K — Have you ever met the killer? There are so many. Invisible — that’s how you can tell … when you do not see them, their cold dark eyes, but you feel them as they pass, and know them without understanding.

A — What do you mean invisible? People know murder when they see it, killers are caught … sometimes there are even videos!

K — What you see from the corner of your eye is true. Ignore what is right in front of you. Ignore the man talking to you, pay attention to who exits.
One of my favourites was Stick. He called himself that as a joke. Stick was skilled with the ice pick. But this was no ordinary ice pick. An ordinary ice pick is an overgrown nail in a handle, low grade steel, heavy, thick, in fact, somewhat repulsive — you know, the idea of using a tool to kill someone. You have to understand, the true pro kills precisely, exactly as they want to — it’s a matter of pride.
Now, Stick had ground a sharpening iron down to needle gauge. It was like silver. He showed me once, how he could walk so it flashed like a moment of sunshine reflected from a store window, how he could hold it so the light would glare in your eyes and you would never see the blade … .
He’d take down his target in public, a part of the crowd. He liked being the crossing guard no one noticed — kids are perfect camouflage he once told me in his calm monotonous voice. Otherwise, he would just be someone crossing the street at the same time his target crossed.
He bragged to me that once he was fully invisible, he would follow his target, weapon exposed, and no one would notice, as if he were a ghost. But, I of course know that no one would see him as he was unthinkable, it was impossible to see him, exposed, obvious — it was and is too much — people cannot bear it, so they turn and look away.
His pick, so fine, would enter from back, at the base of the skull, right above the spine and out again so quickly, he would appear to be catching a man who suddenly staggered.
He would shout, “Help, someone help, this man is ill,” holding his hand over the point of entry long enough for the wound to seal — the pick was that fine. He would stay, talk to the police, the paramedics, give his name and number, comfort standers-by, then go and buy a take-out meal and return to eat it on the spot, reluctant to leave his moment of perfect anonymity.
The illusion complete, time would pass and after a proper autopsy, investigators would start to realize Stick was their prime suspect — but no one could describe him — was he tall, fat, short, white, black? — no one could say, he was kind of tall, kind of short, kind of mixed, kind of older, younger … no one could remember him.
Stick is legion. He surrounds you, me, your family, everyone you don’t know. You don’t see him, because you don’t want to see him. And because he is so obvious he is impossible to describe. His greatest defense is everyone’s wish to forget.
And so he plies his trade, undisturbed.

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