Sometimes, the cravings just take over.Jimmie Putnam is an ordinary man by any measure. By day, he works as a law clerk. At night, when he can't fight the cravings, he becomes a collector. He takes great care of his human Things; buying them cherry lipstick and reading to them from his journal. When they've been on their best behavior, he even takes them out of his freezers...Sometimes, the need is just too deep.Florel Ross has been mostly invisible since the death of her twin, who died twenty years ago at the hands of a serial killer. Obsessed with justice, Florel is willing to risk anything for the answers she craves: What goes on in the mind of a serial killer?When the two yearnings collide, will it be justice or just Things?
My name is James “Jimmie” William Putnam, Jr. I apologize. I’m actually a very polite man. I just don’t do well on so little sleep or when my mind is racing. I should have introduced myself in the beginning. It was very sloppy of me. I hope you will forgive me. I’m not a perfect man by any stretch. With that said, I have to be candid with you. This is, after all, my story. I refuse to censor myself. So if you can’t handle it, I suggest you stop reading now. My version of things won’t be like the stupid newspaper articles referring readers to another page for more information with the worlds “in lieu of.” I collect those too, anything I can find written about them or me, tiny reminders of my Things. I keep them in a scrapbook. Momma would be pleased.I’m thirty-five years old. I work as a clerk at Ducharme, (he’s dead) Tweed, (he’s the dead guy’s son by marriage) Hadley & Roderick. These guys, all four of them, think they own me. Sorry, but I’ll never be anyone’s Thing. Pretentious pricks think their shit doesn’t stink, all because they have the word esquire behind their names. All because their parents had the cash to send them to fancy schools with fancy names. All of them think they are God. None of them respect me.They make fun of me for wearing a wedding band all these years from a woman who left me with maxed out credit cards and an ugly cat. That’s fine. I’m a man of my word, in spite of Shelia. The cat’s long gone; out back. They don’t get that. Although I want to scream at them that they can’t commit, I say nothing. They tell me I need to get out more, that my dick’s going to fall off if I don’t start using it soon. If they only knew. I press my lips together and smile. I tell them I swore off women years ago. They look at me with pity, shrug, and pile more work on me. I tell them I don’t have time to date. More work. More pity. More slavery.It’s fine. I use it to my advantage. I allow them to underestimate me. I’m actually a really smart guy. Just because I got most of my smarts on the streets and at a community college, not the Ivy League, doesn’t mean I couldn’t beat a single one of them in a game of paper-push bankruptcy style law. The truth is, I do all their work for them anyway. Don’t let the stutter fool you, I’m a fast learner.I’ve been here at the firm since 2005, back when I was with blissfully hopeful with Shelia. In those days it was a refuge for me. I didn’t mind coming in early to get away from the landlady who sang the national anthem to her cats and told us to keep the music down. It was a relief to be away from Shelia’s loud-mouthed cackling and endless phone calls to her even louder mother. I spent early mornings filing cases in massive cabinets out back. I miss those cabinets; everything in order, in its place, like my Things in the freezer. These days we use hard drives. There’s nothing to smell, touch, or check on.I don’t get the same peace I once did at the office. It might be because the landlady’s gone and I haven’t heard from Shelia or her mother in years. Living alone, you don’t really need a place to escape to. Now coming to the firm is more of a chore. I’d rather be home with my Things out in the barn.They say that two out of three ain’t bad. I wonder what they say about three out of four. Only one of the partners in in today. Roderick isn’t a bad guy. I get his complex and why he thinks he’s a god. He’s been treated that way since he was a kid. He still takes his mother to lunch on Thursdays at noon. It’s the one appointment he’s never late for.I don’t mind slow days like these. They give me time for thinking and planning. I have a lot of work to do in that area. Normally, I take my time. Lately, my urges have been too strong. I’ve never collected as quickly as I’m about to now, with another Thing, tonight.Cravings are strange like that. You can never tell exactly when they will come on. For me, killing is like craving ice cream. It might be why I keep my Things in the freezer, besides the obvious reasons. Anyway, I’m not sure if it’s the odd numbers or the other obsessions that are getting harder to ignore. Maybe it’s just that the cravings never go away once you get a taste for it, like hot fudge on a banana split. Maybe it’s that the last few have been such fighters, challenging me to work harder and harder to obtain them. I’ve always been a hard worker, never one to turn down a dare or challenge.Even as a kid, there wasn’t much I wouldn’t do. When I did play with other kids in the neighborhood, because Momma forced me to, I was the kid who would climb the highest tree or pick up the fattest salamander bare-handed. I was the kid who drove past Mr. Vitous’ ‘Beware of Dogs’ and ‘No Trespassing’ signs to peek at the old man passed out in his chair. It’s probably when I got my fascination with watching things. Also, being the kid who would do anything helped take attention away from my stutter.I’ve always been wired a little bit different. It’s not enough that anyone would notice, aside from my speech. Because of it, I’ve focused—hyper focused—on everything. It was a matter of survival and a lesson my Things could have learned from me. Even on the playground, I made sure things went my way. I had a group of kids who did what I said simply because they knew I’d keep things interesting. At the same time, I wished they’d go away. I didn’t see value in their requests for play dates. I didn’t have much fun hanging out with them after school. It was merely something to do to shut my mother up. Secretly, I wanted to be in my room reading and studying the encyclopedia. I like learning. And I learn fast. I told you that. I hope you are listening. Never judge a person by the way they talk. I’m a living example of that.People always thought I was dumb. In third grade, I was in the remedial reading class, something Momma insisted on so I could keep being on disability. The truth was, I could read full length novels in my head but when it was my turn to read aloud, something in my brain shut down and my words came out twisted, probably guilt and worry about not wanting to betray Momma. Betrayal is the worst, and I still struggle with it now. I stuttered through the shortest of sentences and turned blood red when teachers said things like, “It’s okay, not everyone’s a reader.”Momma would argue, telling them that I liked to read for fun. She didn’t mean it. She laughed, telling me they were dumb when we got in the car. She’d spend the whole drive home telling me every single thing she loved about me. She counted them, like I count my Things. Then she’d go back and say the same thing, threatening lawsuits if they didn’t do something more – testing, anything. They didn’t listen. They thought she was crazy as a bat. Momma was misunderstood too, a fact she called “intentional” and proof of her intelligence. She’d repeat it over and over in her gravelly voice. When she said it, she’d look at me to be sure I understood.It was strange, people said, that I didn’t have a dad or a brother or sister to play with. “Only children are odd,” they’d say. Maybe you live up to the things people say about you. Either way, Momma taught me not to worry so much what people thought of me. I tried, I really did. Sometimes it even worked. Other times, even now, it doesn’t work so well.Frankly, I was glad I didn’t have a sibling, or even a dad. Momma said only children were smarter, more capable of getting their way. Momma mostly left me alone. She had her hands full with her pills, bottles, and three-pack-a-day habit. Momma spent nights sipping on vodka and talking on the phone to any man she could get to listen. Luckily, she never brought them home for more than a month in a row.See, that’s the thing. People thought of Momma as a bad mother. Truth was, she was perfect for me. She left me alone and never tried to change me. She only wanted to improve me. She told me the system sucked and that she was going to teach me how to work it. She said it was the key to survival and she only wanted the best for me. I believed her. Momma was always loyal.She was the opposite of Shelia, who was always nagging. Momma collected too. Not my kind of Things though. She collected little figurines of animals. Her favorite was an orange glass cat. I still feel bad that I broke it when I was ten and buried it under her shed. When she died, I tried to go back and dig it up. I never did find it. I feel bad about that.Tonight I’m going to even the score. Sweet sixteen has me on my toes. I jump when the phone rings. The anticipation is one of my favorite parts. The killing, well, that’s okay. Really, it’s about the planning and the control. We’ll get to that later, if you care to join me. You can be the cherry on top. I like having an audience.