by Hadena James
Blood still matted his hair. He grabbed the clippers and cut at it, trying to get the quick moving blade as close to his scalp as possible. The buzz was getting louder. It pierced his ears. He didn’t stop. He had to get the blood out. With his hair cut to less than an eighth of an inch, he climbed back in.
The water had gone cold, but he didn’t notice. He scrubbed at his newly cut hair, working handfuls of shampoo into it. Scrubbing it with his fingers, feeling the nails dig at his scalp, irritating it, he washed until the shampoo was no longer pink.
The buzzing grew louder still. Drowning out the sound of the water that fell from the showerhead. He had only minutes and he knew it. The pain would return. The pain would overcome him. It never stayed gone very long. And with each new hunt, each new kill, it grew shorter. Constantly demanding more blood, like an insatiable beast, like a vampire.
His feet stepped out of the shower. The feeling was coming back. The disconnected feeling. The feeling that his body and mind no longer communicated about anything other than their need for blood. His feet moved him to the bedroom. His hands dressed him.
He made it to the living room. The disconnection completed. The feet stopped moving. The hands grabbed at the couch. They steadied the body as a sensation of vertigo washed over it. The brain told the eyes to close. They stayed open.
He was gone. He had been replaced by the parts of the whole. He watched, trapped inside his own body, wishing the pain away, as the darkness crept over him again.
Sixteen
My temporary team got acquainted in the car. US Marshal Christian Hunter was an obvious psychopath who worked in computer crimes. DEA Agent Victor Franklin was a seasoned undercover officer who had crossed paths with a serial killer the previous year during a sting. Since he was alive, he obviously won. VCU Agents Caleb Green and Robert Ballard had both been working with Malachi for years. They had been there the day Michael had been shot. DSI agent Sam Lingon had been a special investigator for ten years with the Department of Justice. His primary job was to investigate cops. Hunting serial killers was going to be a brand new thing for him. If I could have managed an emotion like sympathy, I might have felt it for him. As it was, I just hoped he didn’t get any of us killed. He did have a gun, so that was a plus.
“Here’s how it works,” I started as we rounded a corner entering a neighborhood full of run down houses. “Either they come quietly or they put up a hell of a fight. If they have someone they can take as a hostage, they will. Don’t let yourself become a hostage. Some serial killers are just guys who have lost their minds. Those are the easy ones to handle. They require some talking to and occasionally, non-lethal coercion to cooperate. Others are sociopaths. They have few emotions, mostly anger. They tend to be smart and they’ll attempt to talk their way out of things. Also, hostage takers can be convinced to cooperate using non-lethal weapons. The rest are psychopaths. They come in two types: Borderline Personality Disorder psychopaths and Anti-Social Personality Disorder psychopaths. All psychopaths have rage and lots of it. Rage creates endorphins; endorphins stop them from feeling pain. However, Borderline Personality Disorder psychopaths can be brought down a lot easier. They’re more human. Anti-Social Personality Disorder psychopaths actually have a physiological advantage. They don’t feel pain or if they do, their brains do not register it like mere mortals. I’ve seen one take sixteen shots to the chest and keep coming. I’ve stabbed one in the throat and he still nearly strangled me to death. Thankfully, he bled enough to go into shock and his grip loosened automatically as he passed out. Essentially, all psychopaths are dangerous, but certain ones are more dangerous than others.
I’ll give my best assessment of the situation once I meet the killer in question. I have the only Taser or stun gun among us that will knock the wind out of a psychopath. We will attempt to use non-lethal force on any psychopath we meet. Make sure to use your strongest weapons and go for maximum damage if they go on the offensive.” I frowned. “Psychopaths always go on the offensive. In the event that we cannot take control using non-lethal force, aim for vital organs. A couple of gunshots won’t stop one unless it hits a lung or the heart. Sometimes, even then it doesn’t stop them. Keep one chambered at all times and expect to fire multiple rounds if you have to draw your gun. My methods are a little unconventional at times when dealing with psychopaths and sociopaths. This will be a learning experience.”
“How many serial killers are sociopaths and psychopaths?” DSI Agent Lingon asked.
“The sociopaths make up about thirty percent of all serial killers. It’s a low figure because they are more likely to be hitmen and mercenaries than serial killers. Psychopaths make up about sixty percent. Three-quarters tend to be Borderline Personality Disorder psychopaths.”
“I’m still not clear on the difference,” DEA Agent Franklin said.
“Think of it this way. A Borderline is like Batman, dangerous, aggressive, but human under the suit. An Anti-Social is more like Wolverine, dangerous, aggressive, and with super-human skills. Since they don’t feel pain, they have very little limits on their strength or the amount of damage their bodies can sustain. Most of them go into shock and shut down. They don’t give up.” I thought of Patterson. Patterson was a psychopath of this type. Until I’d met him, I had never considered having the test done. I was a sociopath after all. Then I had seen my brother’s test results. He was a psychopath with a genetic difference, one that inhibited him from feeling pain. Now, my team knew the truth about me, as did I. I had all the physical characteristics of a psychopath, but the emotional quotient of a sociopath. Somehow, I was a hybrid. We weren’t sure if this made me more dangerous or less dangerous.
“This isn’t a situation to take lightly,” Caleb Green said. “One of us will breach the front door. Marshal Cain will go inside first. Two need to guard the back, one will be Agent Ballard. He has more experience with serial killers.”
“Marshal Hunter will join Ballard in the back. Franklin and Lingon can come in through the front, after you,” I told Green.
“Marshal Hunter?” Ballard asked.
“Despite being in computer crimes, I think he can handle himself if someone charges out the backdoor,” I told Ballard. “He isn’t Blake, but he’s fairly close,” I told the two in code. They knew their fearless leader was a full-blown ASPD psychopath. I didn’t think Hunter had ASPD. I figured him for Borderline Personality Disorder.
“Got it,” Ballard answered with a nod. I stopped in front of a little yellow house that needed to be burned to the ground. The street was full of people. They sat on their front porches and hung out in the front yards. There were a few children, but not many. Most of the residents were older. I hated having an audience, but there was little to be done about that on a March day that had warmed up to a balmy fifty degrees. It was the first such day of the year. People tended to come outside when all they needed was a light jacket and the winter had been long and hard.
We never parked in front of a suspect’s house anymore. There had been a few times when stray bullets had disabled our vehicles. It was difficult to make a swift exit or join a pursuit with a dead vehicle. Besides, it never mattered if they saw us coming. Most made the decision to fight regardless of whether they had a moment to think about it. Of course, my temporary team didn’t need to know that.
“Blue house, end of the street,” I told them before exiting the vehicle. I swung on my jacket with US Marshals on the back.
“Lord have mercy,” I heard a man say near us. He was sitting on his porch, drinking from a glass. He looked like he was in his nineties, but he could have been in his fifties for all I knew. I wasn’t good at judging age and a hard life could age a person rapidly. I was a prime example. I was twenty-eight going on six hundred most days.
“Inside, now,” a woman barked at two kids in a front yard. No one blamed her. This wasn’t a show for children. Our suspect reportedly liked to strangle his victims unconscious then cut off their fingers, toes, and ears, before
finally killing them with a knife to the head.
A few people moved closer to the road as we walked by. Most stayed on their porches. Chances were good they had never had federal agents in their neighborhoods and the few cops were probably afraid to get out of their cars.
Until we started beating on their doors, most serial killers didn’t know we were there for them. Even after we were beating on their doors, they didn’t believe we could possible suspect them of such heinous crimes. It wasn’t until we identified ourselves and started arrest proceedings that the reality of the situation sank in. This was my thought as we turned and walked up the sidewalk.
The house had no fence. It desperately needed paint. The windows were grime covered with streaks of yellow. The walkway was cracked with chunks missing. The grass was struggling to break through the winter ground, helped by a warm sun and a south wind. Two dormant trees were in the front yard. They were already starting to bud and they looked like the best trees on the block. The others were stunted and small, probably from a lack of nutrients in the soil and polluted rain.
“When you get to the back, take note of any trees,” I told Ballard. Ballard nodded, but didn’t speak. He and Hunter broke off and headed around opposite sides of the house.
“Why are you looking at trees?” DSI Franklin asked.
“I’ll explain later,” I said as I stepped up on the porch. The house was quiet. I hoped the suspect was home. I hated it when they weren’t there. My head turned and scanned the crowd that was gathering. They had moved from their yards into the streets. “He home?” I asked.
“He was an hour ago. I haven’t seen him leave,” one resident answered. “You finally going to bust him?”
“What does he need to be busted for?” Green asked.
“Some nights, there are screams that come from that house,” the resident pointed at it as he spoke. “Then they just stop, like he’s turned off the TV or something. Sometimes, his house smells. Sometimes, he’s burying things in the middle of the night.”
“Around the trees?” I pointed.
“Yeah, how’d you guess?” He asked.
“I’m good at what I do. You might want to go inside for a while,” I told the crowd.
“Nah, he’s crazy as hell, but he isn’t the gun type,” the guy told me.
“Crazy as hell?” I asked.
“Talking to hisself, wandering around the street looking for a dog he don’t have, calling for a cat.” The resident shook his head. “He ain’t never had a cat.”
“Thanks,” I looked at Green. “Probably not a psychopath.”
“Sounds like someone who is seriously mentally ill or has a traumatic brain injury,” Green replied.
“Changes things some.” I nodded once. Green nodded back. He raised his foot and kicked the door. It stayed closed. “Men.” I shrugged and turned the knob, it opened. Green had me covered with a gun already drawn.
“Mr. Jacobs, US Marshals Service,” I shouted to the darkness. The windows were all blacked out on the inside. The curtains were stapled to the walls with boards haphazardly nailed over them. All the lamps had cut cords and the ceiling light was missing its cover and the bulb. The TV cord was also cut. “Mr. Jacobs!” I yelled again.
Mr. Daniel Jacobs came around the corner wearing onesie pajamas with Winnie-The-Pooh on them. This was not a stone cold, emotionless killer. Tears ran down his face.
“Are you here to take me away?” He asked.
“Is there a reason I should take you away, Mr. Jacobs?” I asked, moving closer. He smelled of urine.
“I ran out of pills.” He sighed and sat down on the floor. “Now I can’t stop them.”
“Stop them from wha…” I stopped mid-word. “Mr. Jacobs, are you aware that you have a knife in your head?”
“Oh, I forgot about that.” He reached for the handle.
“No!” I moved forward quickly, grabbing his hand. “We don’t want to remove it. We want to let a doctor remove it. We’re going to call you an ambulance now. Do you know how the knife got in your head?”
“I put it there yesterday,” he told me.
“Is there anyone else in the house, Mr. Jacobs?” I asked.
“No, no one but me.” He sighed again. “It gets lonely sometimes, but all my friends were killed a long time ago.”
“Killed?” I asked.
“In the war,” he told me. “We were in the Middle East in the 1990s. My friends were all killed, but I wasn’t. I lived.”
“Were you injured?” I bent down so I could talk to him better.
“They shot me in the head.” He pointed where the knife handle was sticking out of his head.
“Okay,” I told him, “we’re just going to sit here and talk until the ambulance arrives, Mr. Jacobs. My name is Aislinn. May my friends look through the house? We just want to make sure that there isn’t anyone here to hurt you or us.”
“Yeah, they can look,” he told me. “That’s an unusual name. I’ve never met a woman named Aislinn.”
“My parents are Scottish and it’s a Celtic name, so they thought it was appropriate for me.”
“My first name is Daniel. My mom used to call me Danny. My friends called me Dan.”
“What would you like me to call you?” I asked.
“Danny,” he looked at me. “You remind me of my mom. She had a scar on her face too. She fell and hit her face on a table one day and it left a scar.”
“I got mine from an accident as well. I fell into an open dishwasher,” I lied. A knife had cut me, but a psychopath had wielded it. “One of the plates broke and cut me.”
“Ambulance is here,” Green announced.
“Okay, Danny, there are some paramedics here. They are going to take you to get treatment for your knife wound. Is that alright with you?”
“Yes, it is giving me a headache.” Daniel Jacobs stood up as the paramedics entered. One raised an eyebrow, and the other looked shocked. I shrugged behind Jacobs’ back.
They took Jacobs out the front door without needing to restrain him. Eventually, they probably would, but for now, he was calm and docile. I had no idea if he knew what he was doing. He’d end up in an asylum somewhere and not the Fortress, even if we dug up a hundred corpses. Hunter and Ballard came in through the back.
“Did anyone hear someone tell us that this guy was a vet with PTSD and traumatic brain injuries?” I asked.
“Nope,” they all said.
“Good grief.” I shook my head, pissed at the failure to do a thorough background check. “Let’s check the house for dead bodies or trophies. We need a crew to dig up the yard. I’m guessing he’s been burying victims or their body parts near the trees and that’s why they are so healthy,” I answered the question I’d been asked earlier.
The rest of the house was just as dismal as the living room. It was dirty and smelled. Ballard found a jar of ears in one of the rooms. There was also dried blood everywhere. Something told me that his buddies had lost their ears, fingers, and toes before they were shot in the head. War wasn’t hell, Hell showed more mercy.
“We’ve got a body,” someone yelled out front. We had our proof. Mr. Daniel Jacobs, Desert Storm Veteran was a serial killer because he’d been with a platoon that had been tortured in front of him and then they had shot him in the head and left him for dead. The emotion I felt was anger. Anger at his torments. Anger at the system for letting him fall off their radars. Anger at him for inflicting the same tortures on innocent people. I punched the SUV and remembered my hand after pain shot up my arm.
“That wasn’t productive,” Christian Hunter said to me.
“It reminded me to stay emotionless,” I answered.
“You’re not capable of emotion,” he replied.
“I have more range than you do, Marshal Hunter. I understand why you volunteered. I don’t understand why you joined my team. The other team will have more excitement.”
“You,” Hunter told me. “I’ve met Blake before. I’ve met Hend
ers before. I haven’t had the opportunity to meet you. Besides, if I do a good job here, maybe I can finally get out of computer crimes.”
“If you are looking for career advancement, you’ve come to the wrong place,” I snipped. “You’re more likely to die than get promoted when you chase serial killers.”
Blessed Hearts Home For Unwed Mothers
Kayla Randall took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Her abdomen cramped again, another contraction, they were getting faster, stronger. The urge to push was overwhelming. She bared her teeth trying to fight it. She wasn’t at the hospital yet. Rita had promised her that an ambulance was on the way.
Rita Campbell rubbed a damp cloth across Kayla’s head. Kayla was fully dilated, yet there was no head to be seen. Rita used her free hand to hold Kayla’s and reassure the frightened girl. Kayla was barely eighteen, a single mistake, is what she called the pregnancy.
Rita didn’t care how it came to be, she was just happy that it had happened. Kayla had no family. No one had visited her since she had arrived at the Blessed Hearts Home for Unwed Mothers.
The baby was worth twenty-grand. Five thousand had been promised to Kayla. However, no one was around to miss Kayla. Rita knew this. She clamped the rag over the girl’s face. Kayla struggled to push the woman away, but it was too hard. Rita was too strong and Kayla was too weak from the prolonged labor. Rita felt Kayla go slack beneath her hand, but she held the rag there a little longer, making certain the girl was unconscious.
Rita called for her son, Bill, to come help. Together, they moved the girl into the basement. The entrance was well hidden in Bill’s bedroom. When you ran a home for unwed mothers, you always be on your toes. Thankfully, Bill had learned at a young age just how terrible these women could be. He feared them enough to leave them alone and they feared him enough not to snoop.
Once in the basement, they restrained Kayla in the birthing chair. Rita had gotten it for nearly nothing at a sale. The murdered midwife’s family hadn’t wanted her stuff. They had just wanted to get away. Rita had bought all the medical equipment. It had come in handy in the last several years.
