It's Nice To Feel Wanted For The Murder Of Three Local ChildrenCommentary • Opinion • death • crime • kids • ISSUE 35•36 • Oct 6, 1999 By Stephen Wayne Otis Stephen Wayne Otis It sure has been nice to get all this special attention these last couple of weeks. I have to admit, I'd pretty much been cut off from society for a good number of years, but now it seems that everyone knows my name. And even though I've decided to keep a low profile here in this New Mexico motel, it sure is nice to feel so wanted for the murder of three local children. Who would've thought that packing three children into plastic barrels and throwing them into the reservoir would make such a difference? Then again, I suppose that after all those years of being a loner, I'd forgotten what it's like to truly have an impact on other people's lives. And it's not just those kids' families who want me, either. Even the police chief is saying he can't wait until he runs into me. People I've never even met are talking about me and wondering where I am and what I have to say for myself. They really want to know what I'm thinking and what those deeply carved triangular symbols meant. Even my family is begging for me to come forward, and I haven't seen them since Christmas 1992! I thought they'd forgotten about me, but there they are on Channel 11 practically every night, talking about all the funny little things I did when I was young, like setting fire to the horse barn. Even my old neighbors, the McKennas, went on TV to recall the fun I used to have playing with their golden retriever. As if all that weren't enough, even the FBI wants me! I can't remember the last time someone dropped by my house—even my case manager had stopped coming by to see if I was still taking my medicine—but now my place is surrounded! It's too bad I wasn't there to talk to everyone when they came, but I had to get away from that place. The stench was horrible, and I couldn't stand the flies anymore. But the best part is, I don't have to talk to anyone in person to know they're thinking about me. I picked up a paper today, and my face and name were all over it. (I've never won so much as a spelling bee, so you can imagine what a thrill it is to finally be recognized for all my hard work. Those barrels were heavy!) True, no one had a recent photo of me, so the picture of me in the paper doesn't look anything like I do now. But I know it's me, even if the motel employees here don't. I really thought I was a lone wolf, and that I never needed anything or anybody. But I was wrong. It didn't make me happy just sitting in my attic alone, cutting the limbs off dolls anymore. I needed to be noticed. I needed to find my niche. Well, I've found it, and I've got to be honest: It feels pretty good. I can't remember the last time I felt so important. Maybe it was when I was given free room and board at that hospital. It sure was nice of those doctors to pay all that attention to me, but honestly, I started to get a little annoyed with all those questions about my cousin who had drowned. I like to feel wanted, but sometimes you need time for yourself, too. Besides, if I don't spend four hours a day cutting all the arms and legs out of the department-store sale flyers, Satan will give me cancer. That's why I think I'd rather just lay low and enjoy all this new attention from afar. Anyway, at this point in my life, I need to concentrate on getting out there and proving that I'm still worthy of all this attention. In fact, when I was in the bathroom in my motel room this morning, the faucet had dripped five times, and you know what that means: B-L-O-N-D. I've never killed a kid with blond hair before, but I guess that's how you stay happy and fulfilled—by trying new things.