I am *NOT* a crook

Where am I?  Someone is after me; I can feel it.  I'm not sure who it is, but they're out there looking for me.  I feel like I need to run, but where?  I don't know what I'm running from and I have no idea where they will be.  So I run.  I can't feel how long I've run, but I am at an estate.  It looks like a castle.  Again, I'm unsure of where I am or why I'm here.  I sense a need to get to the balcony.  It's more like a patio, but it is completely stone.  I sneak up to it and clamber up the wall.  As I get over the edge, two uniformed officers spot me.  One is a middle-aged and portly man while his apparent partner is a very young, perhaps just out of the academy, female.  Both are wearing flack jackets and pursue me through the green expanse of the lawn.  All of a sudden, I am no longer being chased.  We are walking and talking as old friends.  As we near the far side of the estate, the police back away and go back toward the house.

I'm home again.  It feels good to be back in Silex.  I used to live here, but it feels natural, good to be here again.  Mom and Dad are gone of course, but I still feel like I am home.

From inside, I peer out the window.  They're here!  Someone must have told the cops that I was here!  The guy in charge is walking around in his flack jacket.  He looks oddly like Mr. Sheffield from The Nanny.  More police cars pull up just over the hill by my driveway.  I can't count all of them, but there seems to be at least 20.  For some reason, they are after me, and it's pretty serious.  Mr. Sheffield gets a call on the walkie.  There's movement beyond the trees next to the drive.  An urge comes over me:  I have to escape.  I grab my bike and ride through the three-acre lot.  I cross over the creek and make my way toward the highway.  As I look back, it appears as if I have gotten away.  No cops follow me or even know I'm gone.  I keep riding, just in case.


I make a right onto the old highway and pass the auto parts shop.  Before I get to the curve, I redirect North taking an old trail away from the roads.  Where a corn field once was, now there's this path.  A path that I've been on before.  I know where I'm going now.

I look to the left and there's a ball field that I've visited often.  To the right is a brown field.  I make a left by the ball field and notice some establishment to my right now.  I can't recognize it, but again, I think I've been there before too.  The hedges may have given it away.  As I travel down another dirt trail, I find myself in a very familiar village.  My brain keeps telling me Knob Creek, and although that is also the name of a popular Bourbon, I can't refute the village's name.

There's a rather large shed coming up.  With vague familiarity, I approach.  Ah, my old friend is there.  He is my friend, right?  I can't remember his name or where I know him from, but he seems like a friend.  We go inside the shed and he shows me his new contraptions for causing people pain.  Actually, these devices look more like a punishment, a self-inflicted punishment.  He definitely is my friend, but should I trust him in this shed alone?  He then informs me that the shed is also mine.  We share the title.  Why would I have a place like this?  There are so many gruesome tools here.  I can't imagine a reason to own this property and allow someone, even myself, to convert it into this.  As we talk, he explains the evils of humanity and how disgusting we have become.  Humanity must be punished, but only through these tools, apparently.  What was that?  Movement.  Outside.  Someone is here.  I didn't think anyone knew about this shed!  That's the whole point behind putting it here.  It's time to go again.  My friend sends me on my way, giving himself up to the authorities most likely.

As I ride on the main drag, I notice my surroundings.  The old antiques shop is still there on the right.  The only thing electric about that place is the neon sign that the owner never turns off.  They're open 24/7 if you trust the sign.  There's the little bistro that I've seemingly gone to.  I near the now occupied intersection so that I can ride through to where I need to be.

From around the corner appears the chief of police and his wife.  Oh no!  How did this happen?  How did he find me?  Even without his uniform, he had to do his duty.

"Why don't you come with me."

I am seated in an old wooden chair in his office.  His secretary, who looks to be about 180 years old, is seated behind a desk.  As the chief and I are talking, she attempts to take notes but repeatedly falls asleep.  He asks her to leave and takes her place.  This is an interrogation.

The exchange goes on for quite sometime, but his last questions pierce my brain.
"It says here in your profile that you would dress up these ladies and have tea parties with them."

"What?  No!  Why would I do that?"  As I respond, it all rushes back to me.  I see images of dead women, now forgotten lives.  Like photographs they flood my mind's eye.  I remember every detail.  I remember everything that I did to them.  No wonder they are after me.  I killed those people.  Women, men, all of them.  It's all my fault.  They've been hunting a serial killer!

"It also says here that you killed these people because you were longing for a tangible relationship."

For some reason, I am not alarmed though.  I am collected, but furious.  This is preposterous!  "No!  That doesn't even make sense!  Why would I kill them if I wanted a relationship with them?"

"That's what is says here in our profile of you.  Are you telling me that our profile of you is wrong?"

"It has to be!  I would never have a tea party with my victims after they're dead AND I wouldn't kill them to gain a relationship!"

I watch him carefully.  He scrawls a single word on my criminal psychological profile:  "LYES"