He was now the most famous and prolific of serial killers.

Right up there with Jack The Ripper, Ed Gein, and Jeffrey Dahmer. Having pulled off the worst killings imaginable, his name would go down in the history books. Special agents, professors, and true crime authors would be clamoring to get exclusive rights to him. He’d be the most feared man in prison.

It didn’t matter that his body was lying in a hospital bed on a ventilator. The trigger happy police having sliced into him with their laser weapons.

Feigning sleep, he watched through slit lids as two detectives went through his belongings. One he could tell was a female replicant. The other, he knew was human, however, he couldn’t tell which sex. The detective turned around and he realized it was one of the Androgenders, a group of people who refused to be categorized as either sex. He hadn’t had the opportunity to kill one of them yet. His mind drifted through different scenarios of killing one—no two of them. A man and a woman. He’d dress the man as a woman and the woman as a man. Then, prop them up at a dinner table that was laden with all the appointments for a romantic dinner.

“There is no Ident card, nor a chip in his body,” the female android’s metallic voice said, bringing him out of his reverie.

“So I guess we’ll have to try to get his DNA then,” her androgynous partner replied.

The killer’s elation faltered. It hadn’t dawned on him that he might not be identified. Never having been arrested, his DNA wasn’t in any system. And he’d never been fingerprinted for anything in his life. He’d purposely chosen not to have an Ident card or chip. He paid for everything with fake chips with identities he’d stolen from other people. He’d made sure that no matter how badly he wanted to, he hadn’t killed any of his ID theft victims. It could’ve lead back to him.

Panic surged through him as he realized he’d made the mistake of a lifetime. He’d been careful with everything else—picking his victims, where and how he killed them. This mistake was unforgivable.

The police had only caught him because he’d wanted them to. He was going to continue his hobby in prison and had already made plans not to be caught there as well. Until he was ready.

Without knowing who he was, they could never put his name in the right psychological journals. There’d be no movies. No interviews. He’d be labeled as John Doe or something equally pedestrian. This was a disaster.

Opening his eyes fully, he tried to speak and remembered there was a tube in his throat. Grunting, he got the android detective and her partner’s attention. Putting down his tattered pants, she walked over to his bed.

“I see you are awake. It is too bad that you can not speak. It would have been nice to know your name,” the android replied.

Grunting again, he tried to lift his arms and found that they were immobile thanks to a stasis field.

“You can’t move or speak. We know that you kill your victims with your sonic vocal implants. So we’ve had them severed. Also, you’ve lost your right hand and your left is burned pretty badly. I guess it wasn’t a good idea to try and grab for my pulse weapon,” the other detective said smiling.

Lifting his head as far as he could, the killer saw that he couldn’t write or speak. Panic rose in his gut like lava from a caldera. He had to be known. After all, what was the whole point of him having committed the most imaginative murders (a reporter’s words, not his) in history if no one knew who he was?

An insistent, rapid beeping pushed through his thoughts. His heart felt as if someone were squeezing it. The tube made him feel like he was suffocating.

“We need a nurse in here,” the android said unemotionally.

His last thought as the darkness claimed him was his name.

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