Part 5: Cacciare's Last
The next day, as I was approaching work, I realized I had made a grave mistake; my keys were still missing. I searched my vehicle violently, passionately, for the keys I had used as a means of luring the girl. They were not to be found. Thinking quickly, I decided to quietly return to the scene and locate them. The morning labors were small, and the campus was still slumbering from its drinking binge of the previous evening. It would not be difficult to simply slip over there and get them.
I was exceptionally cordial and friendly that morning as I passed through the facilities building, greeting and smiling as I went along to my golf cart. It was my design to draw as little attention to myself until I located my key ring.
The route I chose was as meandering as I could possibly make it; I did not want to appear as if I were directly heading there for fear my appearance would raise suspicion. I knew the cops would soon figure out the chain of events. She was last seen at the dining hall, then spotted en route to her dorm. I was seen also on the same path, something that now angered me greatly. If she left the building, but did not make it back to her room, and she was seen in the vicinity of said dorm, then the cops would make the connection. And there, my keys would be also, registered to me and me alone.
As I finally neared my destination, the flashing of lights alerted me to the presence of the police. There were several cars, each with their blue and red bars flashing fantastically, hastily parked in front of the dorm. Police taped off an area, and several students were standing in a semicircle around the scene. One detective was taking a sample from the side of the steps, no doubt where she struck her head. The mingling movements of people added to the general sway of such a scene, as professionally attired and uniformed men and women passed in and out of the building. Bulbs flashed from cameras and interviews were being conducted. Tears were shed from many a young eye. I stopped and beheld it all from my cart.
I could hear the murmurings of the crowd as some passed me. They spoke of the same killer, the maniac who had taken the other lives, and all expressed fear. I was a killer, a lunatic. No one figured my reason, but labeled me for what they saw me to be: a homicidal murderer who had little regard for life. In some cases they were correct, and for that I do not blame them for their interpretations. My design, however, was so different from how it was portrayed; I was no killer, no murderer, but merely a lone wolf in search of prey. I was a beast perhaps, but not a cold and hardened slaughterer.
I was about to turn my cart and drive away, when I saw Detective Valerie coming out of the building. As he came down the steps, someone handed him a plastic bag. There, I could clearly see my key ring. He looked at it, and as if some law giving intuition sprang upon him, he looked my way; our eyes locked for a moment, a brief moment that lingered in eternity without beginning or end. Shame welling in my mind, and conviction swelling in my heart, caused me to turn away and drive in any direction that would allow me to escape that gaze.
I drove that cart as it had never been steered before; I wanted to get away from that moment so terribly that I nearly knocked some students off the walkway. I turned, then turned again, until I found myself in the farther reaches of the campus. To my surprise, I was in the vicinity of the first murders. Everything called out to me in a hauntingly familiar voice, as if I were the master of the land and they my subjects.
I looked at the scene, with its familiarity softly echoing the memories of the moments that transpired here, moments that brought to an end the sacred life of some, and enthralled the life of another. I was sitting where it all began so many months ago, when my future seemed bright and reinvigorated. Life was the quest, and this location, still teeming with energy from the branches and beneath the sod, represented more the cessation of life, not its origin. The souls who passed through here daily did not know of the events that unfolded; did not know that here, in so picturesque a setting, the energy that flows so vibrantly through every vein came to naught. Nor did they know the selfish gamble of a solitary man which brought about another’s demise. Gambling can pay with great dividends, but often the risk is met with failure on some level. I had wagered, but wrongly, and now several souls had to alight before their time, departing from a place they had only begun to recognize and call their own. I was a terminator of life, not an enhancer, and with that thought upon my mind, my heart sank.
All the noises that wafted around me could be heard clearly, but I paid them little heed. I lowered my head onto the steering wheel and was lost in my reverie when a voice shook me from my pseudo slumber: it was Detective Valerie.
“Greetings, Mr. Cacciare,” he began. “How are you doing?” I looked up into his face; his eyes, both convicting and piercing, looked through my person, as if exploring the tree behind me. I turned from him, and gave a soft hello, nothing more.
“No doubt you have heard the news?” he asked.
“No, what news?” I muttered.
“Another victim. This one was female also, a real champ on the volleyball team. She disappeared around evening time last night, perhaps a little after seven thirty. Best we can figure, it’s our killer.” Again, I was simply a killer; no one would ever see me as a hunter or a gatherer, but merely a murderous being bent on torture and destruction. A tear snuck from my eye.
“How do you figure?” I asked him, as he slowly drew out his pocket pad.
“Same type of crime, nearly the same person. They all have athletic similarity. So far, all have been strong and healthy, as if chosen for that very reason. Maybe the killer could be jealous that his or her own body is failing.” I started, but quickly regained my composure. Did he know? Was he targeting me? I gripped the steering wheel tighter.
“I did not realize there was a connection between any of them. Serial killings, I suppose.”
“That is what it seems. A question for you, Mr. Cacciare. I noticed you seem to be missing your key ring. Forgive me, but I saw the hook upon your belt and it was vacant. Would you have happened to lose your keys?”
“Oh, yeah. I lost them yesterday, sometime in the late afternoon. Didn’t realize it ‘til I got home. That does remind me that I need to report them missing. I was cleaning the dorm building where, well, that girl met her end…”
“How do you know she died there?” I was trapped. Foolish being that I was, my mumbled words had escaped the limits of my mind and I had ensnared myself. I could not think, but recoil only from his question. Sweat, the greatest indicator of uneasiness, began to slide down my weary face. I stammered with awkwardness, but Fortune, the goddess that was with me still, suddenly had my radio blare my call number. I answered quickly, realizing my escape had come.
“Excuse me, Mr. Valerie. I am needed over in the lower level of Westover Hall. Goodbye.” My farewell was barely audible, it being murmured between trembling lips. I drove off, but as I pulled away I could hear him saying:
“I’ll be in touch, Mr. Cacciare. Hope you find your keys.”
I could not move fast enough, and in the lower level of the Philosophy building, I had time to reflect and gather my thoughts. They had my keys, which would no doubt have her fingerprints on them. I nearly incriminated myself in the interview with Valerie. There were also many witnesses who spotted me on campus last evening close to the supposed time of the girl’s disappearance. It was, for me, too much information for an easy conscience to relax. I tried to focus, but my mind wandered so far from reality that I was scarcely present at all. What was I to do? What were my options? Should I flee? Would that only further cover me in the appearance of guilt? Should I stay and defend myself?
The many possibilities were waging a war of dominance in my mind when the sound of a door opening attracted my attention. I turned, and from a classroom, a ray of light illuminated the hall. A hand, small and delicate, gently pushed the door aside, and out emerged a girl of tender features and slender frame. She was raven haired
, with long locks falling down her back in a beautiful cascade. I did not know the girl, but had often heard her spoken of among the Philosophy student in the corridors of the building as the dark-haired Philosophical genius. Surely, it was her.
A face like that of Aphrodite, both lovely in imagination and reality, met my gaze. Her eyes, of a crystal blue, chased to the sides the subtle shades of darkness and reached out to mine, embracing them warmly. Her body, of medium height and build, seemed the very essence of gracefulness, like the lovely shepherdesses of Bouguereau. If the gods had granted me youth and wisdom, I should have taken that girl at that moment and carried her to a happy home. She came from the classroom and paused to look at me, as if a connection between us alerted her to my presence. It was then I read in her eyes all the passion and energy of life untamed, a sort of power which rested within and animated her. There was strength in her.
The girl, in the loveliest of manners, gave me an elegant smile, then turned and headed away from me. I followed her visually, her hair swaying whimsically as she went. I watched until she vanished up a staircase, then peered into the empty abyss left by her passing, as if her aura were still present for me to behold. What beauty, what form! Never, in all the years I had labored on this campus, have I seen a female with such elegance, refinement and grace meshed in so perfect a form. She was the definition of exotic exquisiteness, the archetype of resplendence, a true and living Venus whose soul was followed by the throbbing hearts of all mankind. Veiled in mystery, she called to me in some new manner, her magnificent nature re-instilling within my heart a belief in the nature of goodness and the beauty of the divine. She was gone, but still I felt her; and those eyes, ever were they suspended before me. She was to me what the child’s voice was to Augustine; I felt a call to return, a call to penance and retribution. She was the very essence of truth; no fault, so far as I could imagine, rested on her bosom.
I ventured to a ground level window, hoping to find a last glimpse of her in passing. Students moved about, but not the one who had so captivated me. She was faultless and truthful; the recipient of the Cranmer Award in Philosophy and a philosophical marvel. Surely, they would believe what she spoke. Then the idea occurred to me: she was the one I needed!
I tried to stay out of sight for the rest of the day, and whenever Valerie showed his face, I quickly vanished. I went to register my keys as missing with the office, and to my good fortune, the office was empty at the time, so I finagled the box to appear as if I reported them at the beginning of the shift.
In my wanderings around campus, I tried to conceal my apprehension from all who met me and looked upon my face. I could not, however, shake the notion of that girl; she was a breath of air in my lungs, lungs now filled with the toxic fumes of death which slowly pulled me into my demise. I had a plan for her, slow in coming at first, but a plan that would ensure my salvation and immortality, and she would bring it about. I needed to act quickly, as the police, I reasoned, would soon be calling.
The wound I had received so many months ago in that scuffle with the girl in the art building basement was now more violent than ever. It started so timidly, but by now, and with all the activity I pressed upon it, it was throbbing terribly and causing me horrendous pain. My end was inevitable; I knew this with a certainty only those who stand before an armed squadron of men can imagine. If I were to act at all, it would have to be quick and concealed in the night, with movements of stealth and energy. As the hours progressed, so did my idea, until, at the close of the day and the setting of the orb, I settled on the notion that I would take the girl, and instead of imparting death to her, I would give her life, my life. She would bare my story to the world, and all humanity would know why the lives of the others were taken. I would die all the same, but my story would survive, and I would not die a victim of my own act. I would perish in the abyss of forgetfulness, but the people would know, and I would lie happily in the grave.
Bleodsian Page 5
