial killer before my twentieth birthday, and I have operated unimpeded since then.
For most killers, murder chooses them.
In my case, I chose murder.
I am not driven by base urges, nor motivated by childhood trauma; this is a cliché, a caricature created by governments, medical professionals and entertainment giants. Their aim is to comfort the wider public. To perpetuate the myth that killers aren’t killers simply because we want to be.
I am here to dispel that myth, along with many others.
I am not a psychopath, a sociopath nor a sadist. There is no chemical imbalance in my brain. I was not abused, nor dropped on the head by my mother. I have never hurt an animal and I was neither a bully, nor the bullied, in the school playground.
I chose my vocation in much the same way that you chose yours—or you should have, at least; I simply followed my interests. While my classmates were reading books about children climbing through cupboards into imaginary worlds or dropping down rabbit holes, I was engrossed by the tales of Teddy Bundy, Mary Ann Cotton and Jeff Dahmer.
What started off as recreation blossomed into ambition, rooted in frustration at the mistakes of these high-profile killers. Right when they reached their peak, they made error upon error until they were caught. They were judged. And they were strapped to a chair, strung up or bludgeoned with a barbell in the prison gym. Their errors were created by their growing base urges. Their inability to master their own desires.
Pathetic ends to supreme reigns.
It was some time in early boyhood that I realized I could outdo them all if I put my mind to it.
So I did. I still do.
And it’s precisely because I have outdone my predecessors and contemporaries that I am entirely unheard of.
Across the coming pages, I will teach you everything you need to know about getting away with murder. You will discover my methods and practices. Not only will you learn, in great detail, about the crimes that I’ve got away with, but also how I’ve avoided being on the radar of law enforcement. I’ll blend anecdote with advice and information for budding killers such as yourself. I might throw in a joke or two; even serial killers have a sense of humor. Everything I write here will be true, although I do reserve the right to modify details for my own protection—and to have a little fun with you from time to time.
I write this book for two reasons. Firstly, notoriety—I am self-aware enough to know that I crave it. Like any master, I create for myself, but my work deserves to be appreciated. But while I live for my art, I am unwilling to trade my last breath or my freedom for it, as many have been obliged to do—hence the pseudonym. Secondly, I hope to inspire a new generation of serial killers to outperform our frustrating forebears.
As I write this introduction, my mind drifts to a question: how manywill pluck this book from the shelf, and for what reasons? Idle curiosity, maybe. A shallow mind drawn in by the cover? Are my words merely a tonic for a boring commute? A diversion from an unhappy marriage, perhaps? A distraction from life in middle-class suburbia? Maybe you fear becoming a victim and want to learn how serial killers operate, so that you can attempt to thwart us and live another day. Your motivations interest me, as much as mine interest you.
If you picked up this book because you truly want to get away with murder, though, you will not be disappointed. Simply turn the page, and we’ll get started.
Chapter One
Theproblem withbreakdowns is that you rarely see them coming. Cars. Washing machines. Laptops. People. It’s always so unexpected, and so very inconvenient. If Sam could concentrate on anything for more than a few minutes at a time, that’s what she’d think about: how she never saw it coming. One minute she was living the dream, and the next minute her whole world was collapsing around her. Everything she’d ever known crumbled. Everything that had ever mattered stopped mattering. Now, she looks back at herself as if she’s been two entirely separate people. Past Sam and Present Sam. Simultaneously the same and completely different.
Past Sam was a successful police officer who trusted in justice, the morality of the law and her place in upholding it. She conquered Kilimanjaro just for fun, and hunted down rapists and killers with unfaltering enthusiasm. She was sexy and strong, and knew what laughter felt like.
Present Sam sits in Dr. Pete Thomson’s IKEA-chic office, thinking about nothing but the Lindt chocolate balls in the bowlon the coffee table in front of her and trying to ignore the sounds of London’s rush hour outside. This Sam watches UK Gold endlessly and knows she should shower more often than she does. She takes her medication and sleeps with no one but Ben and Jerry. This Sam—the only Sam that’s left—feels like a shell of herself, the kernel rotted away forever.
She knows the doctor is talking to her, but she can’t for the life of her hear him, especially with those gleaming red balls screaming for attention.
Fuck you, Prozac, Sam thinks, and she reaches out to take a chocolate.
This week’s session has been about managing her physical symptoms. Nothing that happened was her fault, the doctor has reminded her. A breakdown can happen to anyone, anytime, anywhere. But each person who’s experienced what the doctor calls a “negative event” will be left with different emotional and physical symptoms. Sam is still learning to identify and cope with hers. It’s been a good session, in fairness to Dr. Thomson and those balls—
“Samantha?” he says, penetrating her thoughts with jarring abruptness. She hates it when he uses her full name. It makes her feel so… millennial. She could have told him that she preferred “Sam” in any of their twenty sessions to date, but she could never summon the energy.
“Yes, Doctor,” she mumbles, her cheek distended with the chocolate.
“We were talking about concentration being a major problem still,” he says with a light smile. Sam nods. “And energy levels? How are they?”
She shrugs.
“What about panic attacks?”
