by Ethan Cross
Had Emily let that slip during one of her recent counseling sessions with him? Or had her husband told him that before Ackerman had murdered him?
He supposed that neither the source of that knowledge nor Emily’s heritage mattered. What did matter was that he found Emily fascinating.
He had killed her husband, nearly killed her, and used her as human bait. Yet, she had always treated him with respect and had never shown him hatred. Actually, she had become a staunch ally in his brother’s crusade to keep him alive and for him to be used as a resource in the hunt for other killers.
Perhaps by rehabilitating Ackerman she would give greater meaning to her husband’s death? Perhaps she just wanted to make sure nothing like that ever happened to another family? Or maybe she just wholeheartedly believed in teachings of forgiveness and the turning of the other cheek?
Whatever it was, Ackerman found it remarkable. He found her remarkable. Unlike the way Polo Shirt sucked life from the space, she brightened it. She filled it with some kind of ethereal grace.
“I think I’m annoying poor Roland.”
“I know what you’re trying to do by using his first name.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“You’re establishing dominance. Stealing power from him and bestowing it on yourself. With you, it’s always about power. That and pain. Establishing power, experiencing pain in one form or another.”
“You say all that as if I’ve never done any self-exploration of my own feelings and motives. I’ve lived most of my life in a cage. I’ve had ample time to plum my own depths.”
“I never claimed otherwise. I was simply making an observation. Here’s another. I know that your little trick with Special Agent Green’s first name is very mundane in origin.”
“How can you be so sure that I don’t just know more about this facility than any of you could possibly imagine?”
“Because if it was something clever, you wouldn’t have been able to resist telling us all about it by now.”
Ackerman smiled. “I’ve missed you, Emily.”
“I’ve been busy with other obligations.”
“Obligations in regard to counseling or your field agent training?”
Emily had been given a counseling job within the Shepherd Organization after the courage she had displayed in her last encounter with him. It made sense. She had been a therapist in her pre-Ackerman life, and the Shepherd Organization was almost entirely made up of people who had displayed certain qualities during run-ins with serial killers. She fit right in as the counselor that this group desperately needed. But the thoughtful and deep-thinking Emily Morgan had shocked him by instead pursuing a position as a field agent. In fact, the argument of how to use Ackerman best had opened up another debate over the possibilities for Emily to serve as his liaison and babysitter.
“Obligations that are none of your concern,” Emily said as a statement of fact, without a hint of emotion on the subject one way or another.
“Was it about the boy?” Ackerman said. “I hear he’s having trouble adjusting to the new school.”
Emily said, “His mother was murdered by your father, his grandfather. Then he was brainwashed and nearly killed by the same man. He’s having a hard go of it after all that. I’m sure you can relate to how he’s feeling.”
Of course he could relate. Dylan’s experience mirrored his own in many ways. Except that Dylan missed out on all the torture and manipulation for years on end.
“The boy needs to learn from the experience. Let it mold him. Make him stronger. We can’t allow him to be a victim of his circumstance.”
She held up a hand. “Let me handle the therapy. In your communication with Dylan, you should remain a positive, supportive listener. Nothing more. I monitor every word between the two of you. Every gesture. And if I ever have even the slightest suspicion that you are attempting to manipulate Dylan in any way, then your privileges with him will be revoked.”
Ackerman involuntarily gritted his teeth. He hated that his jailers had something to hold over his head. He didn’t like having something to lose.
He changed the subject. “So what new technology or technique is the CIA testing on me today? Are these electrodes to shock me or read my mind?”
“Neither,” Emily said. “Nothing so dramatic. They’re refining their new lie detection algorithms based upon the last test they did with you.”
“That’s a shame. I had been hoping for some electric shocks.”
Agent Polo Shirt told Emily that they were ready to begin. With a nod, she glanced at her clipboard. Apparently, there was a list of predesigned questions she was supposed to ask. She said, “What species are you?”
Ackerman cleared his throat and said, “I am a meat Popsicle from the planet Galaktron.”
Polo Shirt swore under his breath and said, “According to the system, he’s telling the truth.”
Emily said, “Just to be completely clear, I am directing these questions to Francis Ackerman Jr. and expecting a statement of fact in answer to my question. Mr. Ackerman, do you understand what we are doing and what is expected of you?”
Ackerman chuckled. Emily must have been trying to verify that he wasn’t using some kind of mind trick or distancing to confuse the CIA’s high-tech new toy. “I understand,” he said. “And I, Francis Ackerman Jr., do hereby forswear to answer your questions to the best of my abilities and with the utmost respect and the most unimpeachable honesty.”
“He’s telling the truth,” Agent Polo Shirt said.
Emily continued with the questions. “Please state your name and occupation.” She rolled her eyes, possibly at the question’s absurdity.
“I am the Ingenious Gentleman Don Quixote of La Mancha. And I am a knight.”
Polo shirt sighed and said, “Telling the truth.”
Ackerman watched hungrily as a ghost of a smile passed over Emily Morgan’s porcelain features before she continued on to the next question.
THE CAGE
THEY THOUGHT THEY COULD CONTAIN HIM…
THEY WERE WRONG.
Francis Ackerman Jr. is one of the most prolific serial killers in US history. But he’s not only a serial killer, he’s also a serial escapist. When a doctor who has discovered a ground-breaking treatment for psychopaths wants to test his theories upon Ackerman, the madman sees his chance at freedom. The only people that stand in his way are the hospital’s head of security and a young woman with a personal vendetta against the killer.
Here’s an excerpt:
Francis Ackerman Jr. stared into the reporter’s almond-colored eyes. Her features were a perfect mix of East meets West, second-generation Asian-American characteristics tempering Caucasian elements, invoking both the exotic and the familiar. As he fell into those eyes, the killer forgot everything else. He even failed to catch which network news program she represented. She smiled as she thanked him for agreeing to be interviewed. He sensed a slight reluctance, but nothing to indicate true fear. He wondered how her attitude toward him would change if she knew that he had already freed his hands from the restraints.
Since he had become accustomed to a world without color, the reporter’s bright clothes and red lipstick seemed alien in the monochromatic surroundings. The interrogation chair holding Ackerman in place possessed all manner of restraints designed to keep him from harming his distinguished guests: the reporter and her camera crew. But the guard who secured his hands must have failed to read his file. If he had, the guard would have known that due to the severe scarring of Ackerman’s arms—a constant reminder of the pain inflicted upon him by his father—the standard pinch test used to safely but humanely secure a prisoner in handcuffs wouldn’t apply. The scar tissue caused his forearms and wrists to be thicker than his hands, and only the tightest notch of the cuffs could hold him successfully. When he failed to feel the uncomfortable bite on hi
s wrists, Ackerman knew that this would prove to be an interesting day.
After a few preliminary questions to warm him up and test the waters, the reporter began to delve into darker territory. He had debated how to respond to her questions. He had considered his every move and analyzed how his audience would react. After all, this was a grand opportunity to add to his legend by shocking and horrifying the awaiting public. But how to best accomplish such a task?
So many directions he could go: the rambling psychotic, the brooding quiet type, the rage-filled madman, or his favorite, the all-too-popular Hannibal Lecter mold. But he felt that route was almost too distant, too smart, too alien. None of them seemed to accomplish his goal. If he truly wanted to frighten people, he needed to shatter their illusions. He needed to make them feel that he could show up at their doorsteps, charm his way inside, and murder with no provocation, rhyme, or reason. So for the purposes of the interview, he had decided upon charming with a pinch of cruelty.
“Mr. Ackerman, you have been convicted of multiple murders and claim that you have committed many more. Do you have anything to say to the families of your victims?”
He paused for effect and pretended to consider the question. “I believe that I said all that needs to be said to their lost loved ones when I killed them, but if I were so inclined to comment to the families, I would tell them not to shed a tear for those who have gone before . . . for their suffering is over.”
“Is that why you kill? Because you want to make others pay for the suffering you’ve endured in your own life?”
With her words, his father’s voice crept into his mind.
Kill them and the pain will stop . . . You’re a monster . . .
“Not at all. I kill because I’m a predator. What we seem to have forgotten is that we’re just a pack of animals. We like to think that we’re above such things, but in the end, we are all either predator or prey. We’re lions, my dear. We’re the top of the food chain. The problem is that we’re lions who have lived our entire lives in cages. We’ve been domesticated. People like to believe that we’ve filtered out this animal side of our collective consciousness with our misguided senses of morality, but the truth is that the monster sleeps just below the surface. All it takes is a little anarchy, a little disruption in our daily lives, a little breakdown in our nice, quiet society. And when that day arrives and you don’t know where your next meal is coming from, you’ll discover whether you’re a lion or a lamb.”
A ghost of a smile crept onto his face as he continued. “And then there’s me. I’m a lion, of course. But I’m not in a cage—metaphorically speaking, anyway. I’m the lion from the zoo that you hear about every so often that turns on its handlers, escapes, and eats a few tourists. It’s survival of the fittest out there whether you realize it or not. That’s why I kill. I’m a predator, through and through. And I have no illusions about trying to be anything other than what I am.”
He could tell by the rapt look on her beautiful face that he was doing well. There was a twinkle in her eyes, and he knew that the potential for record-breaking ratings was dancing through her head. It was time to make it personal.
After a moment, she said, “So you want to see the world descend into anarchy with only the strongest able to survive, while the weaker of the species are trampled underfoot?”
“My dear, I couldn’t care less what happens to the world. I’m more interested in you, actually.” Ackerman knew that he had inherited good looks from his mother’s side of the family, but his most useful trait at moments such as this were his gray eyes. In that moment, he fixed her with a gaze meant to penetrate her soul. “I’ve answered some of your questions. Now it’s your turn. I want to know something about you.”
She sat back and placed her hands on the edge of the metal table. Condescension crept into her voice. “Mr. Ackerman, I’m not going to reveal my darkest secrets to you. You don’t need to know anything about me. Now, please tell us—”
He interrupted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want to know your darkest secrets, my dear. I have enough darkness of my own. What I’d like from you is a taste of the light. You know my history, so you know that I’ve never been able to experience what it’s like to be normal. I’ve never taken a girl to the prom or shared that first kiss in the backseat of a friend’s car. I’ve never gone out for drinks with coworkers or shared a quiet meal with a woman I love. The vast majority of my life has been spent in a cell much like the one in which I currently reside.”
He looked away for a moment and released a long but measured breath. When their gazes locked again, he said, “All I want to know is your favorite meal. You’re a very beautiful woman, and I don’t mean for that to carry a sexual connotation. We break everything down into terms of sex these days, another example of our true animal selves shining through. But I’m speaking from a purely philosophical and artistic standpoint. I’ve seen how ugly this world can be, and that has led me to appreciate true beauty. And you are beautiful. All I ask is that you share one minor detail with me, so that when I’m sitting alone in my cell with all those ugly memories, I can focus instead upon something beautiful. I can imagine myself sitting with you at dinner, sharing that quiet meal. And maybe, eventually, I’ll forget that it’s just a fantasy and start to believe that I really lived that one pure day. Maybe in that moment, I’ll find some peace.”
He noticed her swallow hard, and when she spoke, her voice sounded brittle and dry. “Umm . . .” The scent of her perfume drifted across the table, and he recognized the touch of oleander. She cleared her throat and lowered her eyes. He wanted to smile but knew that he needed to maintain a look of pain and sincerity.
“I’m a steak and potatoes girl. Got that from my dad.” The look in her eyes indicated that she had shocked herself with that last oddly personal statement. It was something a person would say to a date, not a notorious serial killer.
“How do you like your steak prepared?” he said.
“Medium rare. My father always told me that you lose the flavor if you cook it too long.” Again she seemed surprised by her own candor. He also noticed that when she shared this, she leaned much closer, as if she didn’t want the cameraman to hear.
This was the moment he had been waiting for. He hardened his eyes and let a bit of cruel menace seep in. “She likes it bloody. A girl after my own heart.”
In a blur of movement, Ackerman’s hands flew from behind his back as he lunged over the table and grabbed the reporter by her hair. He dragged her small frame over the table that separated them, pulling her onto his lap. As her screams filled the room and the smell of intense fear mixed with perfume filled his nostrils, he placed one hand behind her head and one on her chin. With a quick twist, he could easily snap her neck and sever her spinal cord.
The guards reacted quickly. They screamed their orders and lifted their shotguns. Ackerman knew that a new form of shotgun shell known as a Taser XREP that contained a miniature stun device instead of buckshot filled the guards’ weapons. Taser XREP rounds had been designed as a less-than-lethal alternative to conventional shells, which meant that the guards could fire upon him without worrying about hitting his hostage.
Although they would assume that this unexpected act was an attempt at escape, he knew that breaking from a cage with such advanced security measures would be nearly impossible, especially since his legs were still shackled to the chair. He had no intention of trying to escape. He simply wanted to give the audience a show to remember.
“Let her go now!” one of the guards said as he sighted down the barrel of his shotgun.
Ackerman looked at the guard calmly and replied, “If you come any closer, I’ll break her neck.”
“Give it up. No way you leave this room.”
Ackerman tightened his hold on the reporter, inducing a small cry of pain from her. “I don’t intend to escape. I simply wanted to give a small mes
sage to my lady friend here.”
He leaned in close to the reporter’s ear and whispered, “I want you to remember from this day forth that the only reason you are still alive is that I’ve chosen to give you life. I own every breath you take. Every smile. Every tear. Every moment is one that I’ve given to you. It’s a debt that you owe to me. And someday, I may come to collect upon that debt.”
Ackerman shoved the reporter away and welcomed the sting of the Taser round. He had accomplished his mission. Neither the reporter nor her audience would ever forget the name Ackerman. He closed his eyes, heard the blast of the shotgun, and felt the concussion of the dart as its barbs penetrated his skin. His body convulsed, and then the guards overtook him.
Blind Justice
Deacon Munroe is not your average investigator. He’s intelligent, cultured, well-connected.
And totally blind.
Washington DC is Munroe’s city. Now it’s a city shaken to the core by the death of a high-ranking general and his wife. All the evidence suggests that the general killed his wife before taking his own life. Deacon Munroe does not trust what other people see – only what he knows is true.
What Munroe soon knows is that the general’s death is part of a far greater plan, a sophisticated and brutal plot to kill thousands of innocent people, including those closest to Munroe himself.
But with only a small team at his aid, and just hours to stop a devastating attack on the city, can Munroe unearth the truth in time to bring justice to the city?
Here’s an excerpt:
Deacon Munroe couldn’t see the flashing lights of the crime scene. He couldn’t see anything at all, but he could hear it and feel it. The creaking of the flashers rotating in light bars atop police cruisers. The murmurs of a crowd of onlookers. Patrol officers controlling the scene and pushing back the crowd. Feet striking the pavement, moving with purpose. Detectives. Crime scene techs. Reporters shouting questions. All of it overlaying the dull roar of the city. His city—Washington, DC.
