Kelvin
an excerpt

It's not like he really was a serial killer in the traditional sense, Philip thought as he stared into the dark reflection of his coffee cup, he wasn't insane as far as he knew, he'd only killed one person (by accident), and he didn't go by such funny names as: "The New York Killer" or "The Crazy Clubber" or something equally asinine.

But.

He had killed someone, by accident. Almost by accident.

Him and an old man passed each other in the street, over a bridge, and in that moment, Marcus had seen every line of his face, everything old and infirm and disgusting about him, and hated him. It had been a cold night, the old man might have slipped on the ice and bashed his head against the rail.

Maybe, but maybe not.

The coffee tasted good.