Too Much Fascination with Serial Killers?

Watching Hannibal, the TV series, made me realize I have rather a fascination with serial killers. And that made me do an inventory of my own fiction. Oh. Gosh. Perhaps rather too much of one. Here they are in order they were published.

First is Blow Up the Roses. Mr. Brown rents one side of the duplex that Mrs. Keene owns. Mr. Brown likes to take pictures and has created a sound-proof room in his basement where despicable things are being done to increasingly younger girls. But now he has an idea for a master project that surpasses any other.

Next was The Notebook. A professor who returns to his old college town for a seminar wonders if the notebook he left in the attic of the house where he rented a room might still be there. It is and what it reveals results in a story for which no reader yet has foretold the ending.

After that, Heart Chants, tells about a half-Navajo, half-White young man who needs to kill special Navajo women students so that he do the chant to open the gates once again to the Holy People in this second novel in the Phillip McGuire series.

Then The Fat Cat, which features Ellie who five years ago ran from her job as a TV newscaster in another city because two things. Now, managing a strip club, one of those things is happening again. Dancers are being found dead in dumpsters with their thumbs and little fingers cut off.

My most recent short story Drive, Chip, Putt, and Kill features a professional golfer who gets in some extra work while he's out on the tour. It will take a golfer to catch a golfer.

And last, Indigenous Clay, the third in that Phillip McGuire series--my current work in progress in which I am bafflingly stalled--has a character who has started killing the daughters of board members who run or ran the boy’s home where he was castrated.