While we are being fascinated by the tales of famous serial

Host: The city slept under the weight of its own stories. In the distance, sirens rose and fell like restless ghosts; somewhere a late train thundered through, vanishing into a tunnel of darkness. The rain had stopped hours ago, but the streets still glistened—wet, glimmering, cinematic, as though the world had been washed but not forgiven.

Inside a small, dimly lit newsroom, the smell of old coffee and printer ink hung in the air. Stacks of case files covered every surface. The computer monitors glowed pale blue, illuminating two faces: Jack, unshaven, exhausted, but alert—and Jeeny, her expression taut, sharp, her eyes alive with the hum of curiosity and unease.

The clock on the wall read 2:43 a.m. They’d been at it for hours, tracing connections between the forgotten victims of a killer no one remembered, chasing whispers that had long gone cold.

Jeeny: reading softly from an open notebook
“Pat Brown once wrote, ‘While we are being fascinated by the tales of famous serial killers and how they were brought to justice, the real serial killer goes about his business with hardly a thought to being caught.’”

Jack: smirking without humor, his fingers tapping the desk rhythmically
“Yeah. The monsters in the headlines distract us from the ones still walking free.”

Jeeny: leaning back in her chair, voice low but thoughtful
“It’s the perfect illusion, isn’t it? We wrap evil in a story—give it a name, a face, an ending—and pretend we’ve conquered it.”

Host: The neon sign outside flickered, spilling broken light through the blinds—streaks of crimson and shadow painting their faces. The sound of typing stopped. The silence between them felt heavy, watchful, like something breathing just out of sight.

Jack: quietly, after a moment
“You ever notice how we talk about them? We turn them into characters—Bundy, Dahmer, Gacy—our modern myths of horror. But every time we glorify one name, we make it easier for another to hide.”

Jeeny: nodding slowly
“And that’s what Pat Brown meant. The real danger isn’t the monster we recognize. It’s the one we forget to see.”

Host: A gust of wind pressed against the windows. Somewhere in the dark outside, a car door slammed—a small, sharp sound that made both of them pause instinctively. The city had its own heartbeat, and tonight, it felt too close.

Jack: rubbing his temples, his voice distant but edged with fatigue
“You know what’s strange? The psychology textbooks, the documentaries, the podcasts—they all make us experts on patterns. But the thing about the real killer is that he doesn’t fit the pattern. He adapts. He listens.”

Jeeny: glancing up, curious
“Listens to what?”

Jack: meeting her gaze
“To us. To our fear. To our fascination. Every time we obsess over a headline, we teach him how to disappear better.”

Jeeny: softly, almost whispering
“We’re accomplices in our own blindness.”

Host: The rain began again, faint at first, then steady—its rhythm against the window like fingers drumming a warning. The two sat in silence, the hum of the computers their only companion.

Jeeny: after a long pause
“You think evil ever gets tired, Jack?”

Jack: half-smiling, bitterly
“No. Evil doesn’t get tired. It just changes its job description.”

Jeeny: leaning forward, voice firmer now
“So what do we do? Keep chasing shadows? Keep telling stories no one wants to hear?”

Jack: quietly
“We keep telling them because silence is how they win. Because the moment we stop looking, someone vanishes again.”

Host: The lights flickered once, and for a heartbeat, the room went dark—screens dead, air still, a silence so sudden it had weight. When the power returned, Jeeny was still watching Jack, her expression softer now, a touch of grief in her eyes.

Jeeny: softly
“You know, fascination has always been a double-edged thing. It keeps us curious, but it also keeps us distracted. Maybe that’s why killers thrive in it—they hide behind our need for narrative.”

Jack: nodding slowly
“And maybe that’s why justice feels like theater. We catch one, parade him through the news, then act like the story’s over. But evil doesn’t work on an episode schedule.”

Host: The clock ticked louder, each second like a reminder that time, too, could be complicit. A police scanner on the desk crackled to life, a disembodied voice reciting an address, a body found, another case starting somewhere else.

Jeeny: quietly, more to herself
“While we’re fascinated by the show, the work continues in silence. Just like Brown said. The real killer’s out there—anonymous, methodical, invisible.”

Jack: finishing her thought, his tone steady but heavy
“And maybe that’s the real horror—that evil isn’t rare. It’s routine.”

Jeeny: softly, looking out the rain-soaked window
“So maybe the real fight isn’t against killers. It’s against complacency.”

Jack: nodding, leaning back, eyes weary but certain
“Exactly. The most dangerous thing in this world isn’t violence—it’s forgetfulness.”

Host: The rain outside slowed, tapering into a light drizzle. Through the glass, the streetlights glowed faintly gold, soft halos in the mist. Jeeny closed her notebook; Jack shut down the monitors. The hum of machinery faded, leaving behind only the sound of breathing and the rain’s quiet confession.

And in that muted moment, Pat Brown’s words seemed to linger above the room like an unspoken verdict:

That evil hides best when disguised by our curiosity.
That society’s obsession with monsters blinds it to the quiet, methodical cruelty still walking among us.
And that the real killer isn’t the one in the headline—it’s the one who knows we’ll be too busy reading to notice him coming.

Jeeny: rising slowly, putting on her coat
“You ever think maybe fascination is just fear, disguised as entertainment?”

Jack: pausing, his voice low
“Yeah. And maybe truth’s the only thing left that scares us more than fear itself.”

Host: The two stepped into the wet night, their silhouettes swallowed by the city’s glow. The rain hissed softly on the pavement, and the wind carried the faint wail of a siren far, far away—the sound of justice chasing what it may never catch.

And as they disappeared down the empty street, the city breathed on—
still watching, still hiding, still haunted by its own fascination.