I kill characters. But it's not my fault. Alfred Hitchcock and chronic insomnia are to blame. (What else am I supposed to do between midnight and 3am? Watch infomercials?)
Besides, fictional people deserve to die. They're horrible and have no boundaries. All they want to do is recount crazy stories...all the time. It's one of the reasons I've turned to nonfiction lately. Real people will leave you alone. You interview them. They send you an email. They don't harass you while you're taking a shower (usually).
Of course, much like the Master of Suspense, I can't suppress my murderous tendencies for too long. So, I'm working on a screenplay. And I'll be writing a play for my master's thesis. And there will be at least one dead body in both of those. Consider this a confession.