My wife got home from work and our youngest son ran over to her and yanked her sleeve. 

     “Hey, Mommy, I saw Daddy on TV this afternoon,” he shouted.

     She had no idea what he was talking about, but she patted him on the head and told him to calm down.

     I had left the house early and headed over to our local police precinct to pay a fine for accidentally adding some Styrofoam trays to our bag of recyclables. When I entered the station building, the desk sergeant looked up at me from his newspaper and broke into laughter.

     “Yo, Joel Rifkin just wandered onto the premises!” he yelled into the rooms behind him. “He’s probably looking for victim eighteen to fucking add to his total!”

     A couple of uniformed cops charged into the room howling with glee.

     “What can we do for ya, Joel-boy,” the desk sergeant chortled.

     When I got home that evening I told my wife what had occurred. We made a point of watching the news and the mystery got solved. I do look a lot like the serial killer. I shivered and turned away from the screen. She couldn’t hide a smile, but so it goes.