The Killer Pickpocket

My Blood is a Flood of Rubies

People often think that pickpockets are either discreet, sneaky bastards or outright daredevils who snatch a valuable piece of memorabilia off you and make a run for it.

I never bother to correct them. In fact, I'd like them to continue having that impression. It makes my job way easier.

But since you're here, patiently reading my memoir, autobiography, top-secret files or whatever, I'll let you in on my modus operandi.

When in New York City, dress like a New Yorker. In the summer, that would be huge sunglasses, a summer dress (I've stitched pockets in mine, for obvious reasons) and some cute pumps. In the fall, a nice scarf, a simple blouse and ripped jeans. In the winter, a beanie, a thick jacket and a pair of lace-up winter boots. The more I blend in, the easier my work becomes.

New Yorkers are naturally distracted individuals anyway- especially when they're crossing a road or junction with their eyes glued to their phones. So, it doesn't take a lot on my part to lift something valuable off them.

It's been a good three months since my last pickpocketing attempt. That one was a doozy for sure. I found out that the guy was a top hedge fund manager with quite a few skeletons in his closet, including the fact that he was funding his illegitimate son's education. It took me 5 days to sieve out this juicy intel and another 2 weeks to blackmail him into giving up his credit card details and social security.

And another one and a half months for him to hang himself.

You must be wondering if I get some kind of high from seeing people off themselves. To be honest, the answer is complicated. Part of me thinks they deserve it- for not possessing adequate situational awareness, for hiding their illicit secrets. But it's not that I don't feel sorry whenever I find out that they've been driven to the brink of their sanity. I've been through some hard times, so I know how much it hurts to be in a position where you feel like there's absolutely nothing to live for.

You must also be wondering about the kind of screwed up childhood I had to endure to think, say, or do these kind of things. It was a mixed bag, really. My parents stayed happily married until I was 19, then my mom got tired of my dad's workaholism (Could you blame the guy though? I would be married to my work as well if I was an FBI agent!) and they called it quits. I was already of age anyway, so I moved out right about that time. I still visit my mom during the summer holidays, and as for my dad, well, I'd be lucky to get a birthday or Christmas postcard in the mail.

Funnily enough, my dad had greater influence over me than my mom during my growing up years. Maybe because I'd always been more of a homebody than a social butterfly, so my weekends were mostly spent indoors reading and peering over my dad's shoulders or sneaking into his home office to read his case notes. That's how I developed my interest for all things crime-related.

I suppose this is enough to give you an insight into why I am the way I am now. Whether you approve of my lifestyle or not is frankly none of my concern. I'm at the age where I can make my own decisions, and I've decided that my upbringing has served me well in shaping me into the individual I am today.

Anyway, back to the matter at hand—get it?—pickpocketing my latest victim.