Edmund Sorelli read the Boston Globe headline on the three-day-old newspaper. “Victim number seven.” He spoke out in the seclusion and privacy of his East Boston apartment. He usually spoke to his image in the mirror and envisioned a response from his mirror-twin. “Why count? Do they think someone is trying to set a record? Those bitches are not the angels-of-mercy from the movies. Those kinds of nurses are whores with credentials and a license to degrade and kill people they call patients. They’re all like the young whore nurse who calls herself my mother. Almost every weekend she picked someone up at the bar and brought him home. Some nurse–some mother. They don’t deserve to live and defile their once noble profession. What do they expect when they lure guys into their dens of lust and perversion? Now they won’t become mothers and produce unwanted kids.”
Sorelli paced the floor with the newspaper and then threw it onto the living room coffee table. He put on his security guard uniform and looked at the work schedule taped to his refrigerator. “Next week I’m assigned to an apartment complex near the Robert Breck Brigham hospital. Good. It’s on a hill looking over the other hospitals.” His security guard agency contracted to apartment buildings near all the medical centers.
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