I used to be a serial killer. Maybe you've heard of me.
I used to be a serial killer, and maybe you've heard of me. They called me the Vegas Ripper because of how closely my crimes resembled what the original Jack the Ripper did to his own victims. But for a good few years, the women in Las Vegas were too scared to go anywhere by themselves, even during the brightest part of the day. But then again, for the most part, the majority of them were safe. You see, I had a specific type of woman that I targeted. That's how the profilers from the FBI caught me in the end, but it took them a hell of a long time to realize that I even had a type. Of course, if they had been more focused on physical appearances, and not area or socioeconomic status, then they woulda caught me sooner.
I did have a type. They all had the dark eyes, the black hair, the caramel skin that my mother had. But more so than that, they were all people like she was. The type of person to walk out on her children leaving them to be raised with her mother and husband who was off drinking more often than not. Now here's where I think I stumped the investigators. These women, while they were all the same type like my mother, they weren't all of the same walk of life.
Obviously, I killed prostitutes, because besides being easy prey, there was just no way that they could stand out there on the corner all day and night, and then come home and raise their children. I bet their children, if they had any, which I doubt, barely if ever saw them. My mother was the same way, in a sense, because me and my brother would barely if ever see her, and when we did, she always had a nasty temper.
But besides the prostitutes, I did kill a few average women, and some that were in the snooty upper class. Besides looking just like my mother, they acted just like her too. I couldn't help but see that some of them chose to just walk out on their children and leave them, or treat them like a piece of trash in the gutter.
That burns for me, especially since I already told you about my past. In a sense, in killing these women was like killing my own mother. I did it because I was pissed with her for all that she's done, and everything that she put me through. If I could, I would've killed her years ago, but I can't, because I know if I ever ran into her, I'd probably start blubbering like a wimp. So I killed surrogates of her instead.
When I finally got a chance to plead my case in court, the judge refused to have any of it. The jury all thought I was a monster, insane. They gave me the death penalty.
I had to wait quite a while for this one, since they kept pushing his execution date back. Ronnie here killed those women because of displacement. He couldn't bring himself to even confront his mother about the way that she had behaved during his formative years, since to him, that was too threatening of a situation, so he displaced those feelings, onto other women who looked and acted similar to his mother, which to him were less threatening, as they had no way that they could emotionally injure him like his mother could if he dared to confront her.
Displacement is often found in murder cases similar to the ones that this man perpetrated. They can't kill the real person, so they kill someone else in letting out that pent up rage. It can also be found in cases of domestic abuse, where whatever aggravates the abuser outside of the home (or even inside) will be taken out on the victim, regardless of whether or not the victim had anything to do with the trigger.