I invite my marks round to a location of my choosing. The invitations may be as overt as a verbal invitation or a text message, or a subtle as as a whisper in the right ear. The latter method is a bit hit or miss, but sometimes subtlety is needed, so risks must be taken.
Take Thorsten Kohler for instance. To get him to drop by, I had to get an acquaintance of his to insinuate that I had abused his twenty-something sister (quite the catch so I’m told) when we were out on a date. His sister didn’t remember this but it was clear that it was that night not so long ago when she’d been out drinking and had blacked out. The acquaintance didn’t know where I lived, but had seen me around and knew where I might turn up. So they’d hung around a mall one Saturday and followed me to the apartment at which I was staying.
Poor guy ended up staggering out into the street, drunk, and got hit by a truck; killed instantly they said.
Of course, there is the risk that the mark might be able to handle themselves or be armed, but I’m prepared for that. In fact, I’m prepared for just about anything this line of work could throw at me.
It may seem counter-intuitive at first, but it works perfectly. Why go to them when it is so much easier to get them to come to you? Besides, it’s not really my apartment, just one I’ve occupied temporarily. I have dozens of such locations, some are homes of former marks, some are homes of former employers, some are homes of dead pensioners with no families or friends, some are homes which have been abandoned.
It’s important that I am not disturbed. The marks must feel safe, must not suspect anything is amiss. From the moment they find out which building I’m in to the moment they meet me and step inside my workplace, they must be completely absorbed in the story I’ve fed them; they must believe. Also, since it would be impractical to soundproof every apartment I use, it’s very important to dispatch them quietly. Strangulation is ok, overdose of anaesthetic is good, poisoned drink is good, you get the idea.
No guns, no knives, no noise, no blood; no mess.
Then there’s the matter of getting rid of the bodies. I have to admit, I’m pretty good at this. I always make the story of their deaths believable, whether it was an accident, a suicide or a revenge killing. In any case, none of it is traced back to my employers (unless of course I’ve been paid to make sure it is by one of their rivals).
I’m not entirely without sentiment however. I nearly always look them in the eye as they slip away; so that I take them with me when I walk away from their corpse.
So that they know they’re not alone.