I'm not sure why I'm writing this. Maybe it's because my stomach is in knots, well, it was. Maybe it’s because I miss the headlines, the old adage that you don't know what you have until it's gone. I think that's it, I miss the press; I miss being the lead story. Now that I watch the news everyday I guess I feel like I'm much more interesting than the tripe that they march out every night and call news.

But that's because I'm very different now than I was before, I've changed an awful lot in the past two years or so. And I have one person to thank for that, Dr. Jasper. You see Doc is a man that emanates energy, the kind of person that you're drawn to on a cellular level. Every time I was around him I felt as if he would break my leg as soon as look at me. His arms were tree trunks attached to a stone faced mountain of a chest. Doc's face, always a mask of emotion that never betrayed what was floating beneath the surface. His curly blonde locks begged to be played with and I did, often times at my own peril. But perhaps, thinking back on it now, the good doctor felt that I betrayed a certain predatory instinct, a certain venomous side of me that must be dealt with kid gloves.

I moved here to Binghamton, New York during the winter months and must say that I had trouble adjusting to the heavy snow. Every drive down the mountain upon which I lived always seemed to grip my chest with an icy fist and made my breath come out in short, wheezy gasps; I've never been a relaxed driver. It was on one of these frigid jaunts that I lost control of my van and slid off the road into some trees, one rouge limb broke through my windshield and tore a gash into my forearm. The police came and I must admit that I stifled certain urges. The men in uniform were kind and escorted me to the hospital where I met Dr. Jasper for the first time.

I heard him before I ever saw him; the squeak of his wheels on the polished linoleum floor announced his approach. The wheelchair caught me off guard, but it was his crystal blue eyes that grabbed me next and held me with an animalistic power. I felt that if I looked away first, the beast would tear me limb from limb. He cleaned my wound with a gentle touch and wrapped me up in a clean bandage. I resisted the impulse, and not for the last time, to run my fingers through the newborn baby bird down that was his hair.

I sat in my crippled van in the hospital parking lot for hours that night and felt as if I'd been away from home for far too long. The doctor appeared at just after midnight, using a special lift to enter his late-model minivan. I followed him home, gritting my teeth as my van fought to find purchase on the snow covered back roads. The doctor had a modest home set far off from the road so when I pulled my van onto the shoulder I was able to approach the house through the dense night covered trees. I watched him wheel through his house, preparing a small snack for two, then something odd happened. Dr. Jasper wheeled down a hallway; I had to crane my neck in the stifling cold in order to keep him in view. He reached high above his head and pulled a cord, the attic door swung down from the ceiling; a young boy was tied to the retractable ladder and he hung upside down.

Something came over me then, I raced for the back door and found it open. Snow fell away from my boots in big white clumps as I sprinted through the kitchen into the hallway. The doctor had a scalpel in hand and was carving away a piece from what I could now see was a dead young man. Dr. Jasper smiled up at me from his wheelchair, "I thought I'd make us a little snack." That predatory aura flowed off of him in overpowering waves.

I smiled back at him, "I was starting to feel a little hungry."

You see I myself have killed many times sense arriving in New York, but for whatever reason the hunt had lost some of its flavor. And so I overcompensated, became more brazen, bold; snatching victims in broad daylight from busy parking lots filled with holiday gift seekers. I would keep them alive for days at a time, sometimes two or three tasty treats at once. Looking back on it now I know that I wanted to be caught, I wanted to be back on page one. But it didn't happen, the authorities were more interested in terrorists, not missing persons. Ever sense the super virus ran its course there have been a lot of persons who have turned up missing or dead and that suited my work just fine.

So when Dr. Jasper offered me a bite to eat the first night, I knew that my instincts had been right, we were cut from the same cloth. A week passed and I visited Doc, as I became fond of calling him, often. Soon thereafter we started abducting together, I moved in with him and we delighted in each other's unusual tastes. I will not recount here the things we did, they were personal, between both he and I and I would be betraying his memory if I were to describe those sick, twisted, delicious tales here. But still, I was changing, starving, but for something different.

I was no longer interested in the torture, the death; no I was hungry for Doc's attention. I helped him abduct and kill but only because I felt like it brought us closer together. It made him trust me more, want to be with me more, it made him love me. No, for a while I wasn't interested in the news, I didn't want to be the news, I didn't even want to eat, all I wanted was Doc. But then I think he became aware of my disinterest and he distanced himself from me, worked later hours, we abducted even less and I came to loath him for his absence.

Didn't he understand that we were perfect for each other? Couldn't he see that he would never find anyone else like me, anyone so accommodating. I understood him, his wants, his desires; I made his life better in every single way. Yet he could just ignore me, as if I were some annoying fly, an insect. But he underestimated me, his disinterest fueled my anger and it changed me one last time.

Doc came home and I confronted him. I screamed at him, cried, threw things at him and that animalistic aura radiated from him again, but this time it was directed at me. I lunged at him and he struck me square in the face with one block-like fist. My nose, destroyed, bled in white-hot rivers. His scalpel sliced across my back and I stumbled into the kitchen. His wheels squeaked after me and I fumbled with the utincle drawer. I spun at him with a steak knife and we stared at each other, the love was gone, perhaps it had never been there to begin with. The adrenaline coursed through my veins and it felt, new, fresh, like a sweet shot of chocolate. With wonderful zeal I tore at him, my knife cutting away and it felt good. My muscles released with pent up frustration and I felt alive again.

Usually killing really did a number on my body, like working out after you haven't done so in a while, but not now, no, now it was relaxing, enjoyable. I fell upon Doc in a bloody embrace, I buried my knife in his belly and he punched his scalpel into me with less and less enthusiasm as his life slowly poured away. I whispered into his ear, told him about my family, my killings from before, told him about what he had given up.

Doc died in my arms and I did what only seemed best at the time. You see Doc was fascinated with legs perhaps because his had not worked in such a long time, so he ate the calf and thigh meat from his victims. Once I came along, I began to prepare the meat for him, in casseroles, stews, and sandwiches. And so I cut what little meat there was from Doc's shriveled legs and packed it away in a small cooler. I tended to the wounds he had given me; only one, which concerned me at all, and now I have the mini-van warming up out front as I write this.

So why have I put this down? To claim responsibility, to reveal Dr. Jasper for what he was? No, I have put pen to paper in order to reclaim my rightful place among the most notorious serial killers of all time. Because now I know I belong for I have changed again. I now enjoy my work as an artist enjoys painting, it is soothing, cathartic and best of all, I know that I will never be caught. I can watch the accounts on the news; delight in the 24-hour cable coverage.

Think of this letter as my warning to you all. Dear Mr. And Mrs. News Anchor please lead off the media blitz I'm sure to recieve with the following buzz words:

I'm back!

Signed,

Furman Frye

PS: I know some will wonder how it is that I am alive and I'm sure law enforcement officials will require some tangible proof that I am who I say I am. Therefore, I invite crime scene investigators to compare the DNA and or fingerprints from my dead body with samples found in my abandoned home in Crusoe. Once the discrepancy is noted, compare those with ones you'll find here in Dr. Jasper's residence. I'm sure you'll be convinced of my good health and well being.

Also, I'm well aware of the book detailing Mary Provo's investigation into my adventures as the I-95 killer and I must admit I'm none too pleased with the author's interpretation of me in the least. Therefore let me correct the events in the book...

"Furman lunges at the redman's gun (i.e. Eric DeJesus) with his axe and knocks the barrel toward the sky. It fires with an ear-splitting roar that echoes off the surrounding trees. The two men tumble off the mound and crash into the dry leaves they struggle for control of the shotgun as it goes off again.

Suddenly a man appears Furman recognizes him as one of the Cajun's that hunts the feral dogs on the island. The Cajun points his rifle at them and shouts for the two men to drop the shotgun. The redman (DeJesus) gives Furman a strange look and in it, Frye recognizes a hunter far superior to himself. DeJesus whispers to Frye, "Go on, I've got bigger fish to fry." (Pun intended I'm sure) DeJesus shows his creds to the Cajun as Furman slips away from the redman, Frye turns and runs as a final shotgun blast erupts from the forest behind him.

Furman wandered the dense island undergrowth for days as lawmen came and went, the media crush lifted eventually too and Frye stole an old sedan. He stopped at a truck stop in Virginia, with a hat pulled low over his face, there he watched the accounts of how Detective Eric DeJesus had heroically killed the I-95 kidnapper and saved the life of fellow crime fighter Mary Provo.

The Cajun's head had been blown off and DeJesus claimed it had been Frye's headless corpse on the bloody ground. Furman had wondered whether the Cajun would be missed but months later, he hadn't and Furman seemed to have been given a new lease on life. Oh he wondered about DNA evidence but decided that investigators would not look too closely given the fact that they had their man, didn't they?

No, no you didn't.