Tillman

The killer looked “normal,” as if a serial killer somehow looks different from other people. He could be your next-door neighbor—polite, well mannered, and respectful. Yet his outward demeanor hid a simmering hatred towards women.
His neatly combed hair and dark-rimmed glasses suggested a much older man. Despite a high IQ, he never graduated high school. Often bored with classroom routines, the killer was shy and socially awkward, and spent little time in class, dropping out in the ninth grade. He painfully tried making friends, hoping their friendship would somehow protect his fragile ego from his mother’s hurtful and belittling words.
Tillman’s mother worked full-time as an administrative assistant to the dean of students in the college of education. She did the best she could, but a single-mother can only do so much when her husband walks out on her. In her desire to strike back at all men, she cared little about her son, providing little supervision as he grew into adulthood.
The killer’s disordered; sometimes-tumultuous relationship with his mother often resulted in violent verbal confrontations. The neighbors called the police, but nothing ever came of it. In fact, the police knew John Tillman and considered him a friend, someone who often rubbed elbows with detectives at a local bar called “The Cell Block.” Well-known as a place where cops and lawyers swapped stories and made deals, the bar was only three blocks from the courthouse complex.
“Hey, you want a ride?”
“Yeah. Where are you going? I live just a couple miles down the road.”
“I’m heading that way. I can take you home.”
“Thanks, mister. What’s your name?”
“My name’s John. What’s yours?”
“Nice to meet you, John. My name’s Vicki.”
“All right, Vicki, hop in.”
Vicki Lee hitchhiked frequently and nothing told her to fear the driver of the white van. There were no warning signs; no external signals that she was going to die that night.
Like all serial killers, once he had his victim isolated and alone with their guard down, he sprung his trap. This time it was the passenger door that couldn’t be opened from inside.
Factor W ruled his life. He had little empathy for others, no remorse for his actions, and lacked compassion for anyone but himself. To get what he wanted, he relied on his victim’s naiveté and helplessness. Tillman’s plan was precise and well organized, having worked out the details long before he ever met Vicki Lee.
His facial expression unchanged, the killer floored the white van, and sped past the girl’s house.
“Hey, John, you drove right past my house.”
“Shut the hell up, bitch. Tonight, you don’t go home!”
“Come on John, you’re kidding. Stop and let me out!”
“Forget it, bitch! Tonight you die!”
Vicki unbuckled her seatbelt and began struggling against the man who sat next to her. Tillman, using his brute strength, swung wildly with the back of his right hand, smashing the girl across the face. Momentarily stunned, Vicki slumped forward, her head in her hands, and began to sob. Pleading with her antagonist, she began screaming. Tillman, now more agitated than ever, turned and looked into her eyes.
“One more outburst like that and I’ll blow your fucking head off. Do you hear me?!”
“Yes, yes! Don’t hurt me, please. Please don’t hurt me. I’ll do whatever you say, just don’t hurt me!”
Tillman, now heading north, continued for another 10 miles before stopping at a gravel turnout. It was located next to a large wooded area, heavily populated with scrub brush, tangled pines, and impenetrable briars. The turnout led to a hidden passageway and lake a quarter-mile away. He already surveilled the area and knew it was a perfect kill site: quite, isolated, and far enough off the road that no one would hear her screams.
Shifting the van into park, Tillman doused the headlights and turned off the ignition. The van was quiet inside except for his victim’s sobbing. The killer turned his head and looked into Vicki Lee’s eyes. As he did, the killer heard a reassuring “thunk” reverberate throughout the van as a small electric motor unlocked the doors.
Before getting out of the van, the killer took one last look in the rearview mirror for approaching traffic, and then opened the driver’s door. Casually he walked around the front of the van and got ready to open the passenger door. As he placed his hand on the door handle, he saw a car speeding towards him.
Now less than 100-yards away, the driver flashed his headlights, forcing the killer to duck behind the now open passenger door. “Damn,” Tillman muttered, “just what I need!”
The cloud of dust trailing the approaching vehicle obscured his vision and enveloped the van. Tillman waited until the air cleared before dragging Lee from the front seat. Still sobbing uncontrollably, Lee stood motionless next to the van as Tillman reached into his back pocket and took out a long white nylon zip tie. Tillman spun her around, forcing both of her arms behind her back. Grabbing her by the hair, he growled, “Don’t move bitch, keep your hands together. This won’t hurt.”