Killer Chronicles

by Somer Canon

  KILLER

  CHRONICLES

  Somer Canon

  Copyright © 2018

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means without the author’s written consent, except for the purposes of review

  Cover Design © 2018 by Lynne Hansen Design

  https://lynnehansen.zenfolio.com/

  ISBN-13: 978-1-947522-15-2

  ISBN-10: 1-947522-15-9

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s fertile imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  READ UNTIL YOU BLEED!

  PROLOGUE

  There was a dusty, dirt path right off of the road and, desperately needing a piss, he pulled his truck onto the path. About a hundred yards in, he was surprised to see a clearing with a refreshingly clean looking pond. Usually in the heat of the summer, ponds would get covered in a thick layer of green scum and there would be mosquitos swarming all around, but this pond was a deep, cool brown. The top of the water reflected the blue sky above and cattails grew along the edges. It was beautiful.

  Matt got out of the truck with a groan, his hips and back creaking from the movement. He stretched and breathed in the hot, humid air. It smelled fresh.

  Fresh and young, he thought to himself.

  It had been a rough few weeks since his little secret had been found out. He was awaiting trial, out on bail, for the videos and pictures on his hard drive, some of which he made himself. He’d lost his job, his wife had filed for divorce, and he was forbidden from being anywhere near his kids. He spent his days now hiding away and driving to smaller nearby towns where people might not recognize him. He’d been spit on, shoved, and hit with a shopping cart since his face had been gracing every television screen since his arrest.

  He sauntered over to the edge of the pond and looked into the thick mess of cattails, hoping there were no snakes or snapping turtles. When the way was clear, he unzipped and started urinating into the water. He sighed and listened to the heavy tinkling sound for a moment. His mood lightened and he smiled. He started humming and swaying his hips, enjoying the varying sound of his stream crashing into the pond. His good mood started spreading through him, and as his bladder emptied, he could feel a warmth starting in his crotch. He smiled and stroked himself, thinking of one of his favorite videos that he’d taken of one of his daughter’s friends showering in his bathroom. Memories of her soft, smooth little body just beginning to plump up with puberty made him grow rock hard in his hand.

  He stood there by that pond masturbating and thinking about that girl who they now referred to as a “victim.” When he finished and semen had leapt onto the cattails, he laughed heartily. He started singing as he zipped up and put himself to rights.

  “Thank heaven. Thank heaven for little girls, for little girls get bigger every day!”

  He saluted the cattails and got into his truck, realizing that he was hungry. He got back onto the two-lane road and drove until he happened upon a roadside shack that served ice cream and hot dogs. There was a small parking lot and picnic tables situated around the little square building. He parked and got three hot dogs and a chocolate milkshake. He sat at a picnic table where he could watch people placing orders. Not long into his second hot dog, a group of teenage girls, talking a million miles an hour and laughing about everything, bombarded the window. He sneered at them because they were loud creatures far too old for his liking. There was one, however, who caught his eye. She was hanging back from the group, a little sister perhaps. She was wearing a virginal, white sun dress and she had long, brown hair. He sat trying not to stare at her, choosing instead to place his hot dog in front of his face, right in front of where his eyes would meet her, and pretended to regard the hot dog instead of the girl. He reached up under his cap and scratched his scalp, a strange tingling sensation causing him discomfort.

  I wish she was Japanese, he thought to himself. Those little girls are always the smoothest.

  Her head turned ever so slightly and where before her hair looked brown and wavy, it now looked paper straight and black, with a pleasing sheen to it. He lowered his hot dog and took a bite, staring at the girl now.

  I bet she’s shy, he thought, looking at how her eyes stayed on the concrete. Her hands were folded in front of her and she swayed gently, waiting to put in her order.

  She looked up at him and his heart stopped. Her eyes met his for a moment and then she looked down shyly, pushing a piece of hair behind her ear. He groaned and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the picnic table, his hot dog forgotten.

  Definitely Asian, he thought. Pouty mouth, round face, beautiful eyes. An ethnic sweet-spot.

  She darted a quick, shy glance at him again before lowering her gaze. When she left the window, she had a Styrofoam cup in her hand and she sipped delicately at the straw, looking down. It appeared now that she wasn’t actually a part of the loud group of teenagers and had come for a cool refreshment all on her own. He looked around. There were some houses along the two-lane road, but there was no sidewalk. She must live close by.

  She sat at one of the other picnic tables and turned her back to him. Matt tried to sit and eat his hot dog, but he was completely distracted by her. He got up and threw away the wax paper that had served as wrappers for his hot dogs and, after looking around and seeing that there were no other customers, walked over to her table and sat down across from her. She didn’t look up, but he saw a pink blush kiss the apples of her cheeks.

  “I have a chocolate milkshake here,” he said, angling his own Styrofoam cup to her. “Do you want a sip? It’s pretty good.”

  She shook her head slightly and continued to look down.

  Goddamn, I love that innocent shyness, he thought to himself. He patted the top of his head again, the tingle persisting.

  “What’s that you have in your cup?” he asked her.

  She looked up at him, her eyes looking frightened. He loved the feeling of interacting with a shy, young girl. He smiled warmly at her and waited for her to reply.

  “Slush Puppy,” she answered, her voice breathy and high.

  “Oh yeah? I like those. I have a little girl about your age and her favorite flavor is grape. What flavor is yours?” He said.

  He knew bringing up his daughter would put her more at ease. It made him look like less of a predator and more like a kind father who doesn’t like to see a child sitting alone. A small smile curved her lips.

  “Lemon lime,” she answered.

  “Oh, I like that taste, but I always think the color is a little too close to snot to drink too much,” he said animatedly. It worked because she giggled lightly behind a small hand. He lost himself for a moment thinking how nice it would be to suck on one of her little fingers.

  “What is your favorite flavor?” she asked him, the slightest hint of an accent apparent now that she spoke more than two words. He was close to panting.

  “Cherry,” he answered simply, a broad shark’s grin splitting his face.

  “I like cherry,” she said.

  I bet you do, he thought to himself. He pictured himself making her a Shirley Temple at his home bar, as he had his daughter’s friend. She loved extra grenadine in hers and it always stained her lips a bright red.

  “So, you live around here?” he asked, trying to look casual by taking a sip of his milkshake. “One of the houses along the road, maybe?”

  She shook her head lightly.

  “It’s not a very safe walk along this road, is it?” he asked. “So many people drive like maniacs. I bet your parents worry a
bout you walking that alone.”

  She didn’t respond but kept her eyes downcast.

  “I’d be happy to give you a ride home,” he said. When her eyes flashed up and met his, he saw Stranger Danger fear lighting in the back of them. He smiled broadly.

  “I’d hate to think of my little girl walking a road like that all by herself. I’d be really thankful to some good soul who would drive her home safely to me,” he said.

  “It is a little far,” she said.

  “Well come on then!” he said excitedly. “I’m happy to give you a lift!”

  “Okay. Thank you very much,” she said, smiling at him.

  They stood, and he came around the table and stood before her. He looked down into her young face, his mind racing on where they could go and be alone.

  THE POND! His mind screamed at him in anticipation. Yes, that would be the perfect place to get her out of that white dress. He was going to jail anyway. Might as well make a memory to keep him warm in there.

  “My truck’s over here,” he said, taking her by her thin, little arm and leading her. He chanced a look over his shoulder. Whoever manned the window of the ice cream shack felt no need to be around unless there were customers right at the window. All was clear.

  He helped her step up into the truck, looking at her colt-like legs as they settled before her when she was seated. He smiled up at her and closed the passenger side door. He climbed into the driver’s side and put his key into the ignition, turning on the air conditioning.

  “Oh geez,” he said, slapping his forehead. “My manners went to the store without me, I’m sorry. My name is Matt. What’s your name?”

  She looked over at him and he frowned when he saw that she wore a sardonic sideways grin.

  “Hello, Matt,” she said in a smooth, husky voice. “My name is Grenadine.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  I was startled out of my reading fog by the sound of Anais’ forehead slamming onto her desk. I turned around in my swiveling office chair and looked at my roommate and co-worker, as she sat with her face smooshed onto her desk.

  “God-fucking-damn-it,” Anais said.

  “What?” I asked, concern pulling my spine straight.

  “That piece that the Eagle did on us is up on their web page right now,” Anais said, her voice sounding funny because she hadn’t bothered to remove her face from the cheap IKEA desktop before speaking to me.

  I sat up straight, smiling. The piece by the local paper was a welcome bit of free publicity and the first interview from a serious paper about our work. It made me feel legitimate.

  “And?” I asked expectantly.

  Instead of an answer, Anais let loose a long, forlorn groan, keeping her head down.

  “Shit. What?” I asked.

  “That asshole made us look like psycho-loving groupies,” Anais said, lifting her head. Her face was red and there was an even darker red circle in the middle of her forehead.

  “What?” I asked, spinning in my chair back to my laptop. I brought up the webpage for the local newspaper and typed in my username and password for subscription access. I sat back stunned when I saw the headline of the article. TWO LOCAL WOMEN CASH IN ON LOVE OF MURDERERS

  “Son of a bitch!” I spat.

  “Read the whole thing,” Anais said, burying her head in her hands and wincing noticeably, rubbing the spot in the middle of her forehead.

  TWO LOCAL WOMEN CASH IN

  ON LOVE OF MURDERERS

  Reading, PA can boast entrepreneurs in several specialties. We have local breweries, distilleries, artists, small shops and now internet journalists!

  Kutztown University graduates Anais Del Valle and Christina Cunningham run the website Killer Chronicles (http://www.KillerChronicles.com). The site, which brags of readership all over the globe, focuses on the profiling and biographies of the nation’s various murderers. The two use their journalism degrees to research, interview, and compile information in order to create what their site refers to as “files” on the murderers that they feature. So far, they have 31 files on their site.

  “We have no plans to stop,” said Del Valle, a Reading native. “As long as there are murderers to write about, we’ll have a job.”

  However, not everybody sees their work as laudable. In an age where certain topics get a great amount of media attention so as to be sensationalized, Killer Chronicles seems to be a site that is profiting on that sensationalism. Critics of the site claim that Del Valle and Cunningham give murderers a mythical celebrity treatment on their site with little to no consideration for the victims or their families. There is worry that readers will view the murderers profiled on the site as heroes worthy of mimicry.

  “Serial killers have always been sensationalized, this is nothing new. History’s most gruesome moments have always gotten more attention than the good moments. While we profile more than just the serial killers, our page hit numbers speak on how interesting people of all walks of life find them to be,” Del Valle said.

  It is of note that Killer Chronicles focuses on more than your average media-saturated mass murderer or serial killer. There are files of murderers who have only one human victim. Del Valle is well aware that Killer Chronicles could be, at first glance, seen as a rip-off of Murderpedia (http://www.murderpedia.org).

  “Murderpedia is a really great, extensive site but it’s all very technical and cold, almost like public records on the murderers and their trials. We try to make our files more detailed. Each file contains several photos, interviews with witnesses and law enforcement and sometimes with the murderers themselves. Every file is almost a mini-screenplay of the murders.” Del Valle explained.

  Questions about ethics aside, Killer Chronicles is turning out to be quite the lucrative endeavor for the two women. After being online for a little over a year, the site is already selling ad space to large corporations such as McDonald’s and Old Navy, a feat not even this newspaper’s site can boast.

  “We’re thrilled with how fast we’ve grown. We’re still a young site and since we live together and work from home, our costs are relatively low considering we travel a lot for interviews and tours of the murder scenes. Maybe next year Christina and I will make enough to get our own places,” Del Valle quipped.

  “Ana!” I said, turning to my roommate and coworker. “Why did you give quotes like that? You sound like a smug asshole!”

  “Chris, I sat and talked with the guy for like an hour,” Anais said, still rubbing her forehead. “I raved about what a great interviewer and photographer you are. I even fucking addressed the criticisms about us being inconsiderate towards the victims and their families, I really did! He cherry picked my quotes to make me sound like a jerk!”

  I turned back to my computer screen and scanned over the article again. The journalist did seem to be out to shed an unbecoming light on us and our site, and the local paper, owned by an old and established family, sometimes had a tendency towards unscrupulous reporting. I closed out the tab and turned back to Anais who was now staring at the wall, her cinnamon complexion gone ruddy by the increased blood pressure thanks to anger. I’m not new to Anais and her red anger face.

  “At least he didn’t put our pictures with the piece,” I said.

  Anais snorted and looked at me.

  “Oh, shut up,” Anais said, throwing a balled-up tissue at me. “Don’t try to cheer me up. My entire month is ruined.”

  “Drama queen,” I teased. “Don’t let it get you down. It’s a local paper and it was written by some smug assface who’s out to make a name for himself by trampling a couple of women trying to be their own bosses. I bet he made sexual advances to you and when you said no, he got all offended and set out to make you look bad for hurting his frail little ego.” Anais laughed roughly, the apples of her cheeks scrunching her eyes in an adorable way.

  “He was some middle-aged white guy with bad hair and a chewed up old pencil for taking notes. He, like so many of the old, white guys around here, looked
at me like I’m some cheap puta and he made sure our coffee cups stayed far away from each other. I just thought he was a priss.” Anais sighed. “Maybe you should give the interviews from now on, mami.”

  “Oh no you don’t,” I said, putting a hand up. “This website is your brain child, lady! You’re the face of this site. We don’t need embarrassment heaped on us by me sitting and stuttering and verbally crapping my way through a formal interview. I can give them, but I can’t take them.”

  “Yeah. I guess,” Anais said.

  “Just admit I’m right and get over it already,” I said, turning back to my computer. “We’ve got work to do, readers to satisfy!”

  “Yeah yeah,” Anais said, turning back to her own computer. “You white people are all the devil.”

  I smiled and began my search for the next file. Anais and I always have three files that we work on at once. We were just putting the finishing touches on a local murderess, Jessica Cortez, who murdered her boyfriend and his dog with a pair of stiletto shoes and a paint roller. It was a crime of passion. A very, very messy one (which is why it was worthy of Killer Chronicles). The file on Charles Parmer, the man from Nebraska who raped and murdered his neighbor’s fourteen year-old son, was on hold until all of the interviews could be cemented, so a third story was needed so that new material could be posted consistently.

  I have my go-to sites to check. There are sites like City-Data that have helped me in the past. Sometimes just typing “murder” or “bizarre murder” into the search bar is enough to yield interesting results. It took nearly an hour of wading through what we like to term as “typical” before I came across something that made me whistle. I turned in my seat and saw that Anais had her earbuds in, so I opened our favorite chat program and messaged Anais the link to the article. I sat back and waited.

  “Jesus Hopscotching Christ,” Anais said after a couple of minutes.

  “I know, right?” I said excitedly. “I mean, we’ve covered some crazy shit, but this one is new.”