Serial

Diary Entry: Now

Now

I spent most of my time planning. Devising multiple methods of escape. Thinking about all the ways I could get to Emmy.

I even daydreamed a bit about choosing other victims once I was free. It's been longer than I like to wait between kills. Like an itch that springs up and nags at you until it's so unbearable that you just have to scratch it, I need to hunt.

And I also need a drink. Well, several, actually. I long to feel the relief that only a foggy head can give me. Alcohol is the only other thing that feeds my darkness. And if drinking were equivocal to sex, then killing is my orgasm. One usually led to the other, but both brought pleasure.

When Monday finally rolled around, I was retrieved from my cell earlier than our usual 6:30am wake-up call. I'd slept like a baby the night before, knowing what was to come that day, so the early morning didn't bother me. Instead, I was bright-eyed and chipper, a smile permanently plastered to my face. This made the guards weary from the start, because they didn't see many smiles around here.

"You're in fucking prison, Grafton. What do you have to smile about?" one of the guards had said as I got dressed again after the mandatory strip and cough deal. The search was to prove to them that I wasn't hiding any contraband before we got on the bus. It wasn't the most pleasant part of the process, but it did bring me closer to freedom.

"Just love car rides, boss," I'd answered, as a way of explanation.

"Fucking weirdo," the guy had muttered, not entirely under his breath.

I tried to rein it in after that, reserving my smiles for when nobody was watching me. I hadn't wanted to give them any reason to think I was up to something.

The process of inmate transportation is a long and tedious one. There are so many steps to go through to ensure that escape isn't possible. I'd sat inside the hot bus for thirty-five minutes while the guards checked the vehicle and paperwork dozens of times, before the engine was even turned on. I was grateful once we finally got going and settled in to enjoy the air conditioning and the trip.

I hadn't lied about that part. I do love car rides. It's where I do my best thinking and scheming, and that time was no exception.

We were heading to Marin County Courthouse—the same place that Pritchard had gone for his arraignment. They hadn't had to tell me this for me to know it. It was the closest courthouse to the prison and therefore the safest place to bring someone like me, since less travel meant fewer opportunities for problems along the way.

As we'd pulled up to the structure, I'd peered at it the way a kid might driving up to Disneyland: With wonder and excitement. The building was impressive. Long and spread out, sort of in the shape of a leg from the knee down, with the entrance being at the ankle of the edifice. Double corridors extended in both directions, one section built at an angle and half as long as the other.

The design made things much easier on me, since it meant more window access.

When the bus stopped in a special loading zone for prisoners, I was directed to remain where I was until they were ready for me to disembark. I watched the guards talk amiably to the courthouse cops who'd later escort me through the building. They all wore matching frowns, but the new guys were significantly smaller than the Quentin guards, and less prepared for someone like me. They didn't see action the way our men did on a regular basis. They weren't as used to the ways we worked and thought. Their cushy jobs kept them inside air-conditioned courtrooms, hob-knobbing with judges and lawyers all day. They were always just steps from freedom and that made them far more fallible than San Quentin workers.