- full name. Leon Markus Rodney

- date of birth. January 4^th, 1985.

- place of birth. Coarsen, Alabama.

- years in victoria. Seven years.

- eye colour. Cobalt.

- hair colour. Dark.

- height. Five foot eleven. ( 5’ 11”. )

- weight. One fifty-nine. ( 159 lbs. )

- personality (demeanour). Some people have a complex personality, they may seem brash—even to the point of being obnoxious, but there is something else behind the frontal façade that they let everyone else see. Leon Rodney is such a person, growing up in New York City, for the most part—there is that attitude of been there, done that, have the tee-shirt. He’s not rude, or snide about it—it’s just an attitude of a complete lack of surprise. Like he expects people to be the worst they can be, and doesn’t fault them when it inevitably happens. He’ll be the first to tell someone, “It’s okay, it happens.” Even if the forgiveness is at his expense—he accepts that no one is perfect, and that it’s impossible to expect someone to be. However, this view is only taken if the act isn’t committed in malice—if someone is aiming to hurt someone else, he will also be the first to give a tight smile, and knock their teeth down their throat.

Generally a kind hearted person; he cares about people on the most basic level needed to move through life. If he is able to help someone, even if it’s slightly out of his way—he will, happily so. But in all honestly, he lacks any form of empathy—not intentionally. Pathologically incapable of feeling sympathy for others—he doesn’t understand the concept of feeling another’s pain. Values and morals have been instilled in his mind from either of his foster parents—they didn’t fault him for this short-coming, but loved him more for it, and taught him how to over-come it. How to be a good person in any case. He lives by these rules, the select lines he refuses to cross—unless in desperate situations. Some might even go so far as to say he is a better man than those who are capable of feeling empathy—he isn’t hindered by the public opinion of right or wrong. If something if wrong, his foster parents told him to make it right—there is no hesitation to make things right. He was taught well.

Against what many might think of someone incapable of empathy—he has emotions, as immature as they are. He is unaccustomed to failure—he doesn’t have the ability to hold himself to the same regards as he does everyone else. While everyone else can’t be faulted for not being perfect—he can be faulted. A precision bordering on Obsessive Compulsive, but not quiet reaching that level. His emotions are felt—strongly, often enough. But a professional opinion would more likely than not consider him “damaged”, but very fixable. In his own time, he’s contemplative and reclusive—but easily shifts into a personality that is acceptable for his age-range. Alcohol, sex and rock ‘n’ roll. Easily considered promiscuous, but not in a foul or vile way—he is a considerate, sweet person when in the process of courting a girl who has caught his attention. But incapable of becoming invested into a relationship, at least in an emotional sense. He is fine until the woman he is seeing expects more from him, which is when said relationship usually breaks off.

He wasn’t the centre of his High-School, he wasn’t the single boy that every girl wanted to go out with—but he was popular enough. He didn’t pick and choose his friends, he was easily engaged—nothing about him made it appear as if he would be difficult to talk to. But regardless of this, his past is his own, he doesn’t flaunt the mystery of what he’s lived through. He’s rather reserved about it, usually smiling it off—or better yet, changing the subject, which he has grown rather adept with. One thing he dislikes is sympathy—merely because he doesn’t understand it, or it’s purpose. It seems un-useful, but he does not ridicule others for their sympathy or pity. He thrives on what makes everyone else seem “normal”, even pines for it himself—he does not have the desire to be different, but nor the desire to conform. Well situated in what it means to be himself—a value given to him by his foster parents.

A shoulder to cry on, a listener who won’t interrupt—someone who’ll say all the right things, and do everything in his power to make it right. One might think that chivalry isn’t dead—he is anyone’s white knight. Even a stranger’s—while he is incapable of becoming emotionally invested in another’s plight, he is capable of being the support someone needs, even if only for his sense of collected calm.

- style of dress. Never far removed from the casual attire of someone in their early twenties, he doesn’t try to stick out with bold colours or brash tee-shirt brands. He doesn’t try to avoid the big-name companies, and doesn’t go much toward the route of rebellion. Staying with straight leg regular blue denims, trying to avoid them having too many holes—he believes the presentation of too many holes shows a attitude of carelessness. He likes to appear presentable, and at the very least, matured past his teenage years. Which is difficult, given the fact that he looks much younger than he is – still getting carded for cigarettes if he was happening upon the need to buy them. His tee-shirts are usually solid colours, closer to the darker end of the spectrum, but he doesn’t have an aversion to wearing whites or other light colours. Typically he wears long-sleeve shirts, but he does on occasion wear a short-sleeve shirt—usually those long-sleeves are pushed up, which defeats the purpose.

When in uniform, his shoulders are rolled back and he stands to his full height—doesn’t let a slouch impeach his posture, at least around other police officers. When he’s with people who are friends, or at least friendly-strangers, his posture mellows a little. His uniform is pitch in colour, pressed and crisp – no one can question the fact that he got them professionally cleaned, he wouldn’t really trust himself to wash the intricate garments. Pants the same dark colour, and thick-soled black thermolite leather boots.

- personality quirk(s). He thrives on personality quirks—not his own, but other people’s. His own personality quirk, the dominant one, would be his utter lack of empathy – his inability to becoming emotionally invested in any situation or person. If he does feel a sense of attachment, it is very dormant—nearly impossible to see from his personality. Another unusual aspect of his individual persona would be the very-mild, reaction invoked response of Word Salad – a string of meaningless and unrelated words when in a situation that makes him obviously nervous, or has a sense of anxiety, regardless of the cause – sometimes the cause isn’t very obvious. When he is given cash, all of the bills must be ordered from smallest bill, to largest bill in value – they must be in groups. And within those groups, they must be ordered by the serial-number upon the bill.

- bad habit(s). He doesn’t have any consistent bad habits, other than an occasional cigarette. One habit, that he does not consider a bad one, but other do—is his prolific sense of theft. Stealing a man’s watch from his wrist without him knowing, is a mere moment of what he is capable. His childhood plays a large role in this—sometimes his hands work as fast as his brain, and there will be something missing from someone’s apartment before he even knew why he was taking it—his love for his foster mother slowed down this knee-jerk reaction of his, but it didn’t dissolve it fully.

- hobbies. Usually his hobbies consist of something he is doing professionally—he works more often than he plays, more so now that there is this serial killer on the loose. One such hobby is taking the ferry between Victoria, and Vancouver—not really much concerned with the idea of personal safety, as he is with the concept of the greater good. He is actually a very good chef, which had been his original desire of a future occupation—vary rarely will someone not enjoy a meal he creates—though this doesn’t man he is constantly cooking. He is, in actuality, a fast food junkie.

- general like(s). NHL Hockey(Islanders); mayonnaise; McDonald’s chicken nuggets; subway car advertisements; overly confident people; spray salad dressing; tying ties; Mickey Mouse ears; general silence; air conditioning; denim jackets; grape hairspray; keychain flashlights; pull out car cup-holders; cowboy boots; anything with John Wayne; the game UNO; Ricky Martin music; staple guns; Home Depot; LA Dodgers; Northern Lights.

- general dislike(s). Alcoholics; illegal drugs; loss of control; large bodies of water; Western movies in general; mustard; flamboyant men; underwear models; Pasadena, Texas; ride lines at Disney; allergies; people who talk incessantly; sidewalk chalk(chalkboards); Will Smith; New Jersey; meatloaf; too much ketchup of French fries; take out drink trays from McDonald’s; non-electric windows in cars; tennis rackets; neon-green softballs; salad/vegetables; floor lamps; cowboy hats; the series Bonanza; tube socks; people who wear socks with flip-flops/sandals; miniature golf(love/hate); beaches.

- occupation. Since he was sixteen years old, he was invested in the role of being a Volunteer Fire-Fighter, hardly for the idea of nobility. But more the concept that he would be able to help a broader range of people if he applied. “I do it for the little blue flashing light.” He’d be the first to tell people, with that award-winning smile he shows so very often, while giving a chuckle. Even with other occupations, he still finds time to volunteer at the fire-house. Even if it’s only to go there to hang out for a half hour with the guys he’s grown close to over the last six years. When he was nineteen years old, he took the official requirement to be qualified as an active fire-fighter—as in able to go into a burning buildings that are on fire, or other such hazardous conditions. He’s actually rather good at it, even if he doesn’t use this training very often—usually only if he’s needed on the weekends.

He still helps out at the local high-school—usually with the school plays, he is their go-to in the area of construction. Building the stage-steps that are needed for the third act—or rigging a pulley system that will be able to lift the selection of fake trees in the first act—he does this no strings attached. Usually he’ll stop by after school—sometimes before his work shift, sometimes after, he always managed to find time to help out with the school. Most of the teachers still remember him from when he went to high-school, which wasn’t more than four years prior. He wasn’t much of a drama type when in high-school, but he always was on the stage-crew—he doesn’t get paid, but he is more than happy with the gratitude from his old teachers, and the students.

In mid-2006, he took the Police Academy exam—squarely in the 96 percent bracket, which is impressive for someone who never really showed any prior desire to be a police officer. It was a sudden idea that came to him, when talking to a neighbour—it made him consider a civil-servant occupation that would help protect people. Even more so once this serial killer ended up on the loose. Going through the Police Academy, he didn’t graduate first in his class—though many suspected that he would. He was presented with a crisp uniform, a badge, a gun and an oath to protect others. He was told years earlier by his foster father, an Inspector for the New York Police Department, “Protect the sheep.” And he would, without question.

- movie genre(s). Comedy; Action/Adventure; Horror.

- movie(s). Jaws; Harold & Maude; Planet of the Apes; Aliens; Rocky Horror Picture Show; Shakespeare in Love; Hamlet; the Graduate; Die Hard movies; Midnight Cowboy; Radio; Texas Chainsaw Massacre; Friday the 13^th.

- television. Judge Judy; Yes, Dear; Everybody Loves Raymond; Whose Line is it Anyway; Drew Carry Show; House M.D; Prison Break; Heroes; Boston Legal; Law & Order SVU; Dexter; the Sopranos; Rome; Walker Texas Ranger; Elizabeth; I Love Lucy; the Brady Bunch; Leave it to Beaver.

- actor(s)/actress(es). Dolly Parton; Sandra Bullock; Christopher Walken; Chuck Norris; Ryan Stiles; Jodie Foster; Tom Hanks; James Spader; William Shatner; John Wayne; Julie Benz.

- music genre(s). Eighties rock; Seventies rock; Alternative; Swing; Techno/Electric; ( selective ) Country; anything but rap, really.

- band(s). Smile Empty Soul; American Hi/Fi; Meatloaf; Foreigner; Motley Crue; AC/DC; Aero Smith; OK Go; Fratilles; Barry Manilow; Bon Jovi; AFI; Nickelback; Seether; Rob Zombie.

- do you live alone? I do, if we’re nnot counting Queen Elizabeth II.

- describe your apartment. Someone might call it a hole in the wall – it wouldn’t be that untrue. The ceiling leaks if it rains too much in any one given week, the stairs creak just a little too much and the carpets are very worn down. The colour scheme is simple—but neutral—colours that really match anything in the house. The living-room carpet is dark grey, which matches the walls which are an off white colouring. Bedroom is the closet sized room with a fold out couch usually covered in clothes that need to go to the laundry, but never seem to make it there. There is an abundance of clothes, but not like a shopping trip is always right around the corner—a collection of years worth of clothing, from high school and on. Kitchen isn’t really used that often, despite an ability to create fantastic dishes— except the microwave and the toaster, everything else is typically untouched. Some would say the apartment looks “homey”, but there isn’t really anything personal about it—no family pictures, no personal affects, nothing that really shows that a specific person lives there. Almost as if anyone could.

- personal history. Always moving away from memories—I never was very good at preserving them, they always seemed to be slipping through my fingers faster than I could remember them. I’d say something  as needlessly sentimental as it seemed like just yesterday—but it didn’t. It seemed like it happened lifetimes ago—as if that seven year period of my life was just some kind of focal point to make it through, and then everything else was like a blast of events that would consume the rest of my life. And I’m just too content to let it happen. Sitting down on the floor of my—no our—kitchen, all the boxes of our collective possessions are scattered about the place. She wanted to room to have colour—reds, yellows, oranges—I’m against that kind of colour, but I know I’ll give in. I always do. Arms draped over my knees while I take my rest—I don’t own that much in way of possessions, so all my prior moves haven’t been that intense. Nothing like this, and yet—I couldn’t be happier. It took some time, it took a war—but like the movie said, good always wins. At least for me.

“Giving up already? Some big, strong man.” She always makes me remember—make it seem as if it was just yesterday, and that I was just twenty-two years old again. A lot of bad things happened back then, unmentionable things—but she made it seem alright, because even because of everything that has happened. To me. To us. In general—she seems untainted. Maybe I’m smiling—or I could be frowning, I’m conscious of my emotional expressions now. But she’s looking at me with that look, and I’m finding that I’m thinking of everything that usually makes my day a little darker. Something that a bright kitchen can’t cure—no matter how many reds or yellows surround me. I hoist myself to my feet—brushing my hands off on the thighs of my denims, before I move out of the kitchen, and into the living room, which is equally as covered with boxes—these holding more of my possessions. The things that I know I should hold dear—so I make sure to hold onto them. Pictures of my foster parents—wonderful people, and everyone else who’s meant something to me over the years. I pull out a handful of them, and I can’t help but think back—the line of events that brought me to where I am today.

There was a lot of speculation about my birth, that much was for certain—I was borne in a very religious town, it wasn’t too big. One of those towns that everybody knew everybody else’s business. My mother was the only doctor in my hometown of Coarsen, in the southern most tip of Alabama. She was originally from Arizona, but had moved to Alabama when her father had become a “stuck up pig”—my grandfather is rather rich, millions or billions—I don’t really know. I’ve never met him, but through stories and more-over complaints, I had learned that he was in the field of oil—or something along those lines. He’s a big-name back in Arizona, someone very important—Theodore Calvin Donovan II. A home-grown name, one of those rags to riches—and then to corruption. My grandmother was the heiress of some big-name diamond line, owning some large percentage of the world’s diamond production. A ancestry to be proud of, you’d assume—it wasn’t so. My mother left Arizona—Carolina Donovan, the heiress to one of the biggest fortunes going, just left all of that behind. She wasn’t disowned—she just didn’t really care. She’d tell me when I was younger, that everything is about simplicity—she adored Little House of the Prairie, the simple living. The small town, where everyone knew everybody—that’s what she wanted, what she wanted for her soon-to-be family. Which would be me.

Changing her last name wasn’t hard, she went through the channels of making sure no one would be able to connect her to her rightful Arizona fortune—Carolina Lawson was totally ready to be something she wanted to be, at least that’s how I was told the story. I don’t fake knowing what might have actually gone on before I was borne—I can only go by what I’ve been told by the only people who really know. My mother went to medical school, racking up a significant student loan over the years—but eventually she graduated, one of the top ten of her class. It wasn’t the from nothing story her peers thought it was, she wasn’t some down-beaten twenty-something with nothing to her name. Her parents still loved her, still wanted her to accept her inevitable fortune—but she was proud. Above everything, that’s what I would remember about my mother—I can’t really remember what she looks like anymore, it’s been so many years. But, I remember how proud she was—I guess the right word would be stubborn, but I’d much rather say she was proud. Something for her to be remembered by, even if it was a little stretch of the truth. My mother moved to Coarsen, Alabama—a town that is virtually in the middle of no-where, with a population that would put Andy Griffin’s town to shame.

Back then, I didn’t know who my father was—no one did, except my mother, I guess. I didn’t really mind, my mother was a good person—one of the best. She helped people who couldn’t afford typical medical care, she was just a generally considerate person. People told me that when I was younger, “You grow up to be just like your Ma, boy. You can’t go wrong.” Anyway, I was borne on January 4^th, just three days after some serious New Years parties – three weeks early. My mother always told me a was gift from too much dancing – too much partying, and just general eighties good times. From pictures I’ve seen, I was a happy kid – who wouldn’t be in my position? I had an awesome mother, a would-be pre-school girlfriend, a puppy – my Godfather, the Sheriff of the town, got him for me on my fifth birthday. I named him Play-Doe, after what probably consisted of most of my diet back then. I was the kid who ate the glue and stuck the crayons up my nose. Nothing in the room that was a bright colour stood a chance if I was anywhere near by; it ended up in one orifice or another. Or so I had been told – all the adults had thought it was funny, I remember that much. It’s the small things I remember – the red tricycles, the nose-lodged crayons, and that stupid ABC carpet. It was a good time in my life, but some people just aren’t too lucky. I guess you could say I was one of those people.

I was young—but details of certain things stay with you, it doesn’t matter the level of severity, or the tight feeling that had been in my chest – it was all about the moment. Twenty or so years older, and I find myself squinting as if I’m trying to view it again for the first time – it was tragic, it was something that may have broken something in me. I acknowledge that – I don’t claim complete inhumanity. Something died that day, something that is integral to being a fully functional member of society – I realize that now. I wasn’t there for the actual event—I was only six years old. There was banging, there was noise – but I never had connected it to my mother being sprawled across the kitchen floor. Our yellow and white tiled floor – was so brightly red. I kept thinking about the picture I drew in school earlier that day. It was an apple – Jillian was angry at me because I had used all of the red crayon, I told her I was sorry. But she told the teacher anyway, said I didn’t mean it. My mother smiled at me, I know she did – but I can’t really remember what it had looked like. She wrote a phone number on my hand, it was smudged – she told me she loved me. Years later, I learned it had been an attempted robbery gone wrong – it was with memories like this, that I remembered that she was stubborn. I can’t call her proud for some reason.

All roads lead to Rome—that was a saying in the ancient world. No matter where you took off from, if you walked for long enough, far enough. You’d end up in Rome – I wasn’t crossing any ocean, I wasn’t going to Italy. But in the United States, there is another kind of Rome, a hustle and bustle city that I had always heard my mother talk about. Big City life – New York City. Studies say that children adjust faster than adults – they grasp the fundamentals much easier, and adapt to what’s given to them. They don’t expect anything else other than what they are given. I learned this all over time – but then it hadn’t seemed to simple, the knowledge that I didn’t have a choice made it seem less – my fault. I had been called a lot of things—names that didn’t really make sense to me, they didn’t seem to really be able to be applied to me. “Abandoned child”, “Forgotten” – various names such as these never made sense to me; no one had abandoned me, by choice at the very least – and I had been hardly forgotten, my mother remembered me until the moment she died. I knew she was dead—I was sad, devastated, but I couldn’t ever bring myself to cry. I was incapable of it, even back then. I found people who had things in common with me – small things, that meant the world when there was nothing else to compare to. We had virtually nothing.

I don’t remember much of a whole year from when I was about eight—I was hit by a car, according to the nurse in the Emergency Room. The cops thought I couldn’t remember who my family was—two weeks I was in the General Hospital in Manhattan. I could remember my name—like my mother had, I changed my last name. That’s what someone did to distance themselves from their past – Rodney, a simple change, but it was meaningless otherwise to me. They ran tests for those two weeks, because that’s exactly what hospitals do—other than a scar on my head, and a bruise on my side. They couldn’t find much else wrong with me—until I began spouting out complete and utter gibberish. It wasn’t often, or consistent, but it was enough that they finally categorized me with Aphasia – they said certain situations would cause it. That had meant nothing to me, other than that I was able to leave the hospital—which I did one night. Slipped out without a single person knowing—they only tried to look for me for a day, then they didn’t care. I thought that was amusing.

Derek Kowitzka called me “feral” , that would be my soon-to-be foster father – he was an Inspector with the New York Police Department. He didn’t have any children, his wife – Alana – couldn’t have them. He liked to tell me I pulled at his heart strings – that as much of a brat that I was, he couldn’t ignore me. Alana wanted me to grow up right, and proper—to have morals and values that she didn’t think anyone else in my generation had. I didn’t like to see her cry – I don’t know why she cried at first, but soon I found out. So I no longer did anything that would make her cry – I promised that I’d never. I didn’t want the Kowitzkas’ to know about Alabama – I didn’t know why really, I just wanted to keep that to myself. That made everything difficult when they attempted to file for adoption—I didn’t want to tell them my true last name. They must have known because any Leon Rodney that was in their data base, must not match me. The Kowitzkas’ didn’t abandon me, like most people might have assumed—they seemed sad, I couldn’t really tell, they still wanted to let me live with them—so I became their foster child, it was legal but not in the way they really wanted. They couldn’t have children themselves, so I was their chance—they did love me, I wasn’t some means to an end.

I was fourteen, almost fifteen, when my nearly perfect new life began falling apart—I had been with the Kowitzkas for five years almost, before Alana began getting ill—she was rarely out of bed, and couldn’t do much in way of what she used to. I loved Alana—that was the proper definition of what I felt for her, I would do anything to make her happy. I never liked to see her cry—that became my soul rule. If Alana told me not to, or it made her cry—I wouldn’t do it. I didn’t know why some of the things I did were so horrible, but I didn’t need to—I had a good enough reason. The doctors kept saying everything would be fine, that she would be perfectly okay—nothing bad would happen to her. I believed them—because the Kowitzkas were a religious people, they taught me a sense of faith. These men knew their jobs, they were professionals—I was convinced that they were right, and that everything would be fine. Alana wasn’t getting better over the months, she had more and more doctor’s appointments—I would miss being able to go to a number of them, because I would be at school, but I would always know where they were when I got home and they were gone. Six months—I called it torture, but my foster father told me it wasn’t, that there was a difference. But he never told me what that was, I still believe it was torture.

She died August 8^th, of the same year—she had gone into surgery, and had not come back out. The doctor’s told us that they were so very sorry for our loss, how they understood how difficult it was for us to accept this. I don’t know how they understood—how could anyone understand the pain I was feeling. I didn’t understand it myself. I cried, never before had I really cried, but suddenly I couldn’t stop—for days, nearly a week. I didn’t like the house anymore, because Alana wasn’t there anymore—so when my foster father suggested that we move, I agreed. I couldn’t imagine living there without her. He se his eyes on British Columbia—said he had family there, that wouldn’t much mind if they stayed with them until they found a house to live in. Vancouver was nice enough, but it wasn’t New York City—it didn’t have Alana, but I had overcome the feeling that Kowitzka told me was sadness. I thought it was anger. We lived with an aunt, his older sister, for a few months—before we moved only a ferry ride away to Victoria. It was nice enough, I didn’t mind much the move—or the people.

Kowitzka died on August 8^th, just after I had turned twenty years old—I buried him alone. No one came to his funeral, because he didn’t much get to know anyone in this new town—I think he missed Alana. I didn’t cry when he died, because he always told me that I shouldn’t be sad. I was left alone now, and like we had when Alana died—I moved, a cheap, and decent apartment over a small time Café—the owner wasn’t too much older than me, and told me to stay as long as I wished. It wasn’t too bad. I didn’t have much possessions, or anything really—I left all of the pictures that the Kowitzkas’ had in the house that now belongs to me—I never go there anymore. I was always told to do something I enjoyed for a living—for the last two years, I had been studying to become a chef. I enjoyed to cook, which usually made my foster parents smile—they had enjoyed to eat, but I didn’t desire that much anymore. I wanted to do something else, something that had a sense of meaning behind it—I wanted to join the police force. Which I did. I took the entrance exam when I was eligible, and the score was promising—very promising they said. After thirteen weeks of training, I finally was given my badge and my gun—just as the killings began. Twelve people were dead in no time—a serial killer.

I don’t think Alana would like them—so neither did I.

- thoughts on the killings in and around Victoria. Leon isn’t panicking—he isn’t overly concerned about the chance that one day he could be zipped into a black body-bag, and carted away for dead. He doesn’t take the ferry any less than he did in the past—but he is a self-aware individual. He isn’t trying to prove some point that he is fearless, merely not letting this rather surreal happening effect his everyday life. He doesn’t have the idea that it “could never happen to him”, but he does believe in the idea of selection—the ratio, the percentage. While it is slowly dwindling, it isn’t to the point of absolute concern yet. He accepts that there is a very good reason for fear—a frightening thing is happening, but senseless paranoia never appealed to him. And doubtfully, ever would.

He isn’t fascinated with the reasons for the killings—nor the methods. His largest concern is the wrong being committed—he doesn’t feel a sense of empathy or guilt, he isn’t able to. But he does know that this shouldn’t be happening—and thus, it should be corrected. He lacks the ability to have faith in the enforcement of the law, but believes that through the concepts of absolute facts—there is no reason for this killer to not be captured. He doesn’t devote his time to finding this killer—even when in uniform, but he is always aware. Always ready to aid in the search if it came to his front door—he believes no one else should die. Each death he witnesses while in uniform, is another semblance of failure he must over-come.