You hide in the bushes, concealed from public view, plotting your heinous crimes.


Perhaps you see yourself as a sniper in wartime, waiting patiently to take the one shot to take out an enemy.


But this isn’t war and you’re not a sniper.


You’re a cowardly bastard, a psychotic misfit who deserves only to be hunted down and killed like a rabid animal.


Police profilers tell me you are probably a young, alienated white man with a chip on your shoulder, someone who is angry at the world and taking it out on innocent victims. According to one report, you left a Tarot card at the scene of your last cowardly ambush, proclaiming yourself to be God.


But you’re not God you sick bastard. You’re a blot on humanity, a genetic mistake who requires no understanding and deserves no mercy.


You attack your prey from hiding, unwilling to see their faces when you kill. Cowards do that. You shoot some in the back. Again the act of a coward.


What a pathetic piece of work. You’re a chickenshit yellowbelly who preys on children from the bushes, who kills old men from hidden locations and shoots women at shopping centers and service stations.


Even worse, you’re a boon for opportunists, the gun-control freaks who milk any tragedy to further their cause, the wannabe experts who turn up on TV and second-guess the investigators, the celebrity psychoanalysts who make snap judgments without all the facts, the journalists who hide behind the tired, old “public’s right to know” mantra to go public with facts that might harm the investigation.


One talking head already calls you the “one shot sniper,” a typical, bubble headed mangling of the facts. Snipers, by definition, kill with one shot. But the media had to give you a name. You can’t have a splashy graphic for the newscasts without a name.


I’m sure all this media attention feeds your sick ego, your illusion of yourself as a Devine being who holds the power of life and death.


It’s obvious this is something new to you. Your first shot, fired through a store window a week ago, was probably a test to see if you had nerve enough to fire a weapon in the general vicinity of people.  The next day, you trained your sights on an actual human target, killing him with one shot.


Must have been a real thrill because you went on to kill five more that day. Such technical proficiency. One shot, one kill. Police fed your ego by calling you a skilled marksman.


So you went down Interstate 95 into Virginia and tried a longer shot at a woman at a shopping center near Fredricksburg. She bent over at the last minute and the bullet didn’t kill her. Must have pissed you off. No kill. Failure.


You brooded about it over the weekend. So you decided to up the stakes, hiding in the bushes near a school in Prince George’s County, Maryland, and training your rifle sight on a 13-year-old schoolboy.


Another failure. He didn’t die. His aunt, a nurse, rushed him to a medical center, not waiting for the paramedics. That move probably saved his life.


Two screwups in a row. Looks like you’re not as good as you thought you were. And you screwed up even more, leaving behind more forensic evidence than before – a shell casing and other clues.


Maybe you want to get caught. That’s what the psychobabble types are saying. Perhaps, as they claim, it’s a cry for help.


Don’t bother. Help will not be coming, but judgment will. Killers like you deserve only one fate. It’s a waste of time to put a mad dog in a pen. I  know. I’ve killed mad dogs.


If I had the chance, I’d kill you without hesitation. I’d put my 9mm against your temple and blow your brains all over the ground. I’d look you in the eyes and pull the trigger. Then I’d go home and have some pizza.


Unfortunately, I probably won’t get the chance. The pros will find you. With luck, you’ll force them to kill you. Or maybe, when you are finally cornered, your last act will be to take yourself out.

Cowards way out. I’d expect that.