by M. Billiter
This was the first time I killed and, sadly, would not be the last.
2
Branson
“Twenty-two to base.” The black handheld walkie-talkie looked like something my twin brother, Aaron, and I had when we were little and played spy games.
“This is base, go ahead,” my boss, Jackson, responded.
“I’ve got a possible code ten.” I tucked my baseball cap over my ears, but it didn’t stop the wind from piercing my earlobes, which were numb. I stomped my feet on the snow-covered asphalt to keep them from freezing, but it only kicked up the white stuff. I knocked the snow off my boots against the tire of the silver Honda Accord and glanced at the information on my portable parking device. It contained the past history of university parking citations. The permit on the Accord’s windshield was expired, and better yet, when I pulled up the car’s history, there were eight unpaid citations.
Give ’em the boot.
“Can you state the license plate number?” Jackson always followed protocol.
“It’s a Wyoming Bucking Bronco plate 2-1867,” I said into the mic. My teeth practically chattered. It’s too fucking cold out here.
“Please hold.”
I took a step away in case the owner exited the football game early and headed toward his car. No reason for unnecessary confrontation. When it snowed last night, I thought for sure the game would be canceled, but leave it to Wyoming State University to clear the field for game day. Nothing mattered more to the university than keeping their top rank in the Mountain West Conference.
Jackson’s voice broke through the frigid air. “Base to twenty-two, that’s an affirmative code ten. What’s your location?”
My heart raced. This was as exciting as it got for a college parking officer. “Stadium parking lot, north side.”
I couldn’t help but be pumped. Hell yeah. This guy’s got it coming. Add another sixty bucks to his unpaid citation and another point for me in the office parking pool. The more tickets I wrote, the closer I got to the monthly bonus, which meant an extra hundred bucks in my wallet. I didn’t know who the poor bastard was who would get the boot, but it didn’t take a lot of common sense to pay your tickets or park legally.
I had at least ten minutes until Jackson arrived from the parking office with the boot that I’d attach to the rim of the tire. No driving with that chunk of metal.
The north side of the stadium was full of cars decorated with Wyoming State University bumper stickers. Snow didn’t even stick to the glossy decals. “Wyoming Strong” in red lettering against a solid black background looked like blood from a fresh cut. The more I stared at the rows upon rows of glowing red letters, the more my adrenaline spiked. I may only be a part-time parking officer, but the authority I had gave me the power to ruin someone’s day. And if I had to work in the butt cold, then I wasn’t going to be alone in my misery.
A butter-yellow convertible bug with a light sprinkling of snow on its top looked prime for the picking. I checked the lower right side of their windshield and noticed they weren’t displaying a permit. I pulled out my portable parking system and typed in their plate information.
Ugh, personal plates. They were always lame and stupid. I sounded out the vanity plates. “Q-T-E. Cutie?” The person driving this car was probably the opposite of their plates. The parking system showed they had no history, which meant only a warning. Shit.
I hit Print, and the portable printer slung across my shoulder spit out a parking warning that I tucked under the windshield wiper.
The Wyoming State vehicle that Jackson drove could be heard a block away. It was old and in need of repair, just like the campus. The only improvements the college ever made was to the athletics department. I could’ve run track, but I didn’t want the added stress of training and trying to graduate.
These four years seemed to fly by. I still couldn’t believe I was a college senior and was actually on course to graduate on time. Maybe I was like Aaron claimed, the eighth wonder of the world.
Aaron always gave me a hard time, but he was there for me when I needed him the most, so I ignored his constant put-downs and nicknames. My twin thought it was hilarious to call me “Jeffrey” after that psycho Jeffrey Dahmer. Even now it made me chuckle.
Jeffrey. What a douche.
Jackson hopped out of the black and red truck, which he towered over. He was six three, but his unstyled hair gave him an extra inch, and the red university jacket stretched across his biceps made him look even more massive than he was.
Jackson awkwardly grabbed the large boot from the back of the truck, which magnified his already awkward appearance. He hefted it toward the silver Accord and handed me two boot stickers that were neon orange. I cleared remnants of snow off the windshield and slapped one sticker on the glass and the other one on the driver window, then helped Jackson wrap the boot around the rim of the tire until it locked into place.
The sudden snap of the lock that secured the wheel clamp onto the car, permanently disabling it, reminded me of my friend Trevor and the hold he had on me. My shrink referred to Trevor as part of my psychosis, but he was no psychosis. Trevor was a darker version of me. When his voice became louder than my own, there was no freedom or control in my life. I was totally powerless. At one time, having Trevor call the shots was thrilling, but after he tried to break up my family, I decided our friendship had to end. But it wasn’t easy. It took two turns in the psych ward before Trevor was out of my life.
The boot on the car was locked solidly in place. The only way the driver could get rid of the wheel clamp was for the owner to pay their dues.
It was the same with me and Trevor.
3
Aaron
“Hey, Jeffrey.” I didn’t have to wait long to hear my twin brother laugh over the phone.
“Fucker.”
Even though we were attending two different colleges in two different states hundreds of miles apart, I knew he had a shit-eating grin on his face.
“Whatcha doing?” I asked as I walked across campus to my next class.
“Just chillin’.”
I crested the snow-covered berm between the lower and upper campus, and the main international studies office came into view. Since I claimed international affairs as my degree, the majority of my classes were housed in a small wing of the psychology building, which seemed as random as the addition. The building looked like the bricks had been set in the sun before they were paved into place, their faded color making the three-story structure look older than it was. The additional tower attached to it looked like an afterthought, though the overall structure seemed rushed compared to the rest of the campus, which was built in the 1930s and felt collegiate.
Jefferson Heights University was a private college in Cleveland that catered to what my mom called “old money.” The campus was filled with bronze statues of famous dead white guys and chapel-like structures that loomed over the grounds as if God himself was going to strike me down for my college sins. One-night stands truly had it rough when they walked back to their dorms.
“Don’t you have class?” I said to my twin, who I would forever be parenting. Ever since we were young, I felt like I had to be the man of the house because I was the oldest, if only by a minute. Therefore, I was responsible for Branson.
“Nah, no classes today. I worked, and it was fucking freezing outside.”
“Oh, that’s right, you’re the dick who ruins people’s days,” I said.
“Sad ticket issuer—that’s me,” Branson said with another laugh.
My cell chimed, and I glanced at the screen. “N-n-n-n-news.” It was my daily update. I quickly checked the headlines. “Hey, did you hear that famous golf pro that Dad liked so much recently died.”
“Yeah.”
“He died of pneumonia,” I said.
“So he suffered.”
“Shut up, dude. That’s fucked up.” Branson’s chuckle sounded more like a wheeze.
“I bet all those
fires in California started with one cigarette not being put out,” I continued.
“Where are you getting this shit?” Branson said.
“I get all my news from Snapchat.” I reached the building and saw a girl with long brown hair and a body with curves in all the right spots. She was a few steps ahead of me. I took the stairs two at a time to grab the door before she could and hold it open. When she smiled in my direction, I grinned. Wow. Beautiful.
“I hate Fox News. They suck,” Branson said in my ear. “I’m not saying CNN is any better, but they are.”
That time I laughed, and she slightly turned. I raised an eyebrow, and her face flushed. I walked behind her as she headed toward the main tower. She nervously glanced over her shoulder.
“I swear I’m not following you,” I said, pulling the phone away from my ear.
She giggled, and her hair bounced on her shoulders. Total dime.
“Snapchat has all the news,” I said while I watched her ass sway in a pair of black yoga pants that stretched tight across her heart-shaped ass.
“But Snapchat, really?” Branson actually seemed interested in something other than Pokémon Go.
“Yeah, bro. When they report on the Middle East, they don’t refer to everyone as Muslims. They refer to them as Arabs.”
“Oh, that’s right. ‘I’m Aaron Kovac. I went to Jordan and studied abroad for a semester.’”
Again, I didn’t have to be there to visualize my brother rolling his eyes. His tone said it all.
“Hey, bro, don’t forget that October is breast cancer awareness month,” he said.
That made me laugh. “Little brother, it’s kind of hard to miss with all the pink crap all over campus.”
“None of the sororities do anything for breast cancer on our campus. But my buddy told me they hold events at Albany County Community College.”
“And?” My twin took forever to get to the point.
“And I think it’d be really cool if we supported the sorority or whatever group on campus and pitch in some money for breast cancer awareness,” he said.
“Yeah, that’s not my thing.”
“Now who’s being a dick? Aaron, it might not be your thing, but it is Mom’s.”
Branson paused long enough to piss me off, as if I needed time to reflect. What the fuck?
“Hey, when’s the last time you called Mom?” he asked.
No matter how many times we spoke—which was almost daily—my brother always asked about our mom, as if her cancer diagnosis was news to me. The more I saw pink ribbons around campus, the more I wanted to rip every single one down. The groups and sororities didn’t care if it was breast cancer or foot fungus; they had their do-good quota to fill so they could go back to being assholes and idiots. No thanks.
I sighed. “Listen, Bran, I call her about every week. I think I spoke to her yesterday. Don’t worry, I’m still checking in on her.”
“Dude, it’s not about checking in on her.” Branson’s tone was as agitated as I felt. “It’s about making sure she knows you care.”
“I do care!” I snapped. “I gotta go, bro.”
“Hey.”
His voice stopped me from ending the call.
“What?” I exhaled.
“Do you like me, Bert?”
Despite my anger, I smiled. When we were little, our go-to show was Sesame Street and our favorite characters were Bert and Ernie. I was Bert, the boring, serious, smart one with the unibrow, and Branson was Ernie, the shorter, funnier, oblivious one with the harebrained ideas that always backfired on poor Bert. We watched certain episodes over and over, but our favorite one was about friendship. We memorized the lines before we even knew our alphabet.
“So… do you like me, Bert?” he said again, and I knew I’d never get off the phone until I played along.
“You know people think they’re gay, right?” I said.
“Doesn’t matter,” he said and then jumped right back into character. “Do you like me, Bert?”
I shook my head. “Do I like you? Of course I like you, Ernie. You’re my best friend.”
“You’re mine too.”
No one could piss me off more quickly or make me happier faster than Branson. He really was my best friend.
“Okay, little brother, I’ve gotta go.”
I ended the call and walked to my class, where I took my regular seat in the back of the room. My mind jumped back to our conversation and bounced from thought to thought.
They think I don’t care? I’m trying. This distance shit is hard. They never check on me and tell me they care. I just know they do. I don’t need confirmation. And I don’t need to go to some cancer fundraiser to remind me that my mom’s dying.
Professor Whitman assumed her post in the lecture hall. From my seat in the last row, I stared at her. She always wore black, which matched her wiry hair and made her skinny, pale frame seem even thinner. Her large Harry Potter-like glasses didn’t help her look at all. If it wasn’t for her bright personality, she could get mistaken for a witch.
When her PowerPoint presentation on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict began, my focus shifted off her and to the slides. Better still, thoughts of my conversation with Branson disappeared.
4
David and Me
“Bonita, where are you?” My voice was as forceful as the way I slammed the door to my apartment. I scanned the living room for my cat, but she was nowhere to be found.
“Probably better. You have too much to do.”
Agreed.
I tossed my baseball cap on the couch, combed through my hair with my fingers, grabbed a beer from the mini fridge, and took a seat in front of my laptop. My journal was waiting for me. And so was David. His voice seemed louder and more urgent.
* * *
A Killer’s Journal
* * *
When I was growing up through elementary and middle school, I never really had a lot of friends.
I remember watching other kids around my age and being curious about how to be like them and how to become friends with people like them. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out how to be normal and how to make friends. I always had my twin brother, but outside of that, I had no one.
However, even though I felt that way, I was never sad or upset because I had David. I couldn’t really understand what David was saying or even what he looked like, but he was always there. As soon as I woke up until the time I went to bed, he always lingered in my head. David and I understood each other.
* * *
“It’s funny how your mom always says that twins have each other. Do they?”
I shrugged and took a swig of beer. Good question. I continued typing.
* * *
Don’t get me wrong. I love my twin brother, but he wasn’t always there. He was too interested in fitting in and being popular. Not like David. David wanted the same fulfillment that I found in killing small animals like the baby birds. Those sorts of actions made sense to me, and I often found myself fantasizing about the deaths of fellow students who made me mad or picked on me.
As often as I thought about how I would cause those deaths, I just as equally thought about the repercussions. When I thought about the aftermath, I knew I could never abandon my family, especially not my twin brother, so those fantasies remained just that—fantasies.
* * *
My throat felt tight. I drained the beer and reached behind me to the mini fridge to grab another. The more I drank, the stronger David’s voice became, so I cracked the beer and took a hearty gulp before I continued my entry.
* * *
What I discovered was that over time, my imagination became much more mature. Instead of thinking about senseless killings, I began to orchestrate plans and strategies to kill without getting caught. Those thoughts kept my brain occupied enough where I didn’t have to lash out and hurt others or things. The feelings for those types of actions still excited me, but I could never carry out my plans.
; But David… he was another story. David began to become more vivid, and instead of just a cloud of darkness, I began hearing his voice. It came like a buzzing in my head, and while I still couldn’t really understand what he was saying, it became clear what his role was in my life.
5
Aaron
“Hey, Ma, I’m making your mac and cheese recipe—you know, add more butter, no milk,” I said when I answered her call.
“Uh-huh,” she said as if I hadn’t spoken.
Uh-huh? It was a placeholder for what she really wanted to talk about.
“So what’s up?” I asked.
“Well, my oncologist said it’d be okay if I worked part-time. Of course, as soon as he said that, he placed me on a new medication, so we’ll see. But for now, the legislative services office needed some help, and they chose me.”
“Ma, that’s great. So you’re working with LSO?”
Her voice seemed to perk up. “I am. It’s amazing I even got hired with the way I look, and… well, there’s my reputation….” The sudden lift in her tone shifted, and it felt like someone elbowed me in the stomach.
“Ma, that happened four years ago. And you were smart enough to move away. What happened at that shithole college in Casper isn’t news in the state’s capital. The city of Cheyenne is progressive. They don’t care if you tanked one early admission applicant. Ashley Bailey got into Wyoming State University and got to carry on the Bailey tradition. Shit, she’s about to graduate with Branson, so what you did is old news—if it ever was news to begin with.”
