Whenever people thought of doctors they thought immediately of a man located in Westminster by the name of John Smith. He was the best of the best, starting in the 1940s and on down to the present time of 1952. Each surgery he had ever performed, each symptom he had diagnosed, well nothing ever went wrong. That was because John Smith did not allow mistakes. He possibly was better than God when it came to healing and taking care of others. God used magic, altered physics, and hardly ever saved anyone. John used science, medicine, and practicality to save everyone. If anyone were a self-proclaimed God it was John and no one ever disagreed with him. Even the superbly religious believed he was some sort of gift, some sort of miracle. That was why he had all of the money he did, why he had so many people who believed in him, because he was just that good. There were people, of course, that thought John was actually worse than he seemed. His surgeries were fakes, his diagnoses were just placed on perfectly healthy people who he paid behind the counter. It was true though, all of it, because no one was perfect, especially not John Smith. Not with the things he did in his spare time.
Many people, when asked about John Smith, would proclaim that he was lucky to have such a posh lifestyle, and they often spoke highly of his wife, Melody. The woman had money, being the daughter of a very wealthy man who had it all from inheritance. Yes, John had married well, but not out of love. That was such a silly thing to him as the emotion of love was one he had never known. As a child his mother was everything less than kind and his father, well if John was God, his father was the devil. No, his parents didn't matter now. For he had a wife who loved him dearly. He had a job. And best of all his tendencies were never put under suspect. That was until he was sloppy.
As stated, John's father was not a good man. This was because of the simple fact that he had an anger problem, a large one that would have taken a genius to fix. It was said to be cause of a mental disorder after he was found out, and John knew it to be true; because he felt the same way. All of the time he was so angry, even whenever he was smug he felt anger. And at times his anger would peak. So high, in fact, that he killed. Oh, as a doctor he could get away with that sort of thing. He knew how to conceal bodies, he knew what coroners looked at. The killing left him numb, let him hardly remember, let him feel a fake sense of power. In his mind he was most certainly God if he could take a life just as easily as he could prolong one. So a string continued, a string of murders that always got blamed on some homeless bloke. Never on Doctor John Smith.
Though the one time he did mess up, it wasn't he who was blamed, but his wife. He had made sure, still, that he wouldn't be caught. At a dinner party in his home he had gotten terribly angered at a couple of their guests. The house that he resided in was large, a mansion really. They had maids, chefs, it was a very important house. And the most important room, to John, was his library. Such a room it was, ornate in everything from architecture to book bindings. He had led the couple there and taken care of them. But he didn't go unnoticed by his wife who started screaming and so he had to use her love against her and her drunkenness. Told her it was her fault, that she had done all of the this and the reason he was covered in blood was because he was trying to save the couple from what she had done.
"They were your friends, Mel! How could you?"He had said to her. Oh and she was an idiot who believed every word. She didn't think John could lie. And she had taken the blame so well. John knew that she felt guilt about it as soon as she wasn't drunk. Some people may have felt bad about this, but not John. In fact it just made her more believable as the murderer. Whatever John said, people would believe too. So he had acted very upset and disappointed with his wife. In the public eye he was the perfect husband and he had loved her so much. He had even been able to fake tears. The only thing he would miss about Melody was having his own personal bitch around.
Though John didn't expect all of the press to stay away from him, he also didn't expect it to get so close. It had been exactly three days after his wife got put in custody that a woman contacted him in need of an interview. He had nothing to hide, but he also didn't want to be interviewed. Oh well, he took the interview anyways and decided it was a good idea. If he could fool his wife so easily, he could fool a journalist. He invited her to tea in the very house that the murders had all taken place. And she could search and search how she wanted, but she would find nothing. He even took the very courtesy of making sure that her favourite tea was prepared for when she was to come.
For now, he sat in the study, looking at the large ebony clock that ticked loudly. His own hands were clasping a sherry, a drink that was of the utmost importance to him. Each time he had killed he had put the scent on the people as a symbolism. That they were nothing but what drunks were; pigs. Almost all people were that to him. The clock still read that it was 10:00 and they were to meet just at 10:13. John didn't like regular meeting times, and so he had chosen that specifically. Normal wasn't his forte. So he sat and waited, the tolling of the clock lulling him as he sipped at sherry and thought about how very close he was to getting away with an eleventh and twelfth murder.
{And he would stop at nothing to make sure he went free.}