There was nothing out here but dying family farms and woods and fallow cornfields. But this was where I decided to land. 32 Welcome Street. I had killed a widow in Ohio. I had killed a mechanic in Mississippi. I had killed a minister and his wife in North Carolina. I hadn’t killed anyone in New England yet, so I was open to anything. It was 1971, and a war was raging. American soldiers were dying. I bought a cup of coffee at a diner on the edge of town, opened the daily newspaper and found an ad for a boarder. Delilah Kincaid of Welcome Street was renting out a room. Her husband had died in Vietnam and she needed the money. Another widow. I dug a quarter out of my pocket, located a phone booth a few blocks away and made the call. Okay, here’s the truth. I’m one of those people who can get away with anything. I’ve led a charmed life. I don’t know why. I guess I have an angelic look about me. I guess an angel kissed me in my cradle. Maybe it’s my smile? I have a great smile, or so I’ve been told.
