I Am Death

by Chris Carter

  Sanders frowned as his eyes focused on one particular photograph.

  ‘Sharon Barnard . . . Sharon Barnard . . .’

  Reading it from the board, he murmured the name to himself a couple of times, searching his memory for a moment before shaking his head.

  ‘Neither her name nor her face sound or look familiar.’ He looked back at Hunter and Garcia. ‘Was she ever reported?’

  ‘She was never missing,’ Hunter explained. ‘There was no abduction this time. Her killer simply broke into her house and murdered her in her living room.’

  Sanders’ frown intensified, now speckled with confusion. ‘No abduction? The perpetrator broke away from his original MO?’

  ‘Don’t even get us started on this “MO” business,’ Garcia said, lifting his hands in surrender. Strategically, he moved around to the other side of the room, dragging Sanders’ attention away from the board.

  Hunter quickly joined him.

  Garcia moved the subject along. ‘So those are the results of a search? What search?’ The question was directed more at Hunter than at Sanders.

  ‘Just a long shot, really,’ Hunter explained. ‘I had forgotten all about it. I asked Detective Sanders to run a search against the national Missing Persons database for cases where an abduction was perpetrated under similar circumstances to that of Nicole Wilson.’

  Garcia thought about it for a second.

  ‘I must admit that I hadn’t thought about it like that until then,’ Sanders added. ‘But it made sense. The abduction scene at the Bennetts’ house was too clean. Forensics spent two full days in there and they found absolutely nothing – no prints, no fibers, no hairs, no speck of dust that didn’t belong, not a thing. In ten years with Missing Persons, I’d never come across such a sterile scene. That level of perfection isn’t very easy to achieve, especially alone and on your first ever abduction?’

  ‘Right from the beginning,’ Hunter took over, addressing Garcia, ‘we both had our suspicions that this killer would kill again, remember? That he would become a repeat offender.’

  ‘But what if he already was a repeat offender?’ Garcia said, already in sync with Hunter.

  Sanders nodded his agreement. ‘Exactly. At least when it came to abductions.’ He once again indicated the file he’d handed Hunter. ‘Well, that long shot might’ve paid off. Have a look in there.’

  Fifty-Six

  Fuck you, you sick piece of shit.

  Fuck you, you sick piece of shit.

  Squirm kept repeating those words in his head and he had every intention of spitting them out in his captor’s face, but as ‘The Monster’s’ steps drew nearer and Squirm rolled his body over on the mattress, survival, the most primal of all human instincts, grabbed hold of him in a way it had never done before. Instead of saying what he had rehearsed, the words that came out of the boy’s lips were:

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. I’m getting up now.’

  Still, Squirm had taken too long to reply. Anger had already colored the man’s face. He grabbed the boy by his hair and lifted him off the ground.

  In vain, Squirm’s hands shot up to his head, grabbing at the man’s closed fist. Pain once again took hold of the boy’s entire body with the speed of a lightning bolt. He tried screaming, but he was so weak that all his vocal cords could produce was a feeble and muffled ‘Urghh’.

  ‘You’re going to have to start doing better than this, Squirm. I’m beginning to lose my patience with you.’

  ‘The Monster’ let go of Squirm’s hair, but with his legs too frail to hold him up, the boy first collapsed on to his knees, then to all fours.

  It took all of Squirm’s willpower to block new tears from coming to his eyes.

  I’m not going to cry anymore, the boy told himself through gritted teeth. I’m not. Never again.

  ‘C’mon, Squirm, let’s go.’

  Still trembling, Squirm got to his feet and followed the man out of his cell and into the kitchen. As always, ‘The Monster’ had already prepared his own breakfast. This morning it consisted of scrambled eggs, three buttered slices of toast, three bacon rashers, a bowl of cereal with milk and a large glass of orange juice.

  Squirm’s first chore of the day was to watch the man eat his entire breakfast. No matter how hungry he was, if Squirm’s tongue left his mouth and licked his lips, even if only for a split second, his face would be slapped so hard blood would usually drip from his lips at the corner of his mouth. When ‘The Monster’ was done, if there were any scraps left he would throw them on to the floor. Squirm was then allowed to use his shackled hands to eat them, no cutlery allowed, before washing up after ‘The Monster’, including all the pans that were already in the sink. After that, the boy had to scrub the entire floor with a brush barely larger than a toothbrush. If ‘The Monster’ didn’t think the floor was clean enough, he would make Squirm lick it in its entirety.

  Squirm took his place, standing with his back to the north wall, facing the breakfast table and his captor, who sat at the head of it. What usually happened then was that ‘The Monster’ would begin eating. He would use his plastic knife and fork to either slice or pick up some food, slowly bring it to his mouth, all the while not taking his eyes off the hungry boy. With every mouthful, the man would tease Squirm by making appreciative noises, as if he were eating the most delicious food on earth.

  Squirm wasn’t allowed to close his eyes or look away. If he did, he would be punished.

  Fuck you, you sick piece of shit.

  The words were still playing in Squirm’s mind. They were halfway between his tongue and his lips, but still, the boy’s survival instinct was fighting a better battle than his desire to die.

  The boy kept his mouth shut.

  As ‘The Monster’ took his place, his gaze moved to the newspaper by his breakfast plate, then to the plate, but he didn’t reach for his knife and fork. His gaze moved once again, this time to the boy standing against the wall, facing him.

  Squirm was still shaking. He was unsure how much longer his legs would hold him up. But he had stayed true to his word so far and hadn’t cried another tear.

  The man followed the boy’s gaze. Surprisingly, it didn’t lead to the food on the table but to the newspaper.

  Squirm’s captor paused, studying the scenario. He then smiled and did something that seemed absurd. He pushed his plate away from him without having touched a single piece of food.

  ‘You know what, Squirm?’ he said. ‘I’m not hungry this morning. You can have it. You can have it all.’

  Squirm didn’t move. He was sure he had heard wrong.

  ‘Here,’ ‘The Monster’ continued, pushing the glass of orange juice and the bowl of cereal away from him as well. ‘Have the juice and the cornflakes too. I’m not thirsty either.’

  A dream. That’s it, Squirm thought. There was no other explanation for the madness that was going on in front of him. I’m right in the middle of some crazy-ass dream, no matter how real this all seems. Soon it will be 5:45 a.m. ‘The Monster’ will unlock the cell door and my real day will start.

  ‘C’mon, eat up, Squirm, before I change my mind.’

  The boy still didn’t move.

  ‘The Monster’ sat back, brought a hand to his face and began to gently run the tips of his fingers against his lips.

  ‘I saw you eyeing up the newspaper,’ he said. There was no anger in his voice. ‘You want to read it?’

  This dream is just getting more and more bizarre. What next? He’s going to offer to drive me home? But then, a new thought entered the boy’s mind. Pain. Back in his cell, when the man grabbed him by his hair, he’d felt pain – unbearable pain. You’re not supposed to feel pain in a dream, despite how real it might seem. He had read that once. So is this craziness real?

  ‘This is all real, Squirm,’ ‘The Monster’ said, as if he had the power to read the boy’s thoughts. He indicated with his hands as he spoke. ‘The food is real, this house is real, these walls are real, those shackles
are real, your cell is real and I am real. This is really happening to you. Your life isn’t yours anymore. It belongs to me and I can do whatever I like with it.’

  Squirm’s good eye glanced around the room, as if he were unable to find something to focus on. Finally, it returned to the newspaper.

  ‘I know why you want to read it,’ ‘The Monster’ said. ‘You’re curious to find out about the investigation, aren’t you?’ He paused for effect and to study the boy one more time. ‘You can read it if you like. It makes no difference to me.’

  As ‘The Monster’ mentioned the investigation, Squirm could sense his breathing picking up speed. He was sure that the police were looking for him. They had to be. He’d been missing for days now, he just didn’t know exactly how many. Despite his tumultuous relationship with his father, they were still family and deep inside they still cared for each other. When Squirm hadn’t come back home that day, his father would’ve contacted the school, then the authorities, there was no doubt about that. Yes, he was sure that the police were looking for him, but while at first that thought at least gave him some hope, it now gave him none. If they hadn’t found him after so many days, he knew that police efforts would be reduced; after that, the search would lose momentum; and soon, if it hadn’t already happened, he would be relegated to just another cold case. Another missing kid who was never found. Another missing persons casualty.

  Squirm looked back at ‘The Monster’.

  That’s why you want me to read the paper, isn’t it? the boy thought. Because there’s something in there saying that the police have called off the search, isn’t there? I’m already just a casualty. Just another statistic. No one is coming to help me. Not anymore. You want me to know that, don’t you?

  Squirm felt his heart fold inside his chest.

  ‘C’mon.’ The man pointed to one of the other three chairs around the table. ‘Sit. Eat. Today you don’t have to eat it from the floor.’

  Still Squirm didn’t move. Was this a trick? Was that monster enticing him to move only so he could beat him up some more?

  That made no sense, because that monster didn’t need an excuse to beat him up. He did it whenever he pleased.

  So what the hell is this?

  ‘The food isn’t poisoned either,’ the man announced, once again guessing the boy’s thoughts. And he’d guessed it right. ‘Here. Look.’ He reached for his plastic fork, scooped up some scrambled eggs from the plate and ate it, this time without making a single appreciative sound.

  Squirm watched in silence.

  Suddenly the man’s expression went somber, before his eyes widened in terror. He dropped the fork and, with both hands, reached for his throat. His panicked gaze moved to the boy, who was now watching everything with a totally confused look on his face.

  ‘Hellllp.’ The man’s voice came out strangled. Desperate. His face reddened.

  Out of pure instinct, Squirm took one step forward, then stopped.

  What the hell is happening?

  ‘Arghhh . . .’

  Fuck you, you sick piece of shit.

  ‘Arghhh . . . ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.’ The man let go of his throat and began laughing like a kid who had just been told the best joke in the world.

  ‘Did you really think that the food was poisoned, Squirm? What the fuck? Why? Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha. If I wanted to kill you, why would I poison the food? That’s no fun.’ The play left the man’s voice, replaced by a dead serious tone. ‘The fun comes from getting your hands dirty, Squirm. From feeling the warmth of blood against your skin. From punishing them. You in sync with their breathing as they’re dying, and you taking every breath with them. Until the very last one. Until they breathe no more.’ ‘The Monster’ laughed again. ‘You should’ve seen your face. Shocked and happy at the same time.’ He shook his head. ‘Sorry, Squirm. The only way you’ll get rid of me is if I get rid of you. Besides that, your worthless little life belongs to me.’

  Squirm felt like he had fallen down the rabbit hole. That he had somehow transcended worlds.

  ‘No, you’re not hallucinating,’ the man replied.

  Without noticing it, Squirm had asked the question out loud.

  ‘I know that you’re wondering what the hell is happening here. Why am I giving you my food without having touched it? Why haven’t I thrown it on the floor for you to eat it? Why am I being so . . .’ ‘The Monster’ searched the air for the word. ‘Nice.’ The man turned his palms toward him, folded his fingers in and checked his nails. ‘And trust me, this is the nicest I’ll ever be.’ He looked at the boy again. ‘You want to know why, don’t you?’

  No reply. No movement.

  ‘Don’t you, Squirm?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘OK then.’ He tapped the tabletop twice with his right hand. ‘Sit down. Eat your food. And I’ll tell you.’

  Fifty-Seven

  The file that Detective Sanders handed Hunter opened with a black and white portrait photograph of a man who looked to be in his mid to late thirties. He was an interesting-looking man. His head was clean-shaven, his face round and unremarkable, with a small nose and thin lips, but his light-blue eyes carried an intensity in them that was almost hypnotic. They seemed to be full of intelligence and pain at the same time.

  The first thought that came into Hunter’s mind as he studied the photograph was that whoever this man was, with the exception of his eyes he had the sort of simple, featureless face that would take to disguising like a cat to free food. The sort of face that would easily blend into a crowd and then disappear.

  ‘Detectives,’ Sanders finally said. ‘Meet Mathew Hade.’

  ‘OK, and who is he?’ Garcia asked.

  ‘Well, following Detective Hunter’s guidelines, I initialized a search against the national Missing Persons database for a list of cases where an abduction was perpetrated under similar circumstances to Nicole Wilson’s; for example, from inside a house, or where the abduction scene was relatively clean, and so on. I restricted the search to LA only, going back a maximum of twenty years.’ Sanders shook his head. ‘That gave me no results really worth looking into. I sent Robert an email telling him that the search hit a blank and he asked me to try it again, this time expanding the search to the whole of California. That gave me four different cases.’

  Garcia finally moved his gaze from Hade’s picture back to Detective Sanders.

  ‘The scenes in those cases were nowhere near as clean as Ms. Wilson’s one,’ Sanders explained. ‘But they were interesting enough. The problem was, two out of the four perpetrators were dead, and the other two are serving life sentences with no possibility of parole. I emailed the results to Robert and he asked me to run one last search.’

  ‘In reality I was ready to give up,’ Hunter took over. ‘This was just a long shot, anyway. I was just throwing things up in the air, hoping for a sniff of a result.’

  ‘But the new search made sense,’ Sanders said, paused, then corrected himself. ‘Actually, it wasn’t a new search, it was the same search, but Robert figured out what we were doing wrong – we were searching only through closed MP investigations.’

  If an investigation was tagged as ‘concluded’ by Missing Persons, it meant that the perpetrator/s had either been apprehended or shot dead. Of the ones apprehended, only a very small number, the least dangerous ones, the ones least likely to reoffend, would’ve made parole. The rest would still be inside. The very few who’d manage to break out of prison were again either shot dead or re-apprehended within days. If the search was only factoring investigations that had been concluded by Missing Persons, it was no wonder they were getting poor results.

  ‘So I take it that Mr. Mathew Hade over here is the result of that search,’ Garcia said, nodding at the photograph. ‘Or, at least, one of the results.’

  ‘He is indeed,’ Sanders confirmed it. ‘The case follows,’ he said, indicating the file.

  As Hunter turned the page, Sanders began relating it.

  ‘In F
ebruary two thousand and nine, while house-sitting for a friend, a twenty-one-year-old college student named Tracy Dillard went missing in Fresno. The friend had gone back to Arizona on her college break to visit her parents for a couple of weeks. Ms. Dillard was asked to housesit mainly so her friend’s cats would be properly fed in her absence. Until this day, Ms. Dillard has never been found.

  ‘Despite no signs of forced entry, the investigators concluded that she had actually been abducted from inside the house. There were no signs of a struggle either. Forensics found no fingerprints, but they did find a few fabric fibers that seemed to belong to some sort of coat. Unfortunately, the fibers were matched to a very common brand of workman’s jacket. At the time, you could pick one up at Wal-Mart for under fifty bucks. They also found a couple of male boot prints in the house’s backyard.’

  Hunter and Garcia, who’d been following Sanders’ accounts on paper, flipped over the page.

  ‘The investigation led Fresno PD’s Missing Persons Unit to interview a number of “persons of interest”,’ Sanders continued. ‘Mathew Hade was one of them.’

  ‘How come?’ Garcia asked.

  ‘He was a sort of a jack-of-all-trades. A handyman. Extremely clever and adaptable. His IQ was up in the 130s. He was good at just about anything – plumbing, electronics, mechanics, carpentry, roofing, bricklaying, gardening, decorating . . . you name it. If it needed fixing, he could probably do it. He could also build you stuff, if that was the requirement, and apparently he did it all very well.’ There was a short pause. ‘He was also a trained locksmith.’

  Sanders’ last few words got Hunter and Garcia’s attention.

  ‘On the week of Ms. Dillard’s disappearance, Mathew Hade had been doing some roofing work on the same road where she was housesitting, two houses away, actually. That same week, he was also seen out on the street, talking to Ms. Dillard on one or two occasions. He completed all the roofing work a day before she went missing. The boot prints found in the garden matched Hade’s shoe size, but the sole pattern didn’t match any of the shoes the police found in his house.’