JASON DANIEL COVEY
As rain fell about the car, wind driven sheets attacking from all directions, I began to discern a complex
message; a clear pattern in the rhythm of the falling rain. Though I realized that the repetitive message
originated from the furthest depths of my mind, I forced myself to ignore the content, to label it as
nothing more than an associative condition in concert with an external stimulus.
Unwanted, yet too powerful to hold at bay, I knew that the complex message was actually an argument
– though I chose not to examine it. If I examined what it was I might scare myself from what I felt
compelled to do. Never before had my emotions controlled my actions, but they were doing so now. I
continued forth only allowing my logical mind to arrive at the simple and obvious conclusion…
I must be crazy.
The position that I had been in prior, and still remained, was that of the untouchable. I knew that I
should simply walk away. After all, I truly had no vested interest in the outcome. I had nothing to gain by
becoming deeply involved, but I had much to lose. Upon further examination I concluded that this night’s
events had simply been random happenstance, nothing more. Unexpected and unexplainable, yet
perfectly predictable, that is if you expect to encounter the unexpected.
I knew that I should chalk this up to a fortunate escape from unforeseen circumstances and simply
absolve myself from the situation. That was, after all, the safest course of action. A correct judgment
made by logic. However, sound judgment notwithstanding, I continued to press on into unfolding events
orchestrated by the bizarre.
Recalling the memory once again I decided that it was the eyes. With the silenced barrel of my gun firmly
against her skull I looked into her eyes and that is when everything changed. Piercing my soul, her gaze
postponed her death – a death that, before that moment, I was committed to bring forth.
I am a killer. I murder for money. And this night began like any other night when I am to apply the craft
of my trade. That is to say I was completely prepared to carry out my contracted obligation. Just after
nightfall, I dressed in a dark hooded sweatshirt, dark blue jeans, a black bomber jacket, a black American
Choppers hat, and a broken-in pair of black Vans. From a wooden box in the garage I retrieved a six-
inch Cold Steel Tanto knife, a Beretta 9MM semi-automatic handgun, a silencer for my firearm, and my
tool bag. Equipped with all that I would need I walked out the door.
In the red light’s glow I waited to continue, traffic filling in the lanes around me. It would seem that
destiny was giving me every chance to discontinue. It would also seem that fate had led me to another
course of action.
Again, I was thrust back to the memory of her eyes. It struck me suddenly as the horn of the car behind
me blared: The pain she felt had been transferred to my mind by way of her piercing gaze. It was an
immensely sad pain. Before now I had not been able to articulate it. Now I was beginning to understand
my unprecedented mercy. I decided, in carefully examined and chosen words, that I did not kill her
because I would have felt guilty.
I am sociopathic as a pre-1990 psychologist might say. Contemporaries of the field, however, would now
label me as “anti-social”. Whichever term one chooses the fact remains, I feel nothing when I kill. That
does not mean that I do not know right from wrong. That also does not mean that I do not have a
conscience. I understand and fully acknowledge the consequences for the decisions I make. And I do feel
emotion as it pertains to my behavior. For instance if I offend some one, especially some one I care
about, I am wrought with guilt. However, as I discovered almost two years ago, killing is a numb
experience for me.
The first time I ever killed a man was brought on by a sense of righteous fury. A month removed from
high school graduation my friend James and I were skateboarding in the parking lot of a strip mall. About
one o’clock in the morning an idiot in a security guard uniform started bothering us and so we decided to
leave. James crossed the street and a drunk driver without his lights on ran him down. He was killed
The police came and arrested the driver of the Mercedes, though at that time it was little consolation to
James’s family or to me. The driver, who turned out to be a prominent lawyer, was released on bail less
than 48 hours later. At his trial a month later the lawyer filed a motion for a mistrial based on a lapse in
the police department’s investigative procedure related to the manner in which his blood alcohol level was
determined. The lawyer successfully claimed that he was not drunk; that hitting James was a result of
James wearing dark clothes, thus being hard to see at night, and running out into the middle of the
Not that I wish to aid lawyers in their mission to give themselves a bad reputation – they are quite
astute in that endeavor without my assistance – this was a case where a very bad man blatantly lied and
benefited from that lie. I myself saw this man slur and stumble the night he killed an innocent person. I
myself then witnessed how this man lied to absolve himself from responsibility. There was no justice in
what had happened. It was that point, not that my best friend had been murdered, which ignited a deep
fury within me. And it was by that fury that I killed for the first time.
After very little research I discovered the location of the lawyer’s office. I studied his routine for nearly
two weeks. Every Monday and Thursday, early in the morning before sunrise, the lawyer would go for a
jog along the bike trail that ran next to the American River. As I hid in the thick foliage, dressed all in
black, a Louisville Slugger at the ready, I was interested in the remarkable calmness I felt. At the time I
thought it was simply a peace brought about by knowing that it was justice which was about to triumph.
But as I repaid the lawyer for his actions, first by breaking his right knee and then crushing his skull, I
was intrigued at how I felt nothing for what I had done.
The rain had stopped falling, the water on the street spinning through the tire tread. Suddenly my head
began to ache, as Avenged Sevenfold’s “Chapter Four” grated on my nerves. I turned the radio off, but
quickly decided that the silence did not console me. In fact, quite the opposite. Opening the CD case on
the seat next to me I exchanged hard core punk-rock for a collection of symphonies composed by Felix
Mendelssohn. I immediately selected what is in my opinion Mendelssohn’s greatest work – “The Hebrides
After I killed the lawyer I fully expected to bear an emotional consequence. Though intrigued at my lack
of emotion that morning, I thought that eventually the weight of what I had done would crash down
upon my conscience. Weeks passed, and then months, still I felt nothing. When I say that I felt nothing
I mean that to include all emotional variants. Not joy, nor sorrow, nor anything between those two
points of reference.
I found myself pondering more the question of why I felt nothing about killing the lawyer than I did
about the very idea of what I had done. I wondered if my state was indicative of my true nature, or
simply an aberration. About six months later I would be granted an opportunity to answer that question.
My sister is a year and half older than me. When I was younger I resented the fact that she was able to
do things that I was not, as her advanced age benefited her. I also resented the special attention that
she garnered from everyone, especially my parents. I was constantly made aware that my sister was
favored, as she was “gifted”. Not once, not twice, but three times she was advanced a grade in
elementary school because she was too intelligent for the material. In high school she was enrolled in
additional college curriculum such as trigonometry, literature, biology, and psychology.
However, as we both got older and the gap between our maturity levels decreased, I developed the belief
that my sister and I were equals. I dispensed with my envy of her. In fact I pitied her as people that
thought her more than she was. You see, I believe that there are numerous ways to gage intelligence;
many of which are not tested as standard. That is because most people tend to see intelligence as only a
small, closed mind measures all things – only what can be seen easily. Isn’t imaginative ability or artistic
creativity a measure of intelligence? Most would say they are not. I disagree.
At any rate, I quickly became thankful that my sister was older than me. Very often she would be
accompanied home by one or more of her girlfriends. What hormonally driven teenage boy would
complain about bubbly young girls being brought to his home? As the years progressed I became good
friends with many of my sister’s girlfriends. On occasion a few of them snuck into my room when they
spent the night.
Six months after I killed the lawyer, my sister’s friend Julie came over to the house very late. I said hello
to her but she paid me no mind, which for this flirtatious girl was unusual. Purposely I passed quietly by
my sisters room where I heard Julie talking to my sister, she was crying. At times sobbing.
When Julie left our house late that night, little did I know it was the last time that I would ever see her.
Three days later Julie was found dead in her apartment. She had filled her bathtub with water before
slitting her wrists, taking her own life. Of course my sister was devastated.
After the funeral my sister and I had a long talks. My sister told me that the night when Julie had come
over so late, she had confided some horrible news. It seemed that Julie had been raped by man that she
worked with. Julie felt so disgusted with herself that she could not bear to live any longer.
There and then I decided to rectify the situation, to balance the equation. Carefully, without her realizing,
I got my sister to give me information about the man that raped Julie. I then began to research him, to
learn of everything that the rapist involved in his life. I was patient. I was methodical. I watched every
move he made, learned every pattern and habit he had. I stalked my prey with cold, calculating precision.
A month removed from Julie’s suicide, a month exactly, I set out on a mission that would change my life
forever. It was a Monday night and just the rapist had done each of the previous four Monday nights, he
went to a local sports bar to watch the football game. Once at the bar the rapist consumed a generous
amount of alcohol. Though he never realized, I watched him the entire night.
At the two-minute warning of the fourth quarter, the rapist gloating and full of bravado, no doubt a
winner from a wager made on the game, went into the restroom. Throughout the bar there was
commotion that bordered on the chaotic. Large portions of the bar’s patrons were exiting to the parking
lot. Many continued to drink while throwing darts and shooting pool.
I waded through the crowds following the rapist to the men’s restroom; I then followed him inside. My
timing was perfect – no one had followed me into the restroom and as I entered the rapist had his back
to me while he emptied his bladder at the urinal. For a moment I was tempted to kill him there, but I
could not risk it. At any moment someone could walk in on me.
I washed my hands while keeping visual contact on the rapist through the corner of my eye. After
shaking it one time too many he shuffled to the sink and began washing up. Our eyes met briefly as I
turned to exit the restroom.
At the bar I nursed an iced tea while I watched the rapist proposition many young girls, rejection coming
swiftly from each. Close to an hour after the conclusion of the football game, the population of the bar
dwindling, the rapist finally left.
I followed him outside and around to the back of the building. The night air was crisp and unusually
quiet. Although I had to suffer through the doldrums of waiting while the rapist made a fool of himself,
one good thing came of it: The parking lot was devoid of people.
Quietly I walked toward the rapist as he slid a key into the door lock of his car. With a rehearsed motion
pulled a ski mask down around my face and then drew my gun – a snub nose .38. The barrel was at the
rapist’s head before he realized and the trigger pulled before he could react.
I guided him down to the ground ignoring the gurgling sound emanating from his lifeless body. Quickly I
rifled through his pockets and removed his wallet; my hope was that this would give the illusion of a
robbery. The entire exchange lasted mere seconds. As if out on a gentle evening stroll I walked away,
heading for my car parked several blocks away.
The rain had subsided causing the night to become a yellow streetlight flared haze. Now, just mere
blocks from his house, I pulled my car over and shut it off. The silence did not console me. Instead the
silence allowed for the perfect opportunity for my emotions to breath life into an ill fated articulation.
That is, against sound judgment I would now embark on a mission because of feeling.
I believe in God. Surprising isn’t it? A hypocritical contradiction to my chosen profession, perhaps? If one
chooses to make that argument I would simply reject the premise. I do not believe that my knowledge of
a Supreme Being and my ability to murder are in conflict. We are all born to fulfill a certain purpose; each
person has been issued attributes and abilities specific to their purposed tasks. My unique gifts are
those suited to murder. However, I actually think that labeling myself as a selfish murdering bastard is a
bit too harsh. As I see it I do not murder as so much as I purge. Like taking out society’s trash.
That being said, I am not so delusional to think that I am on some holy quest or mission from God. I do
not murder to carry out a fanatical agenda. But, I do believe in the concept of predestination. Though we
may seemingly have freewill – today I choose chocolate ice cream instead of vanilla – I believe that we are
all slaves to God’s will. If a person is meant to die on a certain day, at a specific time; if that is God’s will
for that person…then it shall be, regardless if it is I that pulls the trigger or by way of a massive heart
Earlier as I broke into my original mark’s apartment, as I put the barrel of my gun up to her head, I felt
that God did not have that girl’s death planned for this day. Did God speak directly to me in order for me
to make that determination? No. God need not always speak directly for the message to be heard. Often
there are clear signs of the message God sends. The positive pregnancy test on the girl’s bathroom
counter was indication enough.
However, God did not stop there. Tearfully the girl told me that if she wasn’t pregnant she would beg me
to kill her. Three weeks ago she was raped; the rape caused her to be with child. As if I was given
permission by both God and the girl, the rapist’s location was provided to me. She knew her tormenter
well – He was college professor, as well as a close family friend.
A slight fog began to appear on the car windows. I checked my weapons. To the barrel of my gun I
attached a silencer. I slid my knife out, admired the razor sharpness, and then slid it back into the
sheath on my belt. I then made a cursory inventory of various tools I had assembled within a small duffle
With drizzle signaling the impending return of heavier rain I left my car. Quickly and stealthily I made my
way through the sleepy neighborhood. When I came within three houses of my target I stopped. Finding
adequate cover within well trimmed shrubbery I watched the house.
For almost fifteen minutes I observed. The house was completely dark except for the light at the front
door. A thorough soaking as well as impatience finally rested me away from my shadow. I crossed the
street nonchalantly and walked to the gate accessing the backyard.
The driveway was unoccupied and I could see an oil stain on the concrete. This led me to hypothesize
that my target parked his oil-leaking car on the driveway on a regular basis. Because of the absent car I
began to entertain the possibility that good fortune was mine. Perhaps my target had not yet come
Quietly I opened the gate and stepped into the backyard. Pulling the gun from my jacket I stood silent
and unmoving for several minutes. When I felt certain that I had not been spotted or had been
discovered by a backyard dog I began to move. Cautiously I walked around the side of the house to the
back taking note of every window and door. After considering the layout of the house I decided that
breaking in through the side garage door would be the best option.
As I made it back to the garage door the rain began to pour. Good. The noise of the rain would mask
the minimal noise I was about to make. From my bag I retrieved a small battery powered drill. The drill
was outfitted with a thin titanium drill bit specifically made for cutting. Within seconds I had drilled into
the door just above the deadbolt and then cut down through the latch. I did the same to the doorknob
latch as well. I exchanged the drill for a penlight and then went into the garage.
The garage was relatively barren and well organized. And, there was no car inside. My target was not
home which meant that the advantage was swayed completely in my direction. Instead of trying to sneak
into an unknown residence, wrought with unknown dangers, attempting to kill an unknown man with
unknown abilities, I was now able to lye in wait for him. I made short work of the door accessing the
interior of the house. Once inside I silently stalked the halls, ensuring that it was indeed vacant and
memorizing the layout.
Never before had I ever met one of my paying customers, nor had I ever paid a visit to my customer’s
residence. I am not in what one might call a people-skills business. The network that I have created is
nearly fool proof. I am contacted without knowing who is enlisting my services and then I agree to take
on a contract without ever knowing who is paying me, and that is all done via the internet.
Because of Californian liberal idiots I was able to obtain a false identity. I passed myself off as a Mexican
and got a new driver’s license from the Davis, California DMV where the progressive thinking peopled
employed there routinely hand out driver’s licenses to illegal immigrants. With this new identity I got a
social security number, several credit cards, and several bank accounts. It is through that identity that I
launder all of the money that is paid to me. The money is scattered throughout cyberspace and diverted
several different ways until it reaches one of two final destinations: an offshore Swiss bank account or
the mainland account held by my Mexican alter ego. When I physically receive the money it has been on
such a wild ride that it is virtually untraceable.
For a time I hid silently, concealed within a deep shadow. Usually I could lie in wait for my prey, never
moving, always invisible, until it was time to act. However, I found myself to be uncharacteristically
nervous. I needed to move.
From where I was hidden I could see into the living room where a computer was on. I found my self
drawn to the computer, the hypnotic rhythm of the screen saver dancing across the screen. Slowly I
went into the living room, carefully checking the windows to make sure there were no cars outside.
I walked to the desk in the living room, pulled out the chair, and sat down. I surveyed the new vantage
point and estimated that I would be able to see any car that pulled into the driveway. Deciding that it
was safe enough, I turned my attention to the computer.
A flick of the mouse cleared the screen saver and brought up the desktop. I clicked on My Documents
and when the window popped up I began checking the file names. Almost instantly I found a file folder
entitled “Internet Special”. My stomach knotted.
When I first contact a potential new client I always do so via email. In the email I issue the client a code
phrase to be included within the subject line when they return the email to me, that way I know that it is
the client I am dealing with. For this job, the code phrase was “This week’s Internet Special”.
I opened the folder and I found several Word documents. The file names for the Word documents were
rather nondescript, as they were numerically titled. I opened file # 1 and I found the information
regarding my contract: The price, the terms, the information I required, and the fee. Contained within file
# 2 I found the information about my target. A detailed biography that my employer compiled about my
File # 3 was a dated timeline of when my client first decided to kill the girl, when he decided to pay to
have her killed, when he began to research hired killers, when he first contacted me, and when he agreed
to my terms.
I could hear a car outside. I readied my gun and moved to the window. The car continued on down the
street and finally out of sight.
It was stupid, but I went back to the computer, there was only one remaining file and I was curious.
Besides, I had in mind to delete all files that made any mention of me. When the police found my client’s
decomposing body I didn’t want then to find any indication of me along with it.
Clicking on file # 4 the screen flashed and the document appeared on the screen. I gasped, horrified at
what I saw. My real first, middle, and last name appeared on the very first line on the page. It was in bold
faced print and underlined. Underneath my name was all of my most protected information. My age and
date of birth. My address. My phone number. Social Security Number. The make and model of the car I
drove including the license plate number and the vehicle’s identification number.
Further down the page I saw the name of my alias and all of the fake particulars I created for him. I then
saw bank account information for both myself and my alias, complete with transaction records and
current balances. That was followed by the account numbers to my off shore accounts.
Stunned, I took a deep breath and tried to think it through. How this could have happened, how I could
have been discovered…but, that was not important right now. I realized that at the very least I had been
discovered. Worse, this could very well be a trap.
I deleted the Internet Special file. I spun around and got up from my chair. Out of the corner of my eye I
saw light reflect off of the silver barrel of a gun.
“Drop the gun,” he said.
I put my hands up without dropping the gun. “All right man, okay. Let’s just be cool.”
“I am cool. Now drop the gun.”
I groaned. “How did you find out about me?” I asked hoping to stall for the right moment.
My client took a step forward, exactly what I was hoping for. “Stop stalling. Drop your gun.”
As hard as I could I threw my gun at his face and dove to my left. Just as I expected he flinched and
fired his gun, the bullet missing me completely. Low to the ground I jumped up and grabbed his gun
hand with both of mine. With both of us struggling against each other, I managed to bend his arm so
that the gun was pointing to the side. I attacked his lead leg with a barrage of front kicks. I pushed
against him and then suddenly pulled his gun arm back and straight out. I chopped down on his forearm
with all of my might and he dropped his gun. I shoved him away from me and pulled my knife.
My client rebounded off of a wall and attacked me with a wild punch. I dodged the haymaker, slipped
underneath his arm, and slashed upwards and then back across his torso. Two deep cuts that drew
blood. As he staggered clutching his chest I exploded into him with a side kick. Striking the wall a second
time caused him collapse to the floor. I switched the grip of my knife to the ice-pick grip and moved in
for the kill. Just as I raised my arm I was knocked forward by the impact of a bullet.
On the ground, my head echoed from the gun blast and my back burned as I began to sink deeper into
the black ocean consuming my thoughts, peacefully to sleep this off, the pain burning hotter but
escaping from me at the same time, liquid life pouring red out of me, quiet now, quiet, everything is
going to be all right…
Suddenly from somewhere deep within the black ocean I heard myself screaming. I pushed myself up and
tried to run away. I stumbled and then fell against a wall. Bracing myself against it I walked as fast as I
could. If I could make it to one of the bed rooms I could get out through a window.
“Where are your going Mark?” The beautiful sound of her voice made me stop. I turned to face her, not
yet believing. At first I thought that I was hallucinating. I told myself that it was the blood loss that was
making this false image appear in my mind. But then I saw her with my gun in hand, a gun that I chose
not to use tonight.
Her smile was wicked and sweet all at once. “For the money.”
“I would have given you anything you wanted,” I told her.
“But this was more fun.”
Maybe it was the shock from blood loss, or maybe it was the shock of realization, but I did not have the
strength to stop her from aiming the barrel of my own gun at my head. And just as I heard the hammer
of the gun click it all fell into place, each small indicator, every inferring comment, all of the manipulative
information that she had given me…
I thought that I was so smart. I thought that I was unbeatable. Arrogance was my downfall. I never saw
that I was set up from the beginning. I should have realized how brilliant she really was. I should have
seen through the obvious trap, the invitation that I could not resist. After all, how is it that a sociopath
has such a desire for justice?
In the moment before the bullet crushed my skull I chuckled. I recalled the argument that had raged
within the depths of my mind. The argument that I forced myself to ignore, to not articulate with precise
language, now became clear to me: logic versus emotion. It was not logical for me to take such a risk.
But, the emotional validation that I felt forced me to act on the principal of justice.
If I killed the girl, then her and her child would have twice been victimized by a rapist. If I simply walked
away the rapist would simply kill the girl himself or hire another killer. Neither scenario was correct
according to my sensibilities. However, if I killed the man that raped the girl, the man that hired me to kill
the woman that he impregnated, then justice would be served.
Logic dictated that I walk away. Emotion demanded that I make things right for this girl and her unborn
child. My only regret is that I failed and now the girl was dead.
I saw the irony. By way of my logical rules I conducted my life. I used logic to conduct the business of
fate, all the while logic kept me absolved. All those that I murdered were killed because they had allowed
emotion to rule there lives. Emotion entangled them within a situation where their fates were sealed – by
me. And now, I was on the other side, my fate sealed.
This night was truly about fate, divine providence, the will of God. We are all slaves to His will, and I tried
to live as though I was somehow above that. I finally experienced the very concept that I used to justify
killing: Sooner or later God’s will will get you.
I said a prayer as I died. I praised God and asked forgiveness for my sins. I welcomed the darkness and
then the light. For the light is the life of men, and my fate the will of God.